A Woodland Walk
The blackbird's song is bursting from the brake,
And morning breezes bear it far away;
The early sunbeam from its breast doth shake
The floating veil of dewy mist so gray;
The dun deer wanders, like a frightened fay,
Through dingles deep and wild, where linnets sing;
Ah! who would slumber, who along can stray,
Where mighty oaks their branches o'er him fling,
To which the diamond dew in pearlings bright doth cling?
How beautiful!—the green corn-fields are waiving,
The clouds of dawn are floating on the sky;
The fearful hare its hidden couch is leaving,
And sporting to the clover-field doth hie:
Beneath the morning sun the waters lie,
Like treasur'd sunbeams in a woody nook!
God 's earth is glorious; and how bless'd am I
Who love it all? On what I love I look,
And joy runs through my heart, like yon calm, tinkling brook.
The cottage-hearths are cold, the peasants sleeps,
But all the mighty woodlands are awake;
Within its hermitage the primrose sleeps,
And with the dew the beech-trees' branches shake,
As through the wood my devious path I take;
The velvet grass a fairy carpet seems,
On which through leafy curtains, light doth break,
Now bright and strong, and now in fitful gleams,
As 'mid realities come fancy's fairest dreams.
Now stooping 'neath the branches wet with dew—
Now o'er the open forest-glades I go—
Now listening to the cushat's wailing coo—
Now starting from its lair the bounding roe;
And now I hear the breezes, to and fro,
Making among the leaves a pleasant din;
Or find myself where silent streamlets flow,
Like hermits, wandering these wild-woods within—
While hoar and aged trees bend o'er each little linn.
The lakelet of the forest I have left,
Sleeping, like beauty, in a branchy bower:
The woodland opens:—crumbling all, and cleft,
There stands the ruin'd Abbey's lonely tower,
To speak of vanish'd pomp, exhausted power—
To hear these winds among the leaflets blow
With the same tone as in its proudest hour—
To see the flowers within the forest grow,
As when the fallen reigned—a thousand years ago!
Decaying, roofless walls! and is this all
That desolation's blightning hand hath left
Of tower, and pinnacle, and gilded hall?
The everlasting rocks by time are cleft—
Within each crevice spiders weave their weft;
The wandering gipsy comes to hide him here,
When he from plunder'd housewife's stores has reft
The needful elements of gypsy cheer;
For ghost of Abbot old the gypsy doth not fear.
Where are the glancing eyes that here have beam'd?
Where are the hearts which whilom here have beat?
Where are the shaven monks, so grim who seem'd?
Where are the sitters in the Abbot's seat?
Where are the ceaseless and unnoted feet,
That wore a pavement-path with kneeling prayers?
Where is the coffin—where the winding sheet—
And monuments which nobles had for theirs,
When death drew nigh, and closed life's long account of cares?
The ivy clings around the ruin'd walls
Of cell, and chapel, and refectory;
An oak-tree's shadow, cloud-like, ever falls
Upon the spot where stood the altar high:
The chambers all are open to the sky;
A goat is feeding where the praying knelt;
The daisy rears its ever open eye
Where the proud Abbot in his grandeur dwelt:
These signs of time and change the hardest heart might melt.
Is this a cell?—Offended God to serve
By the hearts crucifixion, here have tried
Self-immolated men, who would not swerve,
But in the impious work serene have died:
A glory on the lowly wall doth bide,
For though the hypocrite hath shuffled here,
Here, too, from earnest lips did often glide
The words of men mistaken, but sincere,
Who, with pure spirits, tried to fight man's battles here.
The buttercups are lifting up their heads
Upon the floor of the confessional,
Where came the worshipper, with counted beads,
Upon his knees in penitence to fall—
Where came the great to listen unto all,
And scoff or pray, as good or ill was he.
Could words come forth of that time-stricken wall,
Some wondrous tales retold again would be:
The maiden's simple love—the feat of villany.
This is the chapel where the matin hymn
Was chanted duly for a thousand years,
Till faith grew cold and doubtful—truth grew dim—
Till earnest hope was wither'd up by sneers.
Within it now no glorious thing appears:
But as the dewy wind blows sweetly by,
Upon the thoughtful list'ner's joyful ears
Doth come a sweet and holy symphony,
And nature's choristers are chanting masses high!
Grow up, sweet daisies, on the silent floor;
Fall down, dark ivy, over every wall;
Oak, send thy branches out at every door;
Goat, from its chambers to thy mate do call,
Power reign'd in might, and never fear'd a fall,
And where is it? And what is here to-day?
