Nature Outraged
Once , on the very gentlest stillest day
That ever Spring did in her gladness breathe
O'er this delightful earth, I left my home
With a beloved friend, who ne'er before
Had been among these mountains, — but whose heart,
Led by the famous poets, through the air
Serene of Nature oft had voyaged,
On fancy's wing, and in her magic bowers
Reposed, by wildest music sung to sleep: —
So that, enamour'd of the imaged forms
Of beauty in his soul, with holiest zeal
He longed to hail the fair original,
And do her spiritual homage
That his love
Might, consonant to Nature's dictate wise,
From quiet impulse grow, and to the power
Of meditation and connecting thought,
Rather than startling glories of the eye,
Owe its enthronement in his inmost heart,
I led him to behold a little lake,
Which I so often in my lonely walks
Had visited, but never yet had seen
One human being on its banks, that I
Thought it mine own almost, so thither took
My friend, assured he could not chuse but love
A scene so loved by me!
Before we reached
The dell wherein this little lake doth sleep,
Into involuntary praise of all
Its pensive loveliness, my happy heart
Would frequent burst, and from those lyric songs,
That, sweetly warbling round the pastoral banks
Of Grassmere, on its silver waves have shed
The undying sunshine of a poet's soul,
I breathed such touching strains as suited well
The mild spring-day, and that secluded scene,
Towards which, in full assurance of delight,
We two then walked in peace.
On the green slope
Of a romantic glade, we sat us down,
Amid the fragrance of the yellow broom,
While o'er our heads the weeping birch-tree stream'd
Its branches arching like a fountain-shower,
Then look'd towards the lake, — with hearts prepared
For the warm reception of all lovely forms
Enrobed in loveliest radiance, such as oft
Had steep'd my spirit in a holy calm,
And made it by the touch of purest joy
Still as an infant's dream.
But where had fled
The paradise beloved in former days!
I look'd upon the countenance of my friend,
Who, lost in strange and sorrowful surprise,
Could scarce forbear to smile. Is this, he cried,
The lone retreat, where from the secret top
Of Helicon, the wild-eyed muse descends
To bless thy slumbers? this the virgin scene
Where beauty smiles in undisturbed peace?
I look'd again: but ne'er did lover gaze,
At last returning from some foreign clime,
With more affectionate sorrow on the face
That he left fair in youth, than I did gaze
On the alter'd features of my darling vale,
That, 'mid the barbarous outrages of art,
Retained, I ween, a heavenly character
That nothing could destroy. Yet much was lost
Of its original brightness: Much was there,
Marring the spirit I remembered once
Perfectly beautiful. The meadow field,
That with its rich and placid verdure lay
Even like a sister-lake, with nought to break
The smoothness of its bosom, save the swing
Of the hoar Canna, or, more snowy white,
The young lamb frisking in the joy of life, —
Oh! grief! a garden, all unlike, I ween,
To that where bloom'd the fair Hesperides,
Usurped the seat of Nature, while a wall
Of most bedazzling splendour, o'er whose height,
The little birds, content to flit along
From bush to bush, could never dare to fly,
Preserved from those who knew no ill intent,
Fruit-trees exotic, and flowers passing rare,
Less lovely far than many a one that bloom'd
Unnoticed in the woods.
And lo! a house,
An elegant villa! in the Grecian style!
Doubtless contrived by some great architect
Who had an Attic soul; and in the shade
Of Academe or the Lyceum walk'd,
Forming conceptions fair and beautiful
Blessed for ever be the sculptor's art!
It hath created guardian deities
To shield the holy building, — heathen gods
And goddesses, at which the peasant stares
With most perplexing wonder; and light Fauns
That the good owner's unpoetic soul
Could not among the umbrage of the groves
Imagine, here, for ever in his sight,
In one unwearied posture frisk in stone.
My friend, quoth I, forgive these words of mine,
That haply seem more sportive than becomes
A soul that feels for Nature's sanctity
Thus blindly outraged; but when evil work
Admits no remedy, we then are glad
Even from ourselves to hide, in mirth constrain'd,
An unavailing sorrow. Oh! my friend,
Had'st thou beheld, as I, the glorious rock
By that audacious mansion hid for ever,
— Glorious I well might call it, with bright bands
Of flowers, and weeds as beautiful as flowers
Refulgent, — crown'd, as with a diadem,
With oaks that loved their birth-place, and alive
With the wild tones of echo, bird, and bee, —
Thou couldst have wept to think that paltry Art
Could so prevail o'er Nature, and weak man
Thus stand between thee and the works of God
Well might the Naiad of that stream complain!
