Nature: Poem by John William Inchbold

STRATFORD-ON-AVON.


I.
I feel the precious balm of Nature's joy!
I rest as in a dream of quiet bliss!
Time's scroll unfolded lies: again a boy,
I view the flowing stream, and feel the kiss
Of the old breeze, and see the same fair sky,
And ask, 'Can all the world give joy like this?'
Whilst, stooping Wealth and stately Fame move by,
With faces worn and cankered, full of shame;
And as they pass, each breathes to each a sigh,
As if regret gnawed at their breasts, and blame
Confused their hearing, and made dull their sight;
But quickly passed these visions as they came,
And thought was gone. I saw the kingcups bright
Lift golden heads brimful of liquid light.


II.
Sweet Nature, Mother! who dost always give
Thy gifts, like princes, sumptuous and complete,
Exceeding far our utmost need; we live
For thee alone, and move unwearied feet
Where runs the winding river to and fro,
Fresh lilies gathering there, and still repeat
In ever-changing language thanks that flow
In all the sweet simplicity of love,
Which, uttered, seem with music's force to glow,
So that with joyous homeward ease we move
On stronger wing, and holier visions see,—
Singing our loftiest song, far far above
All trembling tune, with numbers pure and free
As winds and waves upon a widening sea.


III.
O thou of many moods! and still so loved,
That gazing children all are satisfied,
Whilst age and gracious wisdom are more moved,
As time grows grey. Oh! sweet at eventide
To rest with gentleness, and drink the dew
Of thy surpassing beauty, which, when tried,
As healing balm is ever sure, if rue
Have not made bitter all the secret thought,
Our birthright tainting when the years were few.
Thou spirit always near if meekly sought,
With beaming love within those beauteous eyes,
A goddess clothed in cloud with wonder wrought;
Thy falling fire consumes our sacrifice,
And swift as song may move, to thee we rise.


IV.
Ah, Nature mine! why cannot all partake
Of thy prolific store, to breathe with thee
The mountain air, and crowded streets forsake,
Where worn and weary ones can never see
Thy beauteous face and form, which shed around
Such blessings manifold, such ecstacy?
Do men need Lethe's stream? Thy waters' sound
Is blissful opiate, more enchanting far
To those who wander through sweet meadow ground
Of thine, where memory has no power to mar
The joyful sense of that inspiring flush
Which falls on us from sun and moon and star,
From stately elms and yellow-throated thrush,
From smile of thine, that bids most lips to hush.

V.
Oh, wondrous smile! that beams on us with light,
And adds to all its sweet intensity,
As others with ourselves may have the sight
Of such imperial beauty. Ah! to me
Sweet Nature, like to Love, is life's chief part,
Since bitterness is changed to joy by thee;
And they who love, revere with gentle heart
Thy smile, above bright fancies' fairest speech,
Though all a poet's wealthiest language start
With measured breath so pure a height to reach.
O, rare and beauteous smile! life's wonder thou!
A strengthening peace! a silence wise to teach!
A protestation deep! a sacred vow!
A vision, with the world around thy brow.


VI.
Peace to the gentle dust that resteth here!
Where Avon sings upon its silvery way,
And reverend pilgrims come from far and near,
Since Shakespeare breathed the never-dying lay,
And Time stood still whilst Fame and he partook
Of glory like the sun, with happy ray
To all who gaze within the open book
Inscribed to Nature, bountiful and sweet:—
Here would I simply sing by soothing brook,
Where thou and he alone wert wont to meet,
Happy to catch a smile that once was thine,
To feel the green grass bend beneath my feet,
Or help to decorate some beauteous shrine
With meadow flowers, these fingers may entwine.