Truth triumphs over mitre, crown, and all;
Mind rent its iron fetters all away—
The tyrants proud and high—where, at this hour, are they?
Old walls and turrets, moulder silently,
Till not a trace of all your state remain!——
The throstle's song, from yonder spreading tree,
Doth call me to the woodlands once again;
Louder doth rise the blackbird's passing strain,
And gladness from its sacred heart doth flow,
Till music falls, like summer's softest rain,
On all that lives and suffers here below,
Making a flower upon the lonest pathway grow.
The sun is higher in the morning sky—
His beams embrace the mossy-trunkëd trees;
Yonder the squirrel, on the elm so high,
Frisketh about in the cool morning breeze—
Down peeps his diamond eye—amazed, he sees
A stranger in his solitary home;
And now he hides behind the oaken trees—
And now he forth upon a branch doth come,
To crack his beechen-nuts, and watch me as I roam.
The hawthorn hangs its clusters round me now,
Through which the sky peeps sweetly, sweetly in;
Through the green glades doth come the cattle's low
From the rich pastures of the meadow green.
Look up!—aloft, the twittering birds are seen
Upon the branches, their wild matins singing:
Look down! the grass is soft and thick, I ween;
And flowers around each old tree-root are springing,
Wood-fancies, wild and sweet, to the lone wanderer bringing.
And here are rich blaeberries, black and wild,
Beneath the beech-tree's thickest branches growing;
This makes me once again a wayward child,
A pilgrimage into the woodland going—
The haunt of squirrel and of wood-mouse knowing,
And plucking black blaeberries all the day,
Till eastward mountain-shadows night was throwing,
And sending me upon my homeward way,
Fill'd both in soul and sense, with the old forest gray.
I must away, for I have loiter'd long
Amid the wood, and by the ruins old:
I must away, for far the sky along
The sun doth pour his beams of brightest gold.
Farewell, sweet glades, wild dingles, grassy wold—
Squirrel and blackbird, linnet and throstle too—
Farewell, ye woodland streamlets, pure and cold—
Sweet cooing cushat—primrose wet with dew—
To woodland thoughts and things a sweet, a short adieu!
And morning breezes bear it far away;
The early sunbeam from its breast doth shake
The floating veil of dewy mist so gray;
The dun deer wanders, like a frightened fay,
Through dingles deep and wild, where linnets sing;
Ah! who would slumber, who along can stray,
Where mighty oaks their branches o'er him fling,
To which the diamond dew in pearlings bright doth cling?
How beautiful!—the green corn-fields are waiving,
The clouds of dawn are floating on the sky;
The fearful hare its hidden couch is leaving,
And sporting to the clover-field doth hie:
Beneath the morning sun the waters lie,
Like treasur'd sunbeams in a woody nook!
God 's earth is glorious; and how bless'd am I
Who love it all? On what I love I look,
And joy runs through my heart, like yon calm, tinkling brook.
The cottage-hearths are cold, the peasants sleeps,
But all the mighty woodlands are awake;
Within its hermitage the primrose sleeps,
And with the dew the beech-trees' branches shake,
As through the wood my devious path I take;
The velvet grass a fairy carpet seems,
On which through leafy curtains, light doth break,
Now bright and strong, and now in fitful gleams,
As 'mid realities come fancy's fairest dreams.
Now stooping 'neath the branches wet with dew—
Now o'er the open forest-glades I go—
Now listening to the cushat's wailing coo—
Now starting from its lair the bounding roe;
And now I hear the breezes, to and fro,
Making among the leaves a pleasant din;
Or find myself where silent streamlets flow,
Like hermits, wandering these wild-woods within—
While hoar and aged trees bend o'er each little linn.
The lakelet of the forest I have left,
Sleeping, like beauty, in a branchy bower:
The woodland opens:—crumbling all, and cleft,
There stands the ruin'd Abbey's lonely tower,
To speak of vanish'd pomp, exhausted power—
To hear these winds among the leaflets blow
With the same tone as in its proudest hour—
To see the flowers within the forest grow,
As when the fallen reigned—a thousand years ago!
Decaying, roofless walls! and is this all
That desolation's blightning hand hath left
Of tower, and pinnacle, and gilded hall?
