Who lov'st with Night and Silence to partake, So might it seem, the cares of them that wake; And, through the cottage-lattice softly peeping, Dost shield from harm the humblest of the sleeping; What pleasure once encompass'd those sweet names Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims,
An idolizing dreamer as of yore!
I slight them all; and, on this sea-beat shore Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend
That bid me hail thee as the SAILOR'S FRIEND:
So call thee for Heaven's grace through thee made known By confidence supplied and mercy shown, When not a twinkling star or beacon's light Abates the perils of a stormy night;
And for less obvious benefits, that find
Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mind; Both for th' adventurer starting in life's prime; And veteran ranging round from clime to clime, Long-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins,
And wounds and weakness oft his labour's sole remains. Th' aspiring Mountains and the winding Streams, Empress of Night! are gladden'd by thy beams; A look of thine the wilderness pervades,
And penetrates the forest's inmost shades; Thou, chequering peaceably the minster's gloom, Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's tomb; Canst reach the Prisoner, to his grated cell Welcome, though silent and intangible! — And lives there one, of all that come and go On the great waters toiling to and fro, One, who has watch'd thee at some quiet hour Enthroned aloft in undisputed power,
Or cross'd by vapoury streaks and clouds that move Catching the lustre they in part reprove; Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway
To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day, And make the serious happier than the gay? Yes, lovely Moon! if thou so mildly bright Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite, To fiercer mood the frenzy-stricken brain, Let me a compensating faith maintain ; That there's a sensitive, a tender part Which thou canst touch in every human heart, For healing and composure. But, as least And mightiest billows ever have confess'd Thy domination; as the whole vast Sea
Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty; So shines that countenance with especial grace On them who urge the keel her plains to trace, Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude, Cut off from home and country, may have stood, Even till long gazing hath bedimm'd his eye, Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh,- Touch'd by accordance of thy placid cheer, With some internal lights to memory dear, Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast Tired with its daily share of Earth's unrest, Gentle awakenings, visitations meek;
A kindly influence whereof few will speak, Though it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek. And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave; Then, while the Sailor, 'mid an open sea Swept by a favouring wind that leaves thought free, Paces the deck,-no star perhaps in sight, And nothing save the moving ship's own light To cheer the long dark hours of vacant night, Oft with his musings does thy image blend, In his mind's eye thy crescent horns ascend,
And thou art still, O Moon, that SAILOR'S FRIEND! [1835.
LINES SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT.3
BEGUILED into forgetfulness of care
Due to the day's unfinish'd task; of pen Or book regardless, and of that fair scene In Nature's prodigality display'd
Before my window, - oftentimes and long I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam
Of beauty never ceases to enrich
The common light; whose stillness charms the air,
Or seems to charm it, into like repose;
Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear, Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits, With emblematic purity attired
In a white vest, white as her marble neck Is, and the pillar of the throat would be,
3 This portrait was from the pencil of Mr. F. Stone. The poet speaks of it thus in his notes, 1843: "This portrait has hung for many years in our principal sitting. room, and represents J. Quillinan, as she was when a girl. The picture, though somewhat thinly painted, has much merit in tone and general effect; it is chiefly valuable, however, for the sentiment that pervades it."
But for the shadow by the drooping chin Cast into that recess; the tender shade, The shade and light, both there and everywhere, And through the very atmosphere she breathes, Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill That might from Nature have been learnt in th' hour When the lone shepherd sees the morning spread Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe'er Thou be that, kindling with a poet's soul, Hast loved the painter's true Promethean craft Intensely; from Imagination take
The treasure; what mine eyes behold see thou, Even though th' Atlantic ocean roll between. A silver line, that runs from brow to crown, And in the middle parts the braided hair, Just serves to show how delicate a soil The golden harvest gows in; and those eyes, Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky Whose azure depth their colour emulates, Must needs be conversant with upward looks, Prayer's voiceless service: but now, seeking nought And shunning nought, their own peculiar life Of motion they renounce, and with the head Partake its inclination towards the earth In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness Caught at the point where it stops short of sadness. Offspring of soul-bewitching Art, make me Thy confidant! say, whence derived that air Of calm abstraction? Can the ruling thought Be with some lover far away, or one Cross'd by misfortune, or of doubted faith? Inapt conjecture! Childhood here, a moon Crescent in simple loveliness serene, Has but approch'd the gates of womanhood, Not enter❜d them: her heart is yet unpierced By the blind Archer-god; her fancy free: The fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere, Will not be found.
