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Coventry Patmore - The River
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It is a venerable place,
              An old ancestral ground,
              So broad, the rainbow wholly stands
              Within its lordly bound;
              And here the river waits and winds
              By many a wooded mound.
              Upon a rise, where single oaks
              And clumps of beeches tall
              Drop pleasantly their shade beneath,
               Half-hid amidst them all,
               Stands in its quiet dignity
               An ancient manor-hall.
               About its many gable-ends
               The swallows wheel their flight;
               The huge fantastic weather-vanes
               Look happy in the light;
               The warm front through the foliage gleams,
               A comfortable sight.     
               The ivied turrets seem to love
               The low, protected leas;
               And, though this manor-hall hath seen
               The snow of centuries,
               How freshly still it stands amid
               Its wealth of swelling trees!
               The leafy summer-time is young;
               The yearling lambs are strong;
               The sunlight glances merrily;
               The trees are full of song;
               The valley-loving river flows
               Contentedly along.
               Look where the merry weather-vanes
               Veer upon yonder tower:
               There, amid starry jessamine
               And clasping passion-flower,
               The sweetest Maid of all the land
               Is weeping in her bower.
               Alas, the lowly Youth she loves
               Loves her, but fears to sue:
               He came this morning hurriedly;
               Then forth her blushes flew!
               But he talk`d of common things, and so
               Her eyes are fill`d with dew.
               Time passes on; the clouds are come;
               The river, late so bright,
               Rolls foul and black, and gloomily
               Makes known across the night,
               In far-heard plash and weary drench,
               The passage of its might.     
               The noble Bridegroom counts the hours;
               The guests are coming fast;
               (The vanes are creaking drearily
               Within the dying blast!)
               The bashful Bride is at his side;
               And night is here at last.
               The guests are gay; the minstrels play;
               `Tis liker noon than night;
               From side to side, they toast the Bride,
               Who blushes ruby light:
               For one and all within that hall,
               It is a cheerful sight.
               But unto one, who stands alone,
               Among the mists without,
               Watching the windows, bright with shapes
               Of king and saint devout,
               Strangely across the muffled air
               Pierces the laughter-shout.
               No sound or sight this solemn night
               But moves the soul to fear:
               The faded saints stare through the gloom,
               Askant, and wan, and blear;
               And wither`d cheeks of watchful kings
               Start from their purple gear.
               The burthen of the wedding-song
               Comes to him like a wail;
               The stream, athwart the cedar-grove,
               Is shining ghastly pale:
               His cloudy brow clears suddenly!
               Dark soul, what does thee ail?     
               He turns him from the lighted hall;
               The pale stream curls and heaves
               And moans beyond the gloomy wood,
               Through which he breaks and cleaves;
               And now his footfall dies away
               Upon the wither`d leaves.
               The restless moon, among the clouds,
               Is loitering slowly by;
               Now in a circle like the ring
               About a weeping eye;
               Now left quite bare and bright; and now
               A pallor in the sky;
               And now she`s looking through the mist,
               Cold, lustreless, and wan,
               And wildly, past her dreary form,
               The watery clouds rush on,
               A moment white beneath her light,
               And then, like spirits, gone.
               Silent and fast they hurry past,
               Their swiftness striketh dread,
               For earth is hush`d, and no breath sweeps
                The spider`s rainy thread,
                And everything, but those pale clouds,
                Is dark, and still, and dead.
                The lonely stars are here and there,
                But weak and wasting all;
                The winds are dead, the cedars spread
                Their branches like a pall;
                The guests, by laughing twos and threes,
                Have left the bridal hall.     
                Beneath the mossy, ivied bridge,
                The river slippeth past:
                The current deep is still as sleep,
                And yet so very fast!
                There`s something in its quietness
                That makes the soul aghast.
                No wind is in the willow-tree
                That droops above the bank;
                The water passes quietly
                Beneath the sedges dank;
                Yet the willow trembles in the stream,
                And the dry reeds talk and clank.
                The weak stars swoon; the jagged moon
                Is lost in the cloudy air.
                No thought of light! save where the wave
                Sports with a fitful glare.
                The dumb and dreadful world is full
                Of darkness and night-mare.
                The hall-clocks clang; the watch-dog barks.
                What are his dreams about?
                Marsh lights leap, and tho` fast asleep
                The owlets shriek and shout;
                The stars, thro` chasms in utter black,
                Race like a drunken rout.
                ‘Wake, wake, oh wake!’ the Bridegroom now
                Calls to his sleeping Bride:
                ‘Alas, I saw thee, pale and dead,
                Roll down a frightful tide!’
                He takes her hand: ‘How chill thou art!
                What is it, sweet my Bride?’
     
                The Bride bethinks her now of him
                Who last night was no guest.
                ‘Sweet Heaven! and for me? I dream!
                Be calm, thou throbbing breast.’
                She says, in thought, a solemn prayer
                And sinks again to rest.
                Along, along, swiftly and strong
                The river slippeth past;
                The current deep is still as sleep,
                And yet so very fast!
                There`s something in its quietness
                That makes the soul aghast.
                The morn has risen: wildly by
                The water glides to-day;
                Outspread upon its eddying face,
                Long weeds and rushes play;
                And on the bank the fungus rots,
                And the grass is foul`d with clay.
                Time passes on: the park is bare;
                The year is scant and lean;
                The river`s banks are desolate;
                The air is chill and keen;
                But, now and then, a sunny day
                Comes with a thought of green.
                Amid blear February`s flaw,
                Tremulous snowdrops peep;
                The crocus, in the shrewd March morn,
                Starts from its wintry sleep;
                The daisies sun themselves in hosts,
                Among the pasturing sheep.     
                The waters, in their old content,
                Between fresh margins run;
                The pike, as trackless as a sound,
                Shoots thro` the current dun;
                And languid new-born chestnut-leaves
                Expand beneath the sun.
                The summer`s prime is come again;
                The lilies bloom anew;
                The current keeps the doubtful past
                Deep in its bosom blue,
                And babbles low thro` quiet fields
                Gray with the falling dew.
                The sheep-bell tolls the curfew-time;
                The gnats, a busy rout,
                Fleck the warm air; the distant owl
                Shouteth a sleepy shout;
                The voiceless bat, more felt than seen,
                Is flitting round about;
                The poplar`s leaflet scarcely stirs;
                The river seems to think;
                Across the dusk, the lily broad
                Looks coolly from the brink;
                And knee-deep in the freshet`s fall,
                The meek-eyed cattle drink.
                The chafers boom; the white moths rise
                Like spirits from the ground;
                The gray-flies sing their weary tune,
                A distant, dream-like sound;
                And far, far off, in the slumberous eve,
                Bayeth a restless hound.     
                At this sweet time, the Lady walks
                Beside the gentle stream;
                She marks the waters curl along,
                Beneath the sunset gleam,
                And in her soul a sorrow moves,
                Like memory of a dream.
                She passes on. How still the earth,
                And all the air above!
                Here, where of late the scritch-owl shriek`d,
                Whispers the happy dove;
                And the river, through the ivied bridge,
                Flows calm as household love.
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