EPISTLE
TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART.
FROM THE SOUTH-WEST COAST OR CUMBERLAND
1811
EPISTLE
TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART.
FROM THE SOUTH-WEST COAST OR CUMBERLAND
FAR from our home by Grasmere’s quiet Lake, From the Vale’s peace which all her fields partake, Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria’s shore We sojourn stunned by Ocean’s ceaseless roar; While, day by day, grim neighbour! huge Black Comb Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom, Unless, perchance rejecting in despite What on the Plain ‘we’ have of warmth and light, In his own storms he hides himself from sight. Rough is the time; and thoughts, that would be free 10 From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee; Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad; Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might Attained a stature twice a tall man’s height, Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer, Like an unshifting weathercock which proves How cold the quarter that the wind best loves, Or like a Centinel that, evermore 20 Darkening the window, ill defends the door Of this unfinished house–a Fortress bare, Where strength has been the Builder’s only care; Whose rugged walls may still for years demand The final polish of the Plasterer’s hand. –This Dwelling’s Inmate more than three weeks space And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place, I–of whose touch the fiddle would complain, Whose breath would labour at the flute in vain, In music all unversed, nor blessed with skill 30 A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill, Tired of my books, a scanty company! And tired of listening to the boisterous sea– Pace between door and window muttering rhyme, An old resource to cheat a froward time! Though these dull hours (mine is it, or their shame?) Would tempt me to renounce that humble aim. –But if there be a Muse who, free to take Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake Those heights (like Phoebus when his golden locks 40 He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks) And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail Trips down the pathways of some winding dale; Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores To fishers mending nets beside their doors; Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined, Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind, Or listens to its play among the boughs Above her head and so forgets her vows– If such a Visitant of Earth there be 50 And she would deign this day to smile on me And aid my verse, content with local bounds Of natural beauty and life’s daily rounds, Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which we tell Without reserve to those whom we love well– Then haply, Beaumont! words in current clear Will flow, and on a welcome page appear Duly before thy sight, unless they perish here. What shall I treat of? News from Mona’s Isle? Such have we, but unvaried in its style; 60 No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whence And wherefore fugitive or on what pretence; Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind Most restlessly alive when most confined. Ask not of me, whose tongue can best appease The mighty tumults of the HOUSE OF KEYS; The last year’s cup whose Ram or Heifer gained, What slopes are planted, or what mosses drained: An eye of fancy only can I cast On that proud pageant now at hand or past, 70 When full five hundred boats in trim array, With nets and sails outspread and streamers gay, And chanted hymns and stiller voice of prayer, For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep repair, Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine. Mona from our Abode is daily seen, But with a wilderness of waves between; And by conjecture only can we speak Of aught transacted there in bay or creek; 80 No tidings reach us thence from town or field, Only faint news her mountain sunbeams yield, And some we gather from the misty air, And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, declare. But these poetic mysteries I withhold; For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold, And should the colder fit with You be on When You might read, my credit would be gone. Let more substantial themes the pen engage, And nearer interests culled from the opening stage 90 Of our migration.–Ere the welcome dawn Had from the east her silver star withdrawn, The Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door, Thoughtfully freighted with a various store; And long or ere the uprising of the Sun O’er dew-damped dust our journey was begun, A needful journey, under favouring skies, Through peopled Vales; yet something in the guise Of those old Patriarchs when from well to well They roamed through Wastes where now the tented Arabs dwell. 100 Say first, to whom did we the charge confide, Who promptly undertook the Wain to guide Up many a sharply-twining road and down, And over many a wide hill’s craggy crown, Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook, And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook? A blooming Lass–who in her better hand Bore a light switch, her sceptre of command When, yet a slender Girl, she often led, Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened ‘sled‘ 110 From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar’s head. What could go wrong with such a Charioteer For goods and chattels, or those Infants dear, A Pair who smilingly sate side by side, Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide Whose free embraces we were bound to seek, Would their lost strength restore and freshen the pale cheek? Such hope did either Parent entertain Pacing behind along the silent lane. Blithe hopes and happy musings soon took flight, 120 For lo! an uncouth melancholy sight– On a green bank a creature stood forlorn Just half protruded to the light of morn, Its hinder part concealed by hedge-row thorn The Figure called to mind a beast of prey Stript of its frightful powers by slow decay, And, though no longer upon rapine bent, Dim memory keeping of its old intent. We started, looked again with anxious eyes, And in that griesly object recognise 130 The Curate’s Dog–his long-tried friend, for they, As well we knew, together had grown grey. The Master died, his drooping servant’s grief Found at the Widow’s feet some sad relief; Yet still he lived in pining discontent, Sadness which no indulgence could prevent; Hence whole day wanderings, broken nightly sleeps And lonesome watch that out of doors he keeps; Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute! Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, mute, 140 And of all visible motion destitute, So that the very heaving of his breath Seemed stopt, though by some other power than death. Long as we gazed upon the form and face, A mild domestic pity kept its place, Unscared by thronging fancies of strange hue That haunted us in spite of what we knew. Even now I sometimes think of him as lost In second-sight appearances, or crost By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground, 150 On which he stood, by spells unnatural bound, Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait In days of old romance at Archimago’s gate. Advancing Summer, Nature’s law fulfilled, The choristers in every grove had stilled; But we, we lacked not music of our own, For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown, Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues, Some notes prelusive, from the round of songs With which, more zealous than the liveliest bird 160 That in wild Arden’s brakes was ever heard, Her work and her work’s partners she can cheer, The whole day long, and all days of the year. Thus gladdened from our own dear Vale we pass And soon approach Diana’s Looking-glass! To Loughrigg-tarn, round clear and bright as heaven, Such name Italian fancy would have given, Ere on its banks the few grey cabins rose That yet disturb not its concealed repose More than the feeblest wind that idly blows. 170 Ah, Beaumont! when an opening in the road Stopped me at once by charm of what it showed, The encircling region vividly exprest Within the mirror’s depth, a world at rest– Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy ‘bield‘, And the smooth green of many a pendent field, And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small, A little daring would-be waterfall, One chimney smoking and its azure wreath, Associate all in the calm Pool beneath, 180 With here and there a faint imperfect gleam Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam– What wonder at this hour of stillness deep, A shadowy link ‘tween wakefulness and sleep, When Nature’s self, amid such blending, seems To render visible her own soft dreams, If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn, wood, Fondly embosomed in the tranquil flood, A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by Thee Designed to rise in humble privacy, 190 A lowly Dwelling, here to be outspread, Like a small Hamlet, with its bashful head Half hid in native trees. Alas ’tis not, Nor ever was; I sighed, and left the spot Unconscious of its own untoward lot, And thought in silence, with regret too keen, Of unexperienced joys that might have been; Of neighbourhood and intermingling arts, And golden summer days uniting cheerful hearts. But time, irrevocable time, is flown. 200 And let us utter thanks for blessings sown And reaped–what hath been, and what is, our own. Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee, Startling us all, dispersed my reverie; Such shout as many a sportive echo meeting Oft-times from Alpine ‘chalets’ sends a greeting. Whence the blithe hail? behold a Peasant stand On high, a kerchief waving in her hand! Not unexpectant that by early day Our little Band would thrid this mountain way, 210 Before her cottage on the bright hill side She hath advanced with hope to be descried. Right gladly answering signals we displayed, Moving along a tract of morning shade, And vocal wishes sent of like good will To our kind Friend high on the sunny hill– Luminous region, fair as if the prime Were tempting all astir to look aloft or climb; Only the centre of the shining cot With door left open makes a gloomy spot, 220 Emblem of those dark corners sometimes found Within the happiest breast on earthly ground. Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale, And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale; Descend, and reach, in Yewdale’s depths, a plain With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grain– An area level as a Lake and spread Under a rock too steep for man to tread, Where sheltered from the north and bleak northwest Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest, 230 Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest. Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but hark, At our approach, a jealous watch-dog’s bark, Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of state, But the whole household, that our coming wait. With Young and Old warm greetings we exchange, And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Grange Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared. Entering, we find the morning meal prepared: So down we sit, though not till each had cast 240 Pleased looks around the delicate repast– Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from the nest, With amber honey from the mountain’s breast; Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wild Of children’s industry, in hillocks piled; Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to lie Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality Where simple art with bounteous nature vied, And cottage comfort shuned not seemly pride. Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast, 250 If thou be lovelier than the kindling East, Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies, Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes, Dark but to every gentle feeling true, As if their lustre flowed from ether’s purest blue. Let me not ask what tears may have been wept By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept, Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved 260 For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved By fortitude and patience, and the grace Of heaven in pity visiting the place. Not unadvisedly those secret springs I leave unsearched: enough that memory clings, Here as elsewhere, to notices that make Their own significance for hearts awake, To rural incidents, whose genial powers Filled with delight three summer morning hours. More cold my pen report of grave or gay 270 That through our gipsy travel cheered the way; But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, “Be done.” Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove This humble offering made by Truth to Love, Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell Which might have else been on me yet:– FAREWELL. 1811.