Andromeda, and Other Poems

HYPOTHESES HYPOCHONDRIACÆ 1

And should she die, her grave should beUpon the bare top of a sunny hill,Among the moorlands of her own fair land,Amid a ring of old and moss-grown stonesIn gorse and heather all embosomed.There should be no tall stone, no marble tombAbove her gentle corse;—the ponderous pileWould press too rudely on those fairy limbs.The turf should lightly he, that marked her home.A sacred spot it would be—every birdThat came to watch her lone grave should be holy.The deer should browse around her undisturbed;The whin bird by, her lonely nest should buildAll fearless; for in life she loved to seeHappiness in all things—And we would come on summer daysWhen all around was bright, and set us downAnd think of all that lay beneath that turfOn which the heedless moor-bird sits, and whistlesHis long, shrill, painful song, as though he plainedFor her that loved him and his pleasant hills;And we would dream again of bygone daysUntil our eyes should swell with natural tearsFor brilliant hopes—all faded into air!As, on the sands of Irak, near approachDestroys the traveller’s vision of still lakes,And goodly streams reed-clad, and meadows green;And leaves behind the drear realityOf shadeless, same, yet ever-changing sand!And when the sullen clouds rose thick on highMountains on mountains rolling—and dark mistWrapped itself round the hill-tops like a shroud,When on her grave swept by the moaning windBending the heather-bells—then would I comeAnd watch by her, in silent loneliness,And smile upon the storm—as knowing wellThe lightning’s flash would surely turn aside,Nor mar the lowly mound, where peaceful sleepsAll that gave life and love to one fond heart!I talk of things that are not; and if prayersBy night and day availed from my weak lips,Then should they never be! till I was gone,Before the friends I loved, to my long home.Oh pardon me, if e’er I say too much; my mindToo often strangely turns to ribald mirth,As though I had no doubt nor hope beyond—Or brooding melancholy cloys my soulWith thoughts of days misspent, of wasted timeAnd bitter feelings swallowed up in jests.Then strange and fearful thoughts flit o’er my brainBy indistinctness made more terrible,And incubi mock at me with fierce eyesUpon my couch: and visions, crude and dire,Of planets, suns, millions of miles, infinity,Space, time, thought, being, blank nonentity,Things incorporeal, fancies of the brain,Seen, heard, as though they were material,All mixed in sickening mazes, trouble me,And lead my soul away from earth and heavenUntil I doubt whether I be or not!And then I see all frightful shapes—lank ghosts,Hydras, chimeras, krakens, wastes of sand,Herbless and void of living voice—tall mountainsCleaving the skies with height immeasurable,On which perchance I climb for infinite years; broad seas,Studded with islands numberless, that stretchBeyond the regions of the sun, and fadeAway in distance vast, or dreary clouds,Cold, dark, and watery, where wander I for ever!Or space of ether, where I hang for aye!A speck, an atom—inconsumable—Immortal, hopeless, voiceless, powerless!And oft I fancy, I am weak and old,And all who loved me, one by one, are dead,And I am left alone—and cannot die!Surely there is no rest on earth for soulsWhose dreams are like a madman’s!  I am youngAnd much is yet before me—after yearsMay bring peace with them to my weary heart!Helston, 1835.

TREHILL WELL

There stood a low and ivied roof,   As gazing rustics tell,In times of chivalry and song   ‘Yclept the holy well.Above the ivies’ branchlets gray   In glistening clusters shone;While round the base the grass-blades bright   And spiry foxglove sprung.The brambles clung in graceful bands,   Chequering the old gray stoneWith shining leaflets, whose bright face   In autumn’s tinting shone.Around the fountain’s eastern base   A babbling brooklet sped,With sleepy murmur purling soft   Adown its gravelly bed.Within the cell the filmy ferns   To woo the clear wave bent;And cushioned mosses to the stone   Their quaint embroidery lent.The fountain’s face lay still as glass—   Save where the streamlet freeAcross the basin’s gnarled lip   Flowed ever silently.Above the well a little nook   Once held, as rustics tell,All garland-decked, an image of   The Lady of the Well.They tell of tales of mystery,   Of darkling deeds of woe;But no! such doings might not brook   The holy streamlet’s flow.Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts,   Of melancholy dreams,By that fair fount whose sunny wall   Basks in the western beams.When last I saw that little stream,   A form of light there stood,That seemed like a precious gem,   Beneath that archway rude:And as I gazed with love and awe   Upon that sylph-like thing,Methought that airy form must be   The fairy of the spring.Helston, 1835.

IN AN ILLUMINATED MISSAL

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1

  This and the following poem were written at school in early boy-hood.