The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - To The Rev. Dr. Wordsworth

The Minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage-eaves; While, smitten by a lofty moon, The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, That overpowered their natural green. Through hill and valley every breeze Had sunk to rest with folded wings: Keen was the air, but could not freeze, Nor check, the music of the strings; So stout and hardy were the band That scraped the chords with strenuous hand; And who but listened? till was paid Respect to every Inmate's claim: The greeting given, the music played, In honour of each household name, Duly pronounced with lusty call, And "merry Christmas" wished to all! O Brother! I revere the choice That took thee from thy native hills; And it is given thee to rejoice: Though public care full often tills (Heaven only witness of the toil) A barren and ungrateful soil. Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, Hadst heard this never-failing rite; And seen on other faces shine A true revival of the light Which Nature and these rustic Powers, In simple childhood, spread through ours. For pleasure hath not ceased to wait On these expected annual rounds; Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate Call forth the unelaborate sounds, Or they are offered at the door That guards the lowliest of the poor. How touching, when, at midnight, sweep Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, To hear, and sink again to sleep! Or, at an earlier call, to mark, By blazing fire, the still suspense Of self-complacent innocence; The mutual nod, the grave disguise Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er; And some unbidden tears that rise For names once heard, and heard no more; Tears brightened by the serenade For infant in the cradle laid. Ah! not for emerald fields alone, With ambient streams more pure and bright Than fabled Cytherea's zone Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, Is to my heart of hearts endeared The ground where we were born and reared! Hail, ancient Manners! sure defence, Where they survive, of wholesome laws; Remnants of love whose modest sense Thus into narrow room withdraws; Hail, Usages of pristine mould, And ye that guard them, Mountains old! Bear with me, Brother! quench the thought That slights this passion, or condemns; If thee fond Fancy ever brought From the proud margin of the Thames, And Lambeth's venerable towers, To humbler streams, and greener bowers. Yes, they can make, who fail to find, Short leisure even in busiest days; Moments, to cast a look behind, And profit by those kindly rays That through the clouds do sometimes steal, And all the far-off past reveal. Hence, while the imperial City's din Beats frequent on thy satiate ear, A pleased attention I may win To agitations less severe, That neither overwhelm nor cloy, But fill the hollow vale with joy!