Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe,
The face, the form divine, her downcast look
Contemplative, her cheek upon her palm
Supported; the white arm and elbow rest
On the bare branch of half uprooted tree,
That leans towards its mirror! He, meanwhile,
Who from her count'nance turn'd, or look'd by stealth,
(For Fear is true-love's cruel nurse) he now,
With stedfast gaze and unoffending eye,
Worships the watʼry-idol, dreaming hopes
Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain,
Ey'n as that phantom-world, on which he gaz'd!
She, sportive tyrant! with her left hand plucks
The heads of tall flow'rs, that behind her grow,
Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells;
And suddenly, as one that toys with time,
Scatters them on the pool! Then all the charm
Is broken-all that phantom-world so fair
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile,
Poor youth! who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes—
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon
The visions will return! And lo, he stays,
And soon the fragments dim, of lovely forms,
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
The pool becomes a mirror; and behold
Each wild flow'r on the marge inverted there,
And there the half-uprooted tree—but where,
O where the virgin's snowy arm, that lean'd
On its bare branch? He turns, and she is gone !
Homeward she steals thro' many a woodland maze.
Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth,
Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime
In mad love-gazing on the vacant brook,
Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou
Behold'st her shadow still abiding there,
The Naiad of the Mirror !
O wild and desart stream! belongs this tale.
Gloomy and dark art thou-the crowded firs
Tow'r from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed,
Making thee doleful as a cavern well!
Save when the shy king's-fishers build their nest
On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream!
This be my chosen haunt-emancipate
From Passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone,
I rise and trace its devious course.
Lead me to deeper shades, to lonelier glooms.
Lo! stealing thro' the canopy of firs,
How fair the sun-shine spots that mossy rock,
Isle of the river, whose disparted waters
Dart off asunder with an angry sound,
How soon to re-unite! They meet, they join
In deep embrace, and open to the sun
Lie calm and smooth. Such the delicious hour
Of deep enjoyment, foll'wing love's brief quarrels !
And hark, the noise of a near water-fall.
I come out into light-I find myself
Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful
Of forest trees, the lady of the woods)
Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock
That overbrows the cataract. How bursts
The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills
Fold in behind each other, and so make
A circular vale, and land-lock'd, as might seem,
With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages,
Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. Beneath my feet
The whortle-berries are bedew'd with spray,
Dash'd upwards by the furious water-fall.
How solemnly the pendent ivy mass
Swings in its winnow! All the air is calm.
The smoke from cottage chimneys ting'd with light,
Rises in columns: from this house alone
Close by the water-fall, the column slants
And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this?
That cottage, with its slanting chimney smoke.
And close beside its porch a sleeping child,
His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dog,
One arm between its fore legs, and the hand
Holds loosely its small handful of wild flow'rs,
Unfilleted, and of unequal lengths-
A curious picture, with a master's haste,
Sketch'd on a strip of pinky-silver skin,
Peel'd from the birchen bark !-Divinest maid-
Yon bark her canvass, and these purple berries
Her pencil!-See-the juice is scarcely dried-
On the fine skin! She has been newly here,
And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couch-
The pressure still remains! O blessed couch,
For this may'st thou flow'r early, and the sun
Slanting, at eve rest bright, and linger long
Upon thy purple bells! O Isabel,
Daughter of Genius, stateliest of our maids,
More beautiful than whom Alcæus woo'd,
The Lesbian woman of immortal song,
O child of Genius, stately, beautiful,
And full of love to all, save only one,
And not ungentle ev'n to me !-My heart,
Why beats it thus? Thro' yonder coppice wood
Needs must the path-way turn, that leads away
On to her father's house. She is alone!
The night draws on-such ways are hard to hit
And fit it is, I should restore this sketch,
Dropp'd unawares, no doubt-Why should I yearn
To keep the relique? "Twill but idly feed
The passion, that consumes me. Let me haste!
This picture in my hand, which she has left,
She cannot blame me, that I follow'd her,
And I may be her guide the long wood through!.
Boy, who the rosy stream dost pass,
Fill up for me the largest glass,
The largest glass and oldest wine-
The laws of drinking give as mine.
Still must my ever-thirsty lip
From large and flowing bumpers sip:
Ye limpid.streams, where'er ye flow,
Far hence to water-drinkers go;
Go to the dull and the sedate,
And fly the God whose bowers ye hate.
Placed on a venerable Oak at Rudhall*.
YE Britons, venerate this tree,
The guardian of our liberty
Through many a distant age.
Beneath its shade the Druid rose,
And wak'd the British youth from woes
To true heroic rage.
Forth from their woods they rush'd like flame;
What time Rome's hostile legions came,
They met them at the waves;—
And who shall call the conflict vain ?
They perish'd on their native plain,
Nor liv'd a race of slaves.
And still this tree, to Britons dear,
Protects our rights from year to year;
Hence are our terrors hurl'd.
Ye Britons, venerate the Oak;
NELSON from this in thunder spoke,
And shook th' astonish'd world.
While this shall flourish in the glade,
What foe shall dare our rights invade ?
O lovely tree! increase:
Still spread thy bending branches far,
Protect us from the woes of war,
And shelter us in peace.
*On occasion of the visit of Lord Nelson to that place.
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