Her right hand, as it lies Across the slender wrist of the left arm Upon her lap reposing, holds - but mark How slackly, for the absent mind permits No firmer grasp - a little wild-flower, join'd, As in a posy, with a few pale ears
Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopp'd And in their common birthplace shelter'd it
Till they were pluck'd together; a blue flower Call'd by the thrifty husbandman a weed: But Ceres, in her garland, might have worn That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, held In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she knows, (Her Father told her so,) in youth's gay dawn Her Mother's favourite; and the orphan Girl, In her own dawn, a dawn less gay and bright,- Loves it, while there in solitary peace She sits, for that departed Mother's sake. Not from a source less sacred is derived (Surely I do not err) that pensive air Of calm abstraction though the face diffused And the whole person.
Words have something told
More than the pencil can, and verily
More than is needed; but the precious Art Forgives their interference, Art divine, That both creates and fixes, in despite
Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought. Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours! That posture, and the look of filial love Thinking of past and gone, with what is left Dearly united, might be swept away From this fair Portrait's fleshly Archetype, Even by an innocent fancy's slightest freak Banish'd, nor ever, haply, be restored To their lost place, or meet in harmony So exquisite; but here do they abide, Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art Godlike, a humble branch of the divine, In visible quest of immortality,
Stretch'd forth with trembling hope? In every realm, From high Gilbraltar to Siberian plains,
Thousands, in each variety of tongue
That Europe knows, would echo this appeal; One above all, a Monk who waits on God In the magnific Convent built of yore To sanctify th' Escurial palace. He- Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room, A British Painter, (eminent for truth
In character, and depth of feeling, shown
By labours that have touch'd the hearts of kings,
4 The pile of buildings, composing the palace and convent of San Lorenzo, has,
in common usage, lost its proper name in that of the Escurial, a village at the foot of the hill upon which the splendid edifice, built by Philip the Second, stands.
5 This" British Painter" was Wilkie.
And are endear'd to simple cottagers,) Came, in that service, to a glorious work, Our Lord's Last Supper, beautiful as when first Th' appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian's hand, Graced the Refectory: and there, while both Stood with eyes fix'd upon that masterpiece, The hoary Father in the stranger's car
Breathed out these words: "Here daily do we sit, Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here, Pondering the mischiefs of these restless times, And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dispersed, Or changed and changing, I not seldom gaze Upon this solemn Company unmoved By shock of circumstance or lapse of years, Until I cannot but believe that they,
They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows.” So spake the mild Jeronymite, his griefs Melting away within him like a dream Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak: And I, grown old, but in a happier land, Domestic Portrait! have to verse consign'd In thy calm presence those heart-moving words; Words that can soothe, more than they agitate; Whose spirit, like the angel that went down Into Bethesda's pool, with healing virtue Informs the fountain in the human breast Which by the visitation was disturb'd.
But why this stealing tear? Companion mute, On thee I look, not sorrowing: fare thee well, My Song's Inspirer, once again farewell!
NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY.
COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802. FAIR Star of evening, Splendour of the West, Star of my country! on th' horizon's brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest, Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Shouldst be my Country's emblem; and shouldst wink,
6 The anecdote of the saying of the monk, in sight of Titian's picture, was told me in this house by Mr. Wilkie, and was, I believe, first communicated to the public in this poem, which I was composing at the time Southey heard the story from Miss Hutchinson, and transferred it to The Doctor.- Author's Notes, 1843.
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