The glare of day hath driven her from her haunts,
Shady no more: The woodman's axe hath clear'd
The useless hazels where the linnet hung
Her secret nest; and yon hoar waterfall,
Whose misty spray rose through the freshen'd leaves
To heaven, like Nature's incense, and whose sound
Came deaden'd through the multitude of boughs
Like a wild anthem by some spirit sung,
Now looks as cheerless as the late-left snow
Upon the mountain's breast, and sends a voice,
From the bare rocks, of dreariness and woe!
See! farther down the streamlet, art hath framed
A delicate cascade! The channel stones
Hallow'd by rushing waters, and more green
Even than the thought of greenness in the soul,
Are gone; and pebbles, carefully arranged
By size and colour, at the bottom lie
Imprison'd; while a smooth and shaven lawn,
With graceful gravel walks most serpentine,
Surrounds the noisy wonder, and sends up
A smile of scorn unto the rocky fells,
Where, 'mid the rough fern, bleat the shelter'd sheep.
Oft hath the poet's eye on these wild fells
Beheld entrancing visions; — but the cliffs,
In unscaled majesty, must frown no more;
No more the coves profound draw down the soul
Into their stern dominion: even the clouds,
Floating or settling on the mountain's breast,
Must be adored no more: — far other forms
Delight his gaze, to whom, alas, belongs
This luckless vale! — On every eminence,
Smiles some gay image of the builder's soul,
Watch-tower or summer-house, where oft, at eve,
He meditates to go, with book in hand,
And read in solitude; or weather-cock,
To tell which way the wind doth blow; or fort,
Commanding every station in the vale
Where enemy might encamp, and from whose height
A gaudy flag might flutter, when he hears
With a true British pride of Frenchmen slain,
Ten thousand in one battle, lying grim
By the brave English, their dead conquerors!
Such was the spirit of the words I used
On witnessing such sacrilege. We turned
Homewards in silence, even as from the grave
Of one in early youth untimely dead,
And all that to my pensive friend I said
Upon our walk, were some few words of grief,
That thoughtlessness and folly, in one day,
Could render vain the mystic processes
Of Nature, working for a thousand years
The work of love and beauty; so that Heaven
Might shed its gracious dews upon the earth,
Its sunshine and its rain, till living flowers
Rose up in myriads to attest its power,
But, in the midst of this glad jubilee,
A blinded mortal come, and with a nod,
Thus rendering ignorance worse than wickedness,
Bid his base servants " tear from Nature's book
" A blissful leaf with worst impiety. "
If thou, whose heart has listen'd to my song,
From Nature hold'st some fair inheritance
Like that whose mournful ruins I deplore,
Remember that thy birth-right doth impose
High duties on thee, that must be perform'd,
Else thou canst not be happy. Thou must watch
With holy zeal o'er Nature while she sleeps,
That nought may break her rest; her waking smiles
Thou must preserve and worship; and the gloom
That sometimes lies like night upon her face,
Creating awful thoughts, that gloom must hush
The beatings of thy heart, as if it lay
Like the dread shadow of eternity.
Beauteous thy home upon this beauteous earth,
And God hath given it to thee: therefore, learn
The laws by which the Eternal doth sublime
And sanctify his works, that thou mayest see
The hidden glory veiled from vulgar eyes,
And by the homage of enlighten'd love,
Repay the power that blest thee. Thou should'st stand
Oft-times amid thy dwelling-place, with awe
Stronger than love, even like a pious man
Who in some great cathedral, while the chaunt
Of hymns is in his soul, no more beholds
The pillars rise august and beautiful,
Nor the dim grandeur of the roof that hangs
Far, far above his head, but only sees
The opening heaven-gates, and the white-robed bands
Of spirits prostrate in adoring praise.
So shalt thou to thy death-hour find a friend,
A gracious friend in Nature, and thy name,
As the rapt traveller through thy fair domains
Oft-lingering journeys, shall with gentle voice
Be breathed amid the solitude, and link'd
With those enlighten'd spirits that promote
The happiness of others by their own,
The consummation of all earthly joy.
