| |
| SILENT nymph, with curious eye! | |
| Who, the purple eve, dost lie | |
| On the mountain’s lonely van, | |
| Beyond the noise of busy man, | |
| Painting fair the form of things, | 5 |
| While the yellow linnet sings, | |
| Or the tuneful nightingale | |
| Charms the forest with her tale,— | |
| Come, with all thy various hues, | |
| Come and aid thy sister Muse. | 10 |
| Now, while Phœbus, riding high, | |
| Gives lustre to the land and sky, | |
| Grongar Hill invites my song,— | |
| Draw the landscape bright and strong; | |
| Grongar, in whose mossy cells | 15 |
| Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; | |
| Grongar, in whose silent shade, | |
| For the modest Muses made, | |
| So oft I have, the evening still, | |
| At the fountain of a rill, | 20 |
| Sat upon a flowery bed, | |
| With my hand beneath my head, | |
| While strayed my eyes o’er Towy’s flood, | |
| Over mead and over wood, | |
| From house to house, from hill to hill, | 25 |
| Till Contemplation had her fill. | |
| About his checkered sides I wind, | |
| And leave his brooks and meads behind, | |
| And groves and grottos where I lay, | |
| And vistas shooting beams of day. | 30 |
| Wide and wider spreads the vale, | |
| As circles on a smooth canal. | |
| The mountains round, unhappy fate! | |
| Sooner or later, of all height, | |
| Withdraw their summits from the skies, | 35 |
| And lessen as the others rise. | |
| Still the prospect wider spreads, | |
| Adds a thousand woods and meads; | |
| Still it widens, widens still, | |
| And sinks the newly risen hill. | 40 |
| Now I gain the mountain’s brow; | |
| What a landscape lies below! | |
| No clouds, no vapors, intervene; | |
| But the gay, the open scene | |
| Does the face of Nature show, | 45 |
| In all the hues of heaven’s bow! | |
| And, swelling to embrace the light, | |
| Spreads around beneath the sight. | |
| Old castles on the cliffs arise, | |
| Proudly towering in the skies; | 50 |
| Rushing from the woods, the spires | |
| Seem from hence ascending fires; | |
| Half his beams Apollo sheds | |
| On the yellow mountain-heads, | |
| Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, | 55 |
| And glitters on the broken rocks. | |
| Below me trees unnumbered rise, | |
| Beautiful in various dyes: | |
| The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, | |
| The yellow beach, the sable yew, | 60 |
| The slender fir that taper grows, | |
| The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs; | |
| And beyond the purple grove, | |
| Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love! | |
| Gaudy as the opening dawn, | 65 |
| Lies a long and level lawn, | |
| On which a dark hill, steep and high, | |
| Holds and charms the wandering eye. | |
| Deep are his feet in Towy’s flood: | |
| His sides are clothed with waving wood, | 70 |
| And ancient towers crown his brow, | |
| That cast an awful look below; | |
| Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, | |
| And with her arms from falling keeps; | |
| So both a safety from the wind | 75 |
| In mutual dependence find. | |
| ’T is now the raven’s bleak abode; | |
| ’T is now the apartment of the toad; | |
| And there the fox securely feeds; | |
| And there the poisonous adder breeds, | 80 |
| Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds; | |
| While, ever and anon, there fall | |
| Huge heaps of hoary mouldered wall. | |
| Yet Time has seen,—that lifts the low | |
| And level lays the lofty brow,— | 85 |
| Has seen this broken pile complete, | |
| Big with the vanity of state. | |
| But transient is the smile of Fate! | |
| A little rule, a little sway, | |
| A sunbeam in a winter’s day, | 90 |
| Is all the proud and mighty have | |
| Between the cradle and the grave. | |
| And see the rivers how they run, | |
| Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, | |
| Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,— | 95 |
| Wave succeeding wave, they go | |
| A various journey to the deep, | |
| Like human life to endless sleep! | |
| Thus is Nature’s vesture wrought, | |
| To instruct our wandering thought: | 100 |
| Thus she dresses green and gay, | |
| To disperse our cares away. | |
| Ever charming, ever new, | |
| When will the landscape tire the view! | |
| The fountain’s fall, the river’s flow; | 105 |
| The woody valleys, warm and low; | |
| The windy summit, wild and high, | |
| Roughly rushing on the sky; | |
| The pleasant seat, the ruined tower, | |
| The naked rock, the shady bower; | 110 |
| The town and village, dome and farm,— | |
| Each gives each a double charm, | |
| As pearls upon an Ethiop’s arm. | |
| See on the mountain’s southern side, | |
| Where the prospect opens wide, | 115 |
| Where the evening gilds the tide; | |
| How close and small the hedges lie! | |
| What streaks of meadow cross the eye! | |
| A step methinks may pass the stream, | |
| So little distant dangers seem; | 120 |
| So we mistake the Future’s face, | |
| Eyed through Hope’s deluding glass; | |
| As yon summits, soft and fair, | |
| Clad in colors of the air, | |
| Which to those who journey near, | 125 |
| Barren, brown, and rough appear; | |
| Still we tread the same coarse way, | |
| The present ’s still a cloudy day. | |
| O, may I with myself agree, | |
| And never covet what I see; | 130 |
| Content me with an humble shade, | |
| My passions tamed, my wishes laid; | |
| For while our wishes wildly roll, | |
| We banish quiet from the soul: | |
| ’T is thus the busy beat the air, | 135 |
| And misers gather wealth and care. | |
| Now, even now, my joys run high, | |
| As on the mountain-turf I lie; | |
| While the wanton Zephyr sings, | |
| And in the vale perfumes his wings; | 140 |
| While the waters murmur deep; | |
| While the shepherd charms his sheep; | |
| While the birds unbounded fly, | |
| And with music fill the sky, | |
| Now, even now, my joys run high. | 145 |
| Be full, ye courts; be great who will; | |
| Search for Peace with all your skill: | |
| Open wide the lofty door, | |
| Seek her on the marble floor. | |
| In vain you search; she is not there! | 150 |
| In vain you search the domes of Care! | |
| Grass and flowers Quiet treads, | |
| On the meads and mountain-heads, | |
| Along with Pleasure, close allied, | |
| Ever by each other’s side; | 155 |
| And often, by the murmuring rill, | |
| Hears the thrush, while all is still | |
| Within the groves of Grongar Hill. | |
| |
