« PreviousContinue »
Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
As vigorous as a Lark at break of day:
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the enquiry ? — Neither friend nor foe
She cares for; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what Haven is her mark?
And, almost as it was when ships were rare,
(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,
Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!
Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress
Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp
Sullenly glaring through sepulchral damp,
So burns yon Taper mid its black recess
Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless:
The Lake below reflects it not; the sky
Muffled in clouds affords no company
To mitigate and cheer its loneliness.
Yet round the body of that joyless Thing,
Which sends so far its melancholy light,
Perhaps are seated in domestic ring
A gay society with faces bright,
Conversing, reading, laughing; — or they sing,
While hearts and voices in the song unite.
Mark the concentred Hazels that enclose Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray Of noontide suns: — and even the beams that play And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows, Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows Upon that roof— amid embowering gloom The very image framing of a Tomb, In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose Among the lonely mountains Live, ye Trees!And Thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep
Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful Genius made
COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMILTON HILLS, YORKSHIRE.
Dark, and more dark, the shades of Evening fell;