That ever Spring did in her gladness breathe
O'er this delightful earth, I left my home
With a beloved friend, who ne'er before
Had been among these mountains, — but whose heart,
Led by the famous poets, through the air
Serene of Nature oft had voyaged,
On fancy's wing, and in her magic bowers
Reposed, by wildest music sung to sleep: —
So that, enamour'd of the imaged forms
Of beauty in his soul, with holiest zeal
He longed to hail the fair original,
And do her spiritual homage
That his love
Might, consonant to Nature's dictate wise,
From quiet impulse grow, and to the power
Of meditation and connecting thought,
Rather than startling glories of the eye,
Owe its enthronement in his inmost heart,
I led him to behold a little lake,
Which I so often in my lonely walks
Had visited, but never yet had seen
One human being on its banks, that I
Thought it mine own almost, so thither took
My friend, assured he could not chuse but love
A scene so loved by me!
Before we reached
The dell wherein this little lake doth sleep,
Into involuntary praise of all
Its pensive loveliness, my happy heart
Would frequent burst, and from those lyric songs,
That, sweetly warbling round the pastoral banks
Of Grassmere, on its silver waves have shed
The undying sunshine of a poet's soul,
I breathed such touching strains as suited well
The mild spring-day, and that secluded scene,
Towards which, in full assurance of delight,
We two then walked in peace.
On the green slope
Of a romantic glade, we sat us down,
Amid the fragrance of the yellow broom,
While o'er our heads the weeping birch-tree stream'd
Its branches arching like a fountain-shower,
Then look'd towards the lake, — with hearts prepared
For the warm reception of all lovely forms
Enrobed in loveliest radiance, such as oft
Had steep'd my spirit in a holy calm,
And made it by the touch of purest joy
Still as an infant's dream.
But where had fled
The paradise beloved in former days!
I look'd upon the countenance of my friend,
Who, lost in strange and sorrowful surprise,
Could scarce forbear to smile. Is this, he cried,
The lone retreat, where from the secret top
Of Helicon, the wild-eyed muse descends
To bless thy slumbers? this the virgin scene
Where beauty smiles in undisturbed peace?
I look'd again: but ne'er did lover gaze,
At last returning from some foreign clime,
With more affectionate sorrow on the face
That he left fair in youth, than I did gaze
On the alter'd features of my darling vale,
That, 'mid the barbarous outrages of art,
Retained, I ween, a heavenly character
That nothing could destroy. Yet much was lost
Of its original brightness: Much was there,
Marring the spirit I remembered once
Perfectly beautiful. The meadow field,
That with its rich and placid verdure lay
Even like a sister-lake, with nought to break
The smoothness of its bosom, save the swing
Of the hoar Canna, or, more snowy white,
The young lamb frisking in the joy of life, —
Oh! grief! a garden, all unlike, I ween,
To that where bloom'd the fair Hesperides,
Usurped the seat of Nature, while a wall
Of most bedazzling splendour, o'er whose height,
The little birds, content to flit along
From bush to bush, could never dare to fly,
Preserved from those who knew no ill intent,
Fruit-trees exotic, and flowers passing rare,
Less lovely far than many a one that bloom'd
Unnoticed in the woods.
And lo! a house,
An elegant villa! in the Grecian style!
Doubtless contrived by some great architect
Who had an Attic soul; and in the shade
Of Academe or the Lyceum walk'd,
Forming conceptions fair and beautiful
Blessed for ever be the sculptor's art!
It hath created guardian deities
To shield the holy building, — heathen gods
And goddesses, at which the peasant stares
With most perplexing wonder; and light Fauns
That the good owner's unpoetic soul
Could not among the umbrage of the groves
Imagine, here, for ever in his sight,
In one unwearied posture frisk in stone.
My friend, quoth I, forgive these words of mine,
That haply seem more sportive than becomes
A soul that feels for Nature's sanctity
Thus blindly outraged; but when evil work
Admits no remedy, we then are glad
Even from ourselves to hide, in mirth constrain'd,
An unavailing sorrow. Oh! my friend,
Had'st thou beheld, as I, the glorious rock
By that audacious mansion hid for ever,
— Glorious I well might call it, with bright bands
Of flowers, and weeds as beautiful as flowers
Refulgent, — crown'd, as with a diadem,
With oaks that loved their birth-place, and alive
With the wild tones of echo, bird, and bee, —
Thou couldst have wept to think that paltry Art
Could so prevail o'er Nature, and weak man
Thus stand between thee and the works of God
Well might the Naiad of that stream complain!
