NATURE OUTRAGED.

Once, on the very gentlest stillest day

That ever Spring did in her gladness breathe

O'er this delightful earth, I left my home

With a beloved friend, who ne'er before

Had been among these mountains,— but whose heart,

Led by the famous poets, through the air

Serene of Nature oft had voyaged,

On fancy's wing, and in her magic bowers

Reposed, by wildest music sung to sleep:—

So that, enamour'd of the imaged forms

Of beauty in his soul, with holiest zeal

He longed to hail the fair original,

And do her spiritual homage.

That his love

Might, consonant to Nature's dictate wise,

From quiet impulse grow, and to the power

Of meditation and connecting thought,

Rather than startling glories of the eye,

Owe its enthronement in his inmost heart,

I led him to behold a little lake,

Which I so often in my lonely walks

Had visited, but never yet had seen

One human being on its banks, that I

Thought it mine own almost, so thither took

My friend, assured he could not chuse but love

A scene so loved by me!

Before we reached

The dell wherein this little lake doth sleep,

Into involuntary praise of all

Its pensive loveliness, my happy heart

Would frequent burst, and from those lyric songs,

That, sweetly warbling round the pastoral banks

Of Grassmere, on its silver waves have shed

The undying sunshine of a poet's soul,

I breathed such touching strains as suited well

The mild spring-day, and that secluded scene,

Towards which, in full assurance of delight,

We two then walked in peace.

On the green slope

Of a romantic glade, we sat us down,

Amid the fragrance of the yellow broom,

While o'er our heads the weeping birch-tree stream'd

Its branches arching like a fountain-shower,

Then look'd towards the lake,— with hearts prepared

For the warm reception of all lovely forms

Enrobed in loveliest radiance, such as oft

Had steep'd my spirit in a holy calm,

And made it by the touch of purest joy

Still as an infant's dream.

But where had fled

The paradise beloved in former days!

I look'd upon the countenance of my friend,

Who, lost in strange and sorrowful surprise,

Could scarce forbear to smile. Is this, he cried,

The lone retreat, where from the secret top

Of Helicon, the wild-eyed muse descends

To bless thy slumbers? this the virgin scene

Where beauty smiles in undisturbed peace?

I look'd again: but ne'er did lover gaze,

At last returning from some foreign clime,

With more affectionate sorrow on the face

That he left fair in youth, than I did gaze

On the alter'd features of my darling vale,

That,‘ mid the barbarous outrages of art,

Retained, I ween, a heavenly character

That nothing could destroy. Yet much was lost

Of its original brightness: Much was there,

Marring the spirit I remembered once

Perfectly beautiful. The meadow field,

That with its rich and placid verdure lay

Even like a sister-lake, with nought to break

The smoothness of its bosom, save the swing

Of the hoar Canna, or, more snowy white,

The young lamb frisking in the joy of life,—

Oh! grief! a garden, all unlike, I ween,

To that where bloom'd the fair Hesperides,

Usurped the seat of Nature, while a wall

Of most bedazzling splendour, o'er whose height,

The little birds, content to flit along

From bush to bush, could never dare to fly,

Preserved from those who knew no ill intent,

Fruit-trees exotic, and flowers passing rare,

Less lovely far than many a one that bloom'd

Unnoticed in the woods.

And lo! a house,

An elegant villa! in the Grecian style!

Doubtless contrived by some great architect

Who had an Attic soul; and in the shade

Of Academe or the Lyceum walk'd,

Forming conceptions fair and beautiful.

Blessed for ever be the sculptor's art!

It hath created guardian deities

To shield the holy building,— heathen gods

And goddesses, at which the peasant stares

With most perplexing wonder; and light Fauns,

That the good owner's unpoetic soul

Could not, among the umbrage of the groves,

Imagine, here, for ever in his sight,

In one unwearied posture frisk in stone.

My friend, quoth I, forgive these words of mine,

That haply seem more sportive than becomes

A soul that feels for Nature's sanctity

Thus blindly outraged; but when evil work

Admits no remedy, we then are glad

Even from ourselves to hide, in mirth constrain'd,

An unavailing sorrow. Oh! my friend,

Had'st thou beheld, as I, the glorious rock

By that audacious mansion hid for ever,

— Glorious I well might call it, with bright bands

Of flowers, and weeds as beautiful as flowers,

Refulgent,— crown'd, as with a diadem,

With oaks that loved their birth-place, and alive

With the wild tones of echo, bird, and bee,—

Thou couldst have wept to think that paltry Art

Could so prevail o'er Nature, and weak man

Thus stand between thee and the works of God.

