Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 350, January 3, 1829», страница 4

THE SELECTOR

AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS DAYS DEPARTED; OR, BANWELL HILL:

A Lay of the Severn Sea, by the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles

This is a delightful volume—full of nature and truth—and in every respect worthy of "one of the most elegant, pathetic, and original living poets of England." Moreover, it is just such a book as we expected from the worthy vicar of Bremhill; dedicated to the Bishop of Bath and Wells; and dated from Bremhill Parsonage, of which interesting abode we inserted an unique description in our last volume.

As our principal object is to give a few of the poetical pictures, we shall be very brief with the prose, and merely quote an outline of the poem. Mr. Bowles, it appears, is a native of the district in which he resides, and this circumstance introduces some beautiful retrospective feelings:—

 
But awhile,
Here let me stand, and gaze upon the scene,
Array'd in living light around, and mark
The morning sunshine,—on that very shore
Where once a child I wander'd,—Oh! return
(I sigh,) "return a moment, days of youth,
Of childhood,—oh, return!" How vain the thought,
Vain as unmanly! yet the pensive Muse,
Unblam'd, may dally with imaginings;
For this wide view is like the scene of life,
Once travers'd o'er with carelessness and glee,
And we look back upon the vale of years,
And hear remembered voices, and behold,
In blended colours, images and shades
Long pass'd, now rising, as at Memory's call,
Again in softer light.
 

The poem then proceeds with a description of an antediluvian cave at Banwell, and a brief sketch of events since the deposit; but, as Mr. Bowles observes, poetry and geological inquiry do not very amicably travel together; we must, therefore, soon get out of the cave:—

 
But issuing from the Cave—look round—behold
How proudly the majestic Severn rides
On the sea,—how gloriously in light
It rides! Along this solitary ridge,
Where smiles, but rare, the blue Campanula,
Among the thistles, and grey stones, that peep
Through the thin herbage—to the highest point
Of elevation, o'er the vale below,
Slow let us climb. First, look upon that flow'r
The lowly heath-bell, smiling at our feet.
How beautiful it smiles alone! The Pow'r,
that bade the great sea roar—that spread the Heav'ns—
That call'd the sun from darkness—deck'd that flow'r,
And bade it grace this bleak and barren hill.
Imagination, in her playful mood,
Might liken it to a poor village maid,
Lowly, but smiling in her lowliness,
And dress'd so neatly, as if ev'ry day
Were Sunday. And some melancholy Bard
Might, idly musing, thus discourse to it:—
"Daughter of Summer, who dost linger here.
Decking the thistly turf, and arid hill,
Unseen—let the majestic Dahlia
Glitter, an Empress, in her blazonry
Of beauty; let the stately Lily shine,
As snow-white as the breast of the proud Swan,
Sailing upon the blue lake silently,
That lifts her tall neck higher, as she views
The shadow in the stream! Such ladies bright
May reign unrivall'd, in their proud parterres!
Thou would'st not live with them; but if a voice,
Fancy, in shaping mood, might give to thee,
To the forsaken Primrose, thou would'st say,
'Come, live with me, and we two will rejoice:—
Nor want I company; for when the sea
Shines in the silent moonlight, elves and fays,
Gentle and delicate as Ariel,
That do their spiritings on these wild bolts—
Circle me in their dance, and sing such songs
As human ear ne'er heard!'"—But cease the strain,
Lest Wisdom, and severer Truth, should chide.
 

Next is a sketch of Steep Holms, introducing the following exquisite episode:

 
Dreary; but on its steep
There is one native flower—the Piony.
She sits companionless, but yet not sad:
She has no sister of the summer-field,
That may rejoice with her when spring returns.
None, that in sympathy, may bend its head,
When the bleak winds blow hollow o'er the rock,
In autumn's gloom!—So Virtue, a fair flow'r,
Blooms on the rock of care, and though unseen,
It smiles in cold seclusion, and remote
From the world's flaunting fellowship, it wears
Like hermit Piety, that smile of peace,
In sickness, or in health, in joy or tears,
In summer-days, or cold adversity;
And still it feels Heav'n's breath, reviving, steal
On its lone breast—feels the warm blessedness
Of Heaven's own light about it, though its leaves
Are wet with ev'ning tears!
So smiles this flow'r:
And if, perchance, my lay has dwelt too long.
Upon one flower which blooms in privacy,
I may a pardon find from human hearts,
For such was my poor Mother!⁴
 