The glare of day hath driven her from her haunts,
Shady no more: The woodman's axe hath clear'd
The useless hazels where the linnet hung
Her secret nest; and yon hoar waterfall,
Whose misty spray rose through the freshen'd leaves
To heaven, like Nature's incense, and whose sound
Came deaden'd through the multitude of boughs
Like a wild anthem by some spirit sung,
Now looks as cheerless as the late-left snow
Upon the mountain's breast, and sends a voice,
From the bare rocks, of dreariness and woe!
See! farther down the streamlet, art hath framed
A delicate cascade! The channel stones
Hallow'd by rushing waters, and more green
Even than the thought of greenness in the soul,
Are gone; and pebbles, carefully arranged
By size and colour, at the bottom lie
Imprison'd; while a smooth and shaven lawn,
With graceful gravel walks most serpentine,
Surrounds the noisy wonder, and sends up
A smile of scorn unto the rocky fells,
Where, 'mid the rough fern, bleat the shelter'd sheep.
Oft hath the poet's eye on these wild fells
Beheld entrancing visions; — but the cliffs,
In unscaled majesty, must frown no more;
No more the coves profound draw down the soul
Into their stern dominion: even the clouds,
Floating or settling on the mountain's breast,
Must be adored no more: — far other forms
Delight his gaze, to whom, alas, belongs
This luckless vale! — On every eminence,
Smiles some gay image of the builder's soul,
Watch-tower or summer-house, where oft, at eve,
He meditates to go, with book in hand,
And read in solitude; or weather-cock,
To tell which way the wind doth blow; or fort,
Commanding every station in the vale
Where enemy might encamp, and from whose height
A gaudy flag might flutter, when he hears
With a true British pride of Frenchmen slain,
Ten thousand in one battle, lying grim
By the brave English, their dead conquerors!
Such was the spirit of the words I used
On witnessing such sacrilege. We turned
Homewards in silence, even as from the grave
Of one in early youth untimely dead,
And all that to my pensive friend I said
Upon our walk, were some few words of grief,
That thoughtlessness and folly, in one day,
Could render vain the mystic processes
Of Nature, working for a thousand years
The work of love and beauty; so that Heaven
Might shed its gracious dews upon the earth,
Its sunshine and its rain, till living flowers
Rose up in myriads to attest its power,
But, in the midst of this glad jubilee,
A blinded mortal come, and with a nod,
Thus rendering ignorance worse than wickedness,
Bid his base servants " tear from Nature's book
" A blissful leaf with worst impiety. "
If thou, whose heart has listen'd to my song,
From Nature hold'st some fair inheritance
Like that whose mournful ruins I deplore,
Remember that thy birth-right doth impose
High duties on thee, that must be perform'd,
Else thou canst not be happy. Thou must watch
With holy zeal o'er Nature while she sleeps,
That nought may break her rest; her waking smiles
Thou must preserve and worship; and the gloom
That sometimes lies like night upon her face,
Creating awful thoughts, that gloom must hush
The beatings of thy heart, as if it lay
Like the dread shadow of eternity.
Beauteous thy home upon this beauteous earth,
And God hath given it to thee: therefore, learn
The laws by which the Eternal doth sublime
And sanctify his works, that thou mayest see
The hidden glory veiled from vulgar eyes,
And by the homage of enlighten'd love,
Repay the power that blest thee. Thou should'st stand
Oft-times amid thy dwelling-place, with awe
Stronger than love, even like a pious man
Who in some great cathedral, while the chaunt
Of hymns is in his soul, no more beholds
The pillars rise august and beautiful,
Nor the dim grandeur of the roof that hangs
Far, far above his head, but only sees
The opening heaven-gates, and the white-robed bands
Of spirits prostrate in adoring praise.
So shalt thou to thy death-hour find a friend,
A gracious friend in Nature, and thy name,
As the rapt traveller through thy fair domains
Oft-lingering journeys, shall with gentle voice
Be breathed amid the solitude, and link'd
With those enlighten'd spirits that promote
The happiness of others by their own,
The consummation of all earthly joy.
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