Well might the Naiad of that stream complain!

The glare of day hath driven her from her haunts,

Shady no more: The woodman's ax hath clear'd

The useless hazels where the linnet hung

Her secret nest; and you hoar waterfall,

Whose misty spray rose through the freshen'd leaves

To heaven, like Nature's incense, and whose sound

Came deaden'd through the multitude of boughs,

Like a wild anthem by some spirit sung,

Now looks as cheerless as the late-left snow

Upon the mountain's breast, and sends a voice,

From the bare rocks, of dreariness and woe!

See! farther down the streamlet, art hath framed

A delicate cascade! The channel stones

Hollow'd by rushing waters, and more green

Even than the thought of greenness in the soul,

Are gone; and pebbles, carefully arranged

By size and colour, at the bottom lie

Imprison'd; while a smooth and shaven lawn,

With graceful gravel walks most serpentine,

Surrounds the noisy wonder, and sends up

A smile of scorn unto the rocky fells,

Where,‘ mid the rough fern, bleat the shelter'd sheep.

Oft hath the poet's eye on these wild fells

Beheld entrancing visions;— but the cliffs,

In unscaled majesty, must frown no more;

No more the coves profound draw down the soul

Into their stern dominion: even the clouds,

Floating or settling on the mountain's breast,

Must be adored no more:— far other forms

Delight his gaze, to whom, alas, belongs

This luckless vale!— On every eminence,

Smiles some gay image of the builder's soul,

Watch-tower or summer-house, where oft, at eve,

He meditates to go, with book in hand,

And read in solitude; or weather-cock,

To tell which way the wind doth blow; or fort,

Commanding every station in the vale

Where enemy might encamp, and from whose height

A gaudy flag might flutter, when he hears

With a true British pride of Frenchmen slain,

Ten thousand in one battle, lying grim

By the brave English, their dead conquerors!

Such was the spirit of the words I used

On witnessing such sacrilege. We turned

Homewards in silence, even as from the grave

Of one in early youth untimely slain,

And all that to my pensive friend I said

Upon our walk, were some few words of grief,

That thoughtlessness and folly, in one day,

Could render vain the mystic processes

Of Nature, working for a thousand years

The work of love and beauty; so that Heaven

Might shed its gracious dews upon the earth,

Its sunshine and its rain, till living flowers

Rose up in myriads to attest its power,

But, in the midst of this glad jubilee,

A blinded mortal come, and with a nod,

Thus rendering ignorance worse than wickedness,

Bid his base servants “tear from Nature's book

A blissful leaf with worst impiety.”

If thou, whose heart has listen'd to my song,

From Nature hold'st some fair inheritance

Like that whose mournful ruins I deplore,

Remember that thy birth-right doth impose

High duties on thee, that must be perform'd,

Else thou canst not be happy. Thou must watch

With holy zeal o'er Nature while she sleeps,

That nought may break her rest; her waking smiles

Thou must preserve and worship; and the gloom

That sometimes lies like night upon her face,

Creating awful thoughts, that gloom must hush

The beatings of thy heart, as if it lay

Like the dread shadow of eternity.

Beauteous thy home upon this beauteous earth,

And God hath given it to thee: therefore, learn

The laws by which the Eternal doth sublime

And sanctify his works, that thou mayest see

The hidden glory veiled from vulgar eyes,

And by the homage of enlighten'd love,

Repay the power that blest thee. Thou should'st stand

Oft-times amid thy dwelling-place, with awe

Stronger than love, even like a pious man

Who in some great cathedral, while the chaunt

Of hymns is in his soul, no more beholds

The pillars rise august and beautiful,

Nor the dim grandeur of the roof that hangs

Far, far above his head, but only sees

The opening heaven-gates, and the white-robed bands

Of spirits prostrate in adoring praise.

So shalt thou to thy death-hour find a friend,

A gracious friend in Nature, and thy name,

As the rapt traveller through thy fair domains

Oft-lingering journeys, shall with gentle voice

Be breathed amid the solitude, and link'd

With those enlighten'd spirits that promote

The happiness of others by their own,

The consummation of all earthly joy.