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Thomas Noon Talfourd (Томас Талфорд) Lines Written at the Needles Hotel, Alum Bay, Isle of Wight HOW simple in their grandeur are the forms That constitute this picture! Nature grants Scarce more than sternest cynic might desire,— Earth, sea, and sky, and hardly lends to each Variety of color; yet the soul Asks nothing fairer than the scene it grasps And makes its own forever! From the gate Of this home-featured Inn, which nestling cleaves To its own shelf among the downs, begirt With trees which lift no branches to defy The fury of the storm, but crouch in love Round the low snow-white walls whence they receive More shelter than they lend,—the heart-soothed guest Views a furze-dotted common, on each side Wreathed into waving eminences, clothed Above the furze with scanty green, in front Indented sharply to admit the sea, Spread thence in softest blue,—to which a gorge Sinking within the valley’s deepening green Invites by grassy path; the Eastern down Swelling with pride into the waters, shows Its sward-tipped precipice of radiant white, And claims the dazzling peak beneath its brow Part of its ancient bulk, which hints the strength Of those famed pinnacles that still withstand The conquering waves, as fortresses maintained By death-devoted troops, hold out awhile After the game of war is lost, to prove The virtue of the conquered.—Here are scarce Four colors for the painter; yet the charm Which permanence, mid worldly change, confers, Is felt, if ever, here; for he who loves To bid this scene refresh his inward eye When far away, may feel it keeping still The very aspect that it wore for him, Scarce changed by Time or Season: Autumn finds Scant boughs on which the lustre of decay May tremble fondly; Storms may rage in vain Above the clumps of sturdy furze, which stand The Forest of the Fairies; Twilight gray Finds in the landscape’s stern and simple forms Naught to conceal; the Moon, although she cast Upon the element she sways a track Like that which slanted through young Jacob’s sleep From heaven to earth, and fluttered at the soul Of Shadow’s mighty Painter, who thence drew Hints of a glory beyond shape, reveals The clear-cut framework of the sea and downs Shelving to gloom, as unperplexed with threads Of pallid light, as when the summer’s noon Bathes them in sunshine; and the giant cliffs Scarce veiling more their lines of flint that run Like veins of moveless blue through their bleak sides, In moonlight than in day, shall tower as now (Save when some moss’s slender stain shall break Into the samphire’s yellow in mid-air, To tempt some trembling life), until the eyes Which gaze in childhood on them shall be dim. Yet deem not that these sober forms are all That Nature here provides, although she frames These in one lasting picture for the heart. Within the foldings of the coast she breathes Hues of fantastic beauty. Thread the gorge, And, turning on the beach, while the low sea, Spread out in mirrored gentleness, allows A path along the curving edge, behold Such dazzling glory of prismatic tints Flung o’er the lofty crescent, as assures The orient gardens where Aladdin plucked Jewels for fruit no fable,—as if earth, Provoked to emulate the rainbow’s gauds In lasting mould, had snatched its floating hues And fixed them here; for never o’er the bay Flew a celestial arch of brighter grace Than the gay coast exhibits; here the cliff Flaunts in a brighter yellow than the stream Of Tiber wafted; then with softer shades Declines to pearly white, which blushes soon With pink as delicate as Autumn’s rose Wears on its scattering leaves; anon the shore Recedes into a fane-like dell, where stained With black, as if with sable tapestry hung, Light pinnacles rise taper; further yet Swells out in solemn mass a dusky veil Of purple crimson,—while bright streaks of red Start out in gleam-like tint, to tell of veins Which the slow-winning sea, in distant times, Shall bare to unborn gazers. If this scene Grow too fantastic for thy pensive thought, Climb either swelling down, and gaze with joy On the blue ocean, poured around the heights, As it embraced the wonders of that shield Which the vowed Friend of slain Patroclus wore, To grace his fated valor; nor disdain The quiet of the vale, though not endowed With such luxurious beauty as the coast Of Undercliff embosoms;—mid those lines Of scanty foliage, thoughtful lanes and paths, And cottage roofs, find shelter; the blue stream, That with its brief vein almost threads the isle, Flows blest with two gray towers, beneath whose shade The village life sleeps trustfully,—whose rites Touch the old weather-hardened fisher’s heart With childlike softness, and shall teach the boy Who kneels, a sturdy grandson, at his side, When his frail boat amidst the breakers pants, To cast the anchor of a Christian hope In an unrippled haven. Then rejoice, That in remotest point of this sweet isle, Which with fond mimicry combines each shape Of the Great Land that, by the ancient bond (Sea-parted once, and sea-united now), Binds her in unity,—a Spirit breathes On cliff and tower and valley, by the side Of cottage-fire, and the low grass-grown grave, Of home on English earth, and home in heaven! Thomas Noon Talfourd's other poems: Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием): Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1489 |
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