The everlasting rocks by time are cleft—
Within each crevice spiders weave their weft;
The wandering gipsy comes to hide him here,
When he from plunder'd housewife's stores has reft
The needful elements of gypsy cheer;
For ghost of Abbot old the gypsy doth not fear.
Where are the glancing eyes that here have beam'd?
Where are the hearts which whilom here have beat?
Where are the shaven monks, so grim who seem'd?
Where are the sitters in the Abbot's seat?
Where are the ceaseless and unnoted feet,
That wore a pavement-path with kneeling prayers?
Where is the coffin—where the winding sheet—
And monuments which nobles had for theirs,
When death drew nigh, and closed life's long account of cares?
The ivy clings around the ruin'd walls
Of cell, and chapel, and refectory;
An oak-tree's shadow, cloud-like, ever falls
Upon the spot where stood the altar high:
The chambers all are open to the sky;
A goat is feeding where the praying knelt;
The daisy rears its ever open eye
Where the proud Abbot in his grandeur dwelt:
These signs of time and change the hardest heart might melt.
Is this a cell?—Offended God to serve
By the hearts crucifixion, here have tried
Self-immolated men, who would not swerve,
But in the impious work serene have died:
A glory on the lowly wall doth bide,
For though the hypocrite hath shuffled here,
Here, too, from earnest lips did often glide
The words of men mistaken, but sincere,
Who, with pure spirits, tried to fight man's battles here.
The buttercups are lifting up their heads
Upon the floor of the confessional,
Where came the worshipper, with counted beads,
Upon his knees in penitence to fall—
Where came the great to listen unto all,
And scoff or pray, as good or ill was he.
Could words come forth of that time-stricken wall,
Some wondrous tales retold again would be:
The maiden's simple love—the feat of villany.
This is the chapel where the matin hymn
Was chanted duly for a thousand years,
Till faith grew cold and doubtful—truth grew dim—
Till earnest hope was wither'd up by sneers.
Within it now no glorious thing appears:
But as the dewy wind blows sweetly by,
Upon the thoughtful list'ner's joyful ears
Doth come a sweet and holy symphony,
And nature's choristers are chanting masses high!
Grow up, sweet daisies, on the silent floor;
Fall down, dark ivy, over every wall;
Oak, send thy branches out at every door;
Goat, from its chambers to thy mate do call,
Power reign'd in might, and never fear'd a fall,
And where is it? And what is here to-day?
Truth triumphs over mitre, crown, and all;
Mind rent its iron fetters all away—
The tyrants proud and high—where, at this hour, are they?
Old walls and turrets, moulder silently,
Till not a trace of all your state remain!——
The throstle's song, from yonder spreading tree,
Doth call me to the woodlands once again;
Louder doth rise the blackbird's passing strain,
And gladness from its sacred heart doth flow,
Till music falls, like summer's softest rain,
On all that lives and suffers here below,
Making a flower upon the lonest pathway grow.
The sun is higher in the morning sky—
His beams embrace the mossy-trunkëd trees;
Yonder the squirrel, on the elm so high,
Frisketh about in the cool morning breeze—
Down peeps his diamond eye—amazed, he sees
A stranger in his solitary home;
And now he hides behind the oaken trees—
And now he forth upon a branch doth come,
To crack his beechen-nuts, and watch me as I roam.
The hawthorn hangs its clusters round me now,
Through which the sky peeps sweetly, sweetly in;
Through the green glades doth come the cattle's low
From the rich pastures of the meadow green.
Look up!—aloft, the twittering birds are seen
Upon the branches, their wild matins singing:
Look down! the grass is soft and thick, I ween;
And flowers around each old tree-root are springing,
Wood-fancies, wild and sweet, to the lone wanderer bringing.
And here are rich blaeberries, black and wild,
Beneath the beech-tree's thickest branches growing;
This makes me once again a wayward child,
A pilgrimage into the woodland going—
The haunt of squirrel and of wood-mouse knowing,
And plucking black blaeberries all the day,
Till eastward mountain-shadows night was throwing,
And sending me upon my homeward way,
Fill'd both in soul and sense, with the old forest gray.
I must away, for I have loiter'd long
Amid the wood, and by the ruins old:
I must away, for far the sky along
The sun doth pour his beams of brightest gold.
Farewell, sweet glades, wild dingles, grassy wold—
Squirrel and blackbird, linnet and throstle too—
Farewell, ye woodland streamlets, pure and cold—
Sweet cooing cushat—primrose wet with dew—
To woodland thoughts and things a sweet, a short adieu!
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