Classic Poem

Now, Mary, Winter's reign suspended,
Our mountains doff their hoods of snow;
Rich purple hues of heath are blended
With green, and furze's golden glow.
Yon Lake, whose name thy Derwent bears,
No more of darkish steely hue,
Now glitters silver bright, now wears
The heaven's reflected sapphire blue.

Attended by the frolic Wind
Sweet Spring each field and grove attires,
Yet holly-berries still remind
Of frost and snow and Christmas fires.
The foliage of the chestnut droops
Like Naiad's drenched and clinging robe;
Aurelians bloom in yellow groups,
And half unfold the tiny globe.

I hail the burnished celandine,
That ever to my childish eye
The Sun's low emblem seemed to shine,
And told a tale of Summer nigh;
And bright the crimson leaves are gleaming
Of many an infant sycamore,
Most like, to playful Fancy's seeming,
The roof of some gay fairy bower.

In russet weed no longer drest,
With which 'gainst wintry winds she strove,
The Beech-tree dons her vernal vest
To match the livery of the grove;
And hers the Lime now 'gins to wear,
Summer's own light and summery tree,
The tardy Ash alone stands bare,
And tells of beauty yet to be.

How many Springs have bloomed and faded,
Since one whose name thou lov'st to hear,
On Greta's bank with trees o'er shaded
Joined in my sports, a pleased compeer!
Nature and all her stores were new,
Nor then of coming care and strife
Distressful presages I drew,—
A brother's love illumed my life.

Mary, 'twere sweet but long to tell
How dear thy Derwent was to me,
By knoll and wood and rocky dell
How blithe we wandered, fancy-free!—
How o'er the stream to safe dry land
His sylph-like sister oft he bore,
And guided her with gentlest hand
Thro' flowery fields of classic lore!

A winsome playmate then had we
Who climbed the trees with vaunted skill,—
No lily statelier now than she
Presiding in the gay quadrille:—
Now seen 'mid tricksy crowds to shine,
Fashion's admired and graceful child,
Then like the breeze-fanned eglantine
She danced and gambolled sweetly wild.

How oft we wont in Winter days
On Greta's frozen stream to play,
Or toil the stone-piled bridge to raise
By one light shower soon swept away;
Or weave in Summer's balmy hours
Fresh garlands on the river's brim,
Or spoil the banks of choicest flowers
Transplanted soon to gardens trim!

Since then, where Greta's waters glide
How often have I wept and mourned,
Summer in all her blooming pride
And Nature's bounty almost scorned!
These scenes in loveliness arrayed,
While tears and sorrow still were mine,
In their calm beauty did upbraid
A soul that could not but repine.

I thought of one so fondly deemed
The child of Genius and of Worth,
By thoughtless follies unredeemed,
Low laid upon the soiling earth;
While Friendship many a bitter tear
Sheds o'er the wreck of time mis-spent,
And Hope grows sick, and will not hear
The promise e'er so truly meant.

Oft as I wandered forth to pray,
And saw the elm-tree's lace-like vest
Grown black to mourn th'expiring day
Athwart the wannish-silver West,—
I imaged brighter skies than ours,
The tropic land in all its wealth
Of giant trees and gorgeous flowers,
Where Henry sought the treasure health!

Not smoother ran my true-love's stream
Than mountain brook by rocks impeded,
Tho' here and there the sunny gleam,
The tranquil flow have been conceded;—
Yet when each random light was fled,
And Care had ta'en me for his mate,
Tears too for Derwent's sake I shed
And mourned my brother's wayward fate.

Immersed in gloom and misty tears
His life's horizon seems to lie,—
No hope, no joy my bosom cheers
When thitherward I bend my eye;—
But soon the darkness and the storm
Seem chased away by magic sleight;
My Spirit sees an angel form
Arising bathe the scene in light!

Mary!—I ne'er beheld thy face,
And cold and vain description's art
A breathing portraiture to trace,
Such as can satisfy the heart:—
Thine eyes the colour of thy hair,
Each feature told me o'er and o'er,
I know them all, how sweet, how fair—
Methinks a sister should know more!

Oft when my spirit lies enthralled
Neath Morpheus' wild fantastic sway,
Our future meeting is forestalled
I view thee who art far away!
But Sleep, delighted to distress,
Each dream of thee with sadness taints,
And, ere the vision vanishes,
Mars all that waking Fancy paints.

The liveliest image of thy mind
I see in lines thyself hath traced;
These show thee tender and refined,
With purity and meekness graced:—
In these the welcome warranty
Of deeply cherished hope I view,
That thou and I may live to be
Dear friends, affectionate and true!

How oft in thought from hills sublime
That now my farthest prospect bound,
I'm carried to a softer clime
And one sweet plot of cultured ground!
I see the borders flower-besprent,
The modest lilies round them wreathing,
The years, an ancient monument,
Where all things else of Youth are breathing!

Rose-trees, their buds yet scantly seen,
Snow-drops, whose blossoms all are shed,
The inner garden's leafy screen,—
The prospect far below outspread:—
I see a face known long ago,
Which faithful Memory hath portrayed,
And one that still I only know
By Fancy's blest pictorial aid!

When She depicts the future scene,
And Hope imparts her glowing hues,
A sister's gently-beaming mien
The picture with delight imbues.
Mary! these visions of my own,
All sweet and soothing as they be,
O! may I change, ere weary grown,
For truth and blest reality.