Shaped by the Druids, so to represent
Their knowledge of the heavens, and image forth
The constellations, - gently was I charmed
Into a waking dream, a reverie
That, with believing eyes, where'er I turned,
Beheld long-bearded teachers, with white wands
Uplifted, pointing to the starry sky,
Alternately, and plain below, while breath
Of music swayed their motions, and the waste
Rejoiced with them and me in those sweet sounds.
William Wordsworth.
AVENUE IN SAVERNAKE FOREST.
soothing sound the gentle airs that move
The innumerable leaves, high overhead,
When autumn first, from the long avenue
That lifts its arching height of ancient shade,
Steals here and there a leaf!
Within the gloom,
In partial sunshine white, some trunks appear
Studding the glens of fern; in solemn shade
Some mingle their dark branches, but yet all,
All make a sad, sweet music, as they move,
Not undelightful to a stranger's heart.
They seem to say, in accents audible,
Farewell to summer, and farewell the strains
Of many a lithe and feathered chorister,
That through the depth of these incumbent woods Made the long summer gladsome.
I have heard To the deep-mingling sounds of organs clear (When slow the choral anthem rose beneath) The glimmering minster through its pillared aisles Echo; but not more sweet the vaulted roof Rang to those linkéd harmonies, than here The high wood answers to the lightest breath Of nature.
Soothing the cares of venerable age,
From public toil retired; may it awake,
As, still and slow, the sun of life declines,
Remembrances, not mournful, but most sweet;
May it, as oft beneath the sylvan shade
Their honored owner strays, come like the sound
Of distant seraph harps, yet speaking clear!
How poor is every sound of earthly things,
When heaven's own music waits the just and pure!
ACRED Religion! "mother of form and fear,"
Dread arbitress of mutable respect,
New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked,
Or cease to please the fickle worshipper;
Mother of Love! (that name best suits thee here,)
Mother of Love! for this deep vale, protect
Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect,
Gifted to purge the vapory atmosphere
When this low pile a gospel teacher knew,
Whose good works formed an endless retinue;
A pastor such as Chaucer's verse portrays,
Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew,
And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise!
INVITATION TO SELBORNE.
NEE, Selborne spreads her boldest beauties round
The varied valley, and the mountain ground,
Wildly majestic! What is all the pride
Of flats, with loads of ornaments supplied?
Unpleasing, tasteless, impotent expense,
Compared with Nature's rude magnificence!
Romantic spot! from whence in prospect lies
Whate'er of landscape charms our feasting eyes,
The pointed spire, the hall, the pasture plain,
The russet fallow, or the golden grain,
The breezy lake that sheds a gleaming light,
Till all the fading picture fail the sight.
Hark, while below the village bells ring round,
Echo, sweet nymph, returns the softened sound;
But if gusts rise, the rushing forests roar,
Like the tide tumbling on the pebbly shore.
Adown the vale, in lone, sequestered nook, Where skirting woods imbrown the dimpling brook, The ruined convent lies: here wont to dwell The lazy canon midst his cloistered cell, While papal darkness brooded o'er the land, Ere Reformation made her glorious stand; Still oft at eve belated shepherd swains See the cowled spectre skim the folded plains.
Now climb the steep, drop now your eye below Where round the blooming village orchards grow; There, like a picture, lies my lowly seat,
A rural, sheltered, unobserved retreat.
Me far above the rest Selbornian scenes,
The pendent forests and the mountain greens,
Strike with delight; there spreads the distant view,
That gradual fades till sunk in misty blue;
Here Nature hangs her slopy woods to sight,
Rills purl between and dart a quivering light.
THERE is a gentle nymph not far from hence,
That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn
Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure;
Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine,
That had the sceptre from his father Brute.
She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit
Of her enragéd step-dame Guendolen,
Commended her fair innocence to the flood,
That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing course.
The water-nymphs, that in the bottom played,
Held up their pearléd wrists and took her in,
Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' hall;
Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head,
And gave her to his daughters to imbathe
In nectared lavers, strewed with asphodel:
And through the porch and inlet of each sense
Dropped in ambrosial oils, till she revived,
And underwent a quick immortal change,
Made goddess of the river: still she retains
Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve
Visits the herds along the twilight meadows,
Helping all urchin blasts, and ill-luck signs
That the shrewd meddling elf delights to make,
Which she with precious vialled liquors heals:
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