We pass over some marine sketches, which are worthy of the Vernet of poets, a touching description of the sinking of a packet-boat, and the first sound and sight of the sea—the author's childhood at Uphill Parsonage—his reminiscences of the clock of Wells Cathedral—and some real villatic sketches—a portrait of a Workhouse Girl—some caustic remarks on prosing and prig parsons, commentators, and puritanical excrescences of sects—to some unaffected lines on the village school children of Castle-Combe, and their annual festival. This is so charming a picture of rural joy, that we must copy it:—

 
If we would see the fruits of charity.
Look at that village group, and paint the scene.
Surrounded by a clear and silent stream,
Where the swift trout shoots from the sudden ray,
A rural mansion, on the level lawn,
Uplifts its ancient gables, whose slant shade
Is drawn, as with a line, from roof to porch,
Whilst all the rest is sunshine. O'er the trees
In front, the village-church, with pinnacles,
And light grey tow'r, appears, while to the right
An amphitheatre of oaks extends
Its sweep, till, more abrupt, a wooded knoll,
Where once a castle frown'd, closes the scene.
And see, an infant troop, with flags and drum,
Are marching o'er that bridge, beneath the woods,
On—to the table spread upon the lawn,
Raising their little hands when grace is said;
Whilst she, who taught them to lift up their hearts
In prayer, and to "remember, in their youth,"
God, "their Creator,"—mistress of the scene,
(Whom I remember once, as young,) looks on,
Blessing them in the silence of her heart.
 
 
And, children, now rejoice,—
Now—for the holidays of life are few;
Nor let the rustic minstrel tune, in vain,
The crack'd church-viol, resonant to-day,
Of mirth, though humble! Let the fiddle scrape
Its merriment, and let the joyous group
Dance, in a round, for soon the ills of life
Will come! Enough, if one day in the year,
If one brief day, of this brief life, be given
To mirth as innocent as yours!
 

Then we have an "aged widow" reading "GOD'S own Word" at her cottage-door, with her daughter kneeling beside her—a sketch from those halcyon days, when, in the beautiful allegory of Scripture, "every man sat under his own fig-tree." This is followed by the "Elysian Tempe of Stourhead," the seat of Sir Richard Colt Hoare, to whose talents and benevolence Mr. Bowles pays a merited tribute. Longleat, the residence of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, succeeds; and Marston, the abode of the Rev. Mr. Skurray, a friend of the author from his "youthful days," introduces the following beautiful descriptive snatch:—

 
And witness thou,
Marston, the seat of my kind, honour'd friend—
My kind and honour'd friend, from youthful days.
Then wand'ring on the banks of Rhine, we saw
Cities and spires, beneath the mountains blue,
Gleaming; or vineyards creep from rock to rock;
Or unknown castles hang, as if in clouds;
Or heard the roaring of the cataract.
Far off,⁵ beneath the dark defile or gloom
Of ancient forests—till behold, in light,
Foaming and flashing, with enormous sweep,
Through the rent rocks—where, o'er the mist of spray,
The rainbow, like a fairy in her bow'r,
Is sleeping while it roars—that volume vast,
White, and with thunder's deaf'ning roar, comes down.
 

Part III. opens with the following metaphorical gem:—

 
The show'r is past—the heath-bell, at our feet,
Looks up, as with a smile, though the cold dew
Hangs yet within its cup, like Pity's tear
Upon the eye-lids of a village-child!
 

This is succeeded by a poetic panorama of views from the Severn to Bristol, introducing a solitary ship at sea—and the "solitary sand:"—

 
No sound was heard,
Save of the sea-gull warping on the wind,
Or of the surge that broke along the shore,
Sad as the seas.
 

A picture of Bristol is succeeded by some scenes of great picturesque beauty—as Wrington, the birth-place of the immortal Locke; Blagdon, the rural rectory of

 
Langhorne, a pastor and a poet too;
 

and Barley-Wood, the seat of Mrs. Hannah More. Mr. Bowles also tells us that the music of "Auld Robin Gray" was composed by Mr. Leaver, rector of Wrington; and then adds a complimentary ballad to Miss Stephens on the above air—

 
Sung by a maiden of the South, whose look—
(Although her song be sweet)—whose look, whose life,
Is sweeter than her song.
 

The last Part (IV.) contains some exquisite Sonnets, and the poem concludes with a "Vision of the Deluge," and the ascent of the Dove of the ark—in which are many sublime touches of the mastery of poetry. There are nearly forty pages of Notes, for whose "lightness" and garrulity Mr. Bowles apologizes.

Altogether, we have been much gratified with the present work. It contains poetry after our own heart—the poetry of nature and of truth—abounding with tasteful and fervid imagery, but never drawing too freely on the stores of fancy for embellishment. We could detach many passages that have charmed and fascinated us in out reading; but one must suffice for an epigrammatic exit:—

 
—Hope's still light beyond the storms of Time.