Embraced those brothers upon earth's wide plain; That to itself takes all, Eternity. William Wordsworth. Dart, the River. THE RIVER DART. THE quiet of the moonlight hour Is stealing softly o'er my heart; The silver Dart glides on below; Beneath the garish beam of day I've often marked this scene before, But never felt a charm so deep As this which now enchains me here. It is the solemn, silent thought, Evoked by this impressive scene, That makes it more with beauty fraught, Such softness o'er the stream below, I've never known a fairer scene, A beauty matched with thine, sweet Dart! Thou leav'st, like some soft passing dream, An endless memory on the heart. Like gems upon the brow of Sleep The moonbeams on thy waters rest; And I could almost turn and weep, So strangely do they move my breast. * * * * * I would my life were like thy stream, O silent and majestic Dart! Of what wild beauties should I dream, What visions sweet would throng my heart. Eternal pleasures round my way Would never cease to rise and shine; And girt with beauty, day by day, O what a matchless course were mine! I linger still, and still I gaze, O beauteous night! O starry skies! Such mingled glories round me rise, Across my spirit as I gaze There comes a calmer sense of life, Of holy thoughts too seldom given, That seem to bless me as I go, And whisper like a voice from heaven. Sydney Hodges. Dartmoor. DARTMOOR. WILD Dartmoor! thou that midst thy mountains rude Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude, As a dark cloud on summer's clear blue sky, For all beyond is life! the rolling sea, The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee. As of a world unwaked to soul or sound. Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone And naught of life be near, his camel's tread In those far ages which have left no trace, Of kings and chiefs who passed without their praise, Thou might'st have reared the valiant and the free, In history's page there is no tale of thee. Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled, But hallowed by that instinct which reveres Things fraught with characters of elder years. And such are these. Long centuries are flown, Bowed many a crest and shattered many a throne, Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust, With what they hide, their shrined and treasured dust. Men traverse alps and oceans, to behold Earth's glorious works fast mingling with her mould; Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath, Of the crowned hills beyond, the dwellings of the storms. But ages rolled away; and England stood * With her proud banner streaming o'er the flood; And regal in collected majesty, To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers wave 'T was then the captives of Britannia's war Yes! they whose march hath rocked the ancient thrones And temples of the world, the deepening tones Of whose advancing trumpet from repose |