The Retrospect: Cwm Elan, 1812

A scene, which 'wildered fancy viewed

In the soul's coldest solitude,

With that same scene when peaceful love

Flings rapture's colour o'er the grove,

When mountain, meadow, wood and stream

With unalloying glory gleam,

And to the spirit's ear and eye

Are unison and harmony.

The moonlight was my dearer day;

Then would I wander far away,

And, lingering on the wild brook's shore

To hear its unremitting roar,

Would lose in the ideal flow

All sense of overwhelming woe;

Or at the noiseless noon of night

Would climb some heathy mountain's height,

And listen to the mystic sound

That stole in fitful gasps around.

I joyed to see the streaks of day

Above the purple peaks decay,

And watch the latest line of light

Just mingling with the shades of night;

For day with me was time of woe

When even tears refused to flow;

Then would I stretch my languid frame

Beneath the wild woods' gloomiest shade,

And try to quench the ceaseless flame

That on my withered vitals preyed;

Would close mine eyes and dream I were

On some remote and friendless plain,

And long to leave existence there,

If with it I might leave the pain

That with a finger cold and lean

Wrote madness on my withering mien.

It was not unrequited love

That bade my 'wildered spirit rove;

'Twas not the pride disdaining life,

That with this mortal world at strife

Would yield to the soul's inward sense,

Then groan in human impotence,

And weep because it is not given

To taste on Earth the peace of Heaven.

'Twas not that in the narrow sphere

Where Nature fixed my wayward fate

There was no friend or kindred dear

Formed to become that spirit's mate,

Which, searching on tired pinion, found

Barren and cold repulse around;

Oh, no! yet each one sorrow gave

New graces to the narrow grave.

For broken vows had early quelled

The stainless spirit's vestal flame;

Yes! whilst the faithful bosom swelled,

Then the envenomed arrow came,

And Apathy's unaltering eye

Beamed coldness on the misery;

And early I had learned to scorn

The chains of clay that bound a soul

Panting to seize the wings of morn,

And where its vital fires were born

To soar, and spur the cold control

Which the vile slaves of earthly night

Would twine around its struggling flight.

Oh, many were the friends whom fame

Had linked with the unmeaning name,

Whose magic marked among mankind

The casket of my unknown mind,

Which hidden from the vulgar glare

Imbibed no fleeting radiance there.

My darksome spirit sought--it found

A friendless solitude around.

For who that might undaunted stand,

The saviour of a sinking land,

Would crawl, its ruthless tyrant's slave,

And fatten upon Freedom's grave,

Though doomed with her to perish, where

The captive clasps abhorred despair.

They could not share the bosom's feeling,

Which, passion's every throb revealing,

Dared force on the world's notice cold

Thoughts of unprofitable mould,

Who bask in Custom's fickle ray,

Fit sunshine of such wintry day!

They could not in a twilight walk

Weave an impassioned web of talk,

Till mysteries the spirits press

In wild yet tender awfulness,

Then feel within our narrow sphere

How little yet how great we are!

But they might shine in courtly glare,

Attract the rabble's cheapest stare,

And might command where'er they move

A thing that bears the name of love;

They might be learned, witty, gay,

Foremost in fashion's gilt array,

On Fame's emblazoned pages shine,

Be princes' friends, but never mine!

Ye jagged peaks that frown sublime,

Mocking the blunted scythe of Time,

Whence I would watch its lustre pale

Steal from the moon o'er yonder vale

Thou rock, whose bosom black and vast,

Bared to the stream's unceasing flow,

Ever its giant shade doth cast

On the tumultuous surge below:

Woods, to whose depths retires to die

The wounded Echo's melody,

And whither this lone spirit bent

The footstep of a wild intent:

Meadows! whose green and spangled breast

These fevered limbs have often pressed,

Until the watchful fiend Despair

Slept in the soothing coolness there!

Have not your varied beauties seen

The sunken eye, the withering mien,

Sad traces of the unuttered pain

That froze my heart and burned my brain.

How changed since Nature's summer form

Had last the power my grief to charm,

Since last ye soothed my spirit's sadness,

Strange chaos of a mingled madness!

Changed!--not the loathsome worm that fed

In the dark mansions of the dead,

Now soaring through the fields of air,

And gathering purest nectar there,

A butterfly, whose million hues

The dazzled eye of wonder views,

Long lingering on a work so strange,

Has undergone so bright a change.

How do I feel my happiness?

I cannot tell, but they may guess

Whose every gloomy feeling gone,

Friendship and passion feel alone;

Who see mortality's dull clouds

Before affection's murmur fly,

Whilst the mild glances of her eye

Pierce the thin veil of flesh that shrouds

The spirit's inmost sanctuary.

O thou! whose virtues latest known,

First in this heart yet claim'st a throne;

Whose downy sceptre still shall share

The gentle sway with virtue there;

Thou fair in form, and pure in mind,

Whose ardent friendship rivets fast

The flowery band our fates that bind,

Which incorruptible shall last

When duty's hard and cold control

Has thawed around the burning soul,--

The gloomiest retrospects that bind

With crowns of thorn the bleeding mind,

The prospects of most doubtful hue

That rise on Fancy's shuddering view,--

Are gilt by the reviving ray

Which thou hast flung upon my day.