by Septimius.
Originally published in Hood's Magazine (Henry Hurst) vol.7 #1 (Jan 1847).
How clearly beautiful is this still night!
The summer softness of the fragrant air
Sheds o'er the soul a gentle, grateful, peace,
That calms each wilder impulse in the breast,
And fills us with a hush'd serenity,
A quiet, pensive, contemplative, mood.
These mountains high, and everlasting snows,
Attune our being to perceive, and love,
The beautiful informing the sublime!
How sweet, amid this mould'ring castle's ruins,
To watch, down yon precipitous ravine,
The flashing torrent charge the bristling crags,
Foaming and leaping, till it hew its course
Right onward; when its wrath, by conquest, sooth'd,
With stately sweep, it winds thro' yonder vale.
'Tis bliss to dwell upon the buoyant scene,
While the crisp, silver-raining, moon sheds forth
Her glist'ning rays o'er all the snowy mountains,
Whose crystal ridges perforate the skies.
See, in th' expanded mirror of the lake,
How its clear breast receives and images
Their pearly splendors! How th' intense blue sky;
And the flame-breathing stars;—that, far away,
From distances immeasurable, pour
Their watchful light upon the darkling earth--
And she, the full-orb'd firmamental queen;
Ride phantom'd, in the glass'd abysmal depths!
How play the moonbeams o'er these castled walls,
And thro' the bare interior, strewn, in parts,
With broken masonry, and rafter'd beams,
And marble fragments, round which, springing green,
The blooming verdure decks the rugged floor,
In wild luxuriance, gently smoothing down
The sad decay that Time hath wrought throughout.
Now, let us turn, and gaze our fill, once more,
Upon yon solemn mountains, skyward thron'd,
In all their awful majesty, as if
With their vast peaks, they sought to scale the heavens,
And, from their cloud-veil'd summits, aye look'd down
Upon the green-clad earth, beneath them spread,
Its bulwarks, and its causeways to the spheres!
For ages have they stood, as now they stand,
Its rear'd and might outposts—still, they serve
As stern mementos for all generations,
Reminding each of what hath been before,
In times elaps'd, and what will be in future.
Lo! as the snowy landscape is lit up,
In radiancy, o'er all its wide extent,
Rapt with its strange sublimity, we cry
Thus to the mountain-tops, that seem to listen:—
"Here stood our fathers but a short time since,
A time, compar'd with ages ye have known,
That seems as nothing, and, yet, they are gone;
They've pass'd away for ever; and we, too,
Gaze on ye for a moment, and, then, pass,
But to make way for others, who, hereafter,
Ay, when we've lain for centuries in our graves,
Will come and muse on ye, as we do, now,
Lifting their eyes, in wonder and in awe,
Where your huge landmarks, from creation's birth,
Alone have kept their majesty unchang'd."
Gaze cautiously adown yon dismal gorge,
Abrupt and craggy; its stupendous depths
Dizzying the sight that's fain to pierce below,
To utter darkness, save where, half way, sports
Yon glancing rivulet, to leap, at will,
The sheer abyss!. Behold the gorge's sides
Clad in the sombre grandeur of the pines,
Whose gloomy masses, in the moonlight bath'd,
Enchant with contrast—darkness set in light!
But hark! beneath us, from the valley's slopes,
Comes on the ear the pleasant, shrilly, sound,
As thro' the ripen'd grass, the mowers ply
Their whistling scythes throughout the stilly hours,
A balmy freshness breathes its fragrance round,
As, thickly shaken from the falling grass,
And intermingl'd flowers, the dew-drops roll,
Soft'ning the soil, with rich and fruitful moisture.
Still move the ranks in order: still they ply,
Unweariedly, their oft-rewhetted scythes,
Cheer'd with the beauty of the brilliant scene,
And freshen'd, as, upon their heated brows,
The fanning breeze plays fitfully the while;
Or as descending dews steal gently down
And brace their toiling frames—Thus, heart-elate,
The whole cool, silent, summer, moonlit, Night,
Amid yon odour-wafting, flower-strewn, meads,
They urge their pleasant task, until the dawn
Gleam in the east, extinguishing the stars,
As it comes shining up the arch of Heaven.
October, 1846.