On A Landscape Bt Rubens

Nay, let us gaze, ev'n till the sense is full,
  Upon the rich creation, shadowed so
  That not great Nature, in her loftiest pomp
  Of living beauty, ever on the sight
  Rose more magnificent; nor aught so fair
  Hath Fancy, in her wildest, brightest mood,
  Imaged of things most lovely, when the sounds
  Of this cold cloudy world at distance sink,
  And all alone the warm idea lives
  Of what is great, or beautiful, or good, 
  In Nature's general plan.
  So the vast scope,
  O Rubens! of thy mighty mind, and such
  The fervour of thy pencil, pouring wide
  The still illumination, that the mind
  Pauses, absorbed, and scarcely thinks what powers
  Of mortal art the sweet enchantment wrought.
  She sees the painter, with no human touch,
  Create, embellish, animate at will,
  The mimic scenes, from Nature's ampler range 
  Caught as by inspiration; while the clouds,
  High wandering, and the fairest form of things,
  Seem at his bidding to emerge, and burn
  With radiance and with life!
  Let us, subdued,
  Now to the magic of the moment lose
  The thoughts of life, and mingle every sense
  Ev'n in the scenes before us!
  The fresh morn
  Of summer shines; the white clouds of the east 
  Are crisped; beneath, the bright blue champaign steams;
  The banks, the meadows, and the flowers, send up
  An incensed exhalation, like the meek
  And holy praise of Him whose soul's deep joy
  The lone woods witness. Thou, whose heart is sick
  Of vanities; who, in the throng of men,
  Dost feel no lenient fellowship; whose eye
  Turns, with a languid carelessness, around
  Upon the toiling crowd, still murmuring on,
  Restless;--oh, think, in summer scenes like these, 
  How sweet the sense of quiet gladness is,
  That, like the silent breath of morning, steals
  From lowly nooks, and feels itself expand
  Amid the works of Nature, to the Power
  That made them: to the awful thought of HIM
  Who, when the morning stars shouted for joy,
  Bade the great sun from tenfold darkness burst,
  The green earth roll in light, and solitude
  First hear the voice of man, whilst hills and woods
  Stood eminent, in orient hues arrayed, 
  His dwelling; and all living Nature smiled,
  As in this pictured semblance, beaming full
  Before us!
  Mark again the various view:
  Some city's far-off spires and domes appear,
  Breaking the long horizon, where the morn
  Sits blue and soft: what glowing imagery
  Is spread beneath!--Towns, villages, light smoke,
  And scarce-seen windmill-sails, and devious woods,
  Chequering 'mid sunshine the grass-level land, 
  That stretches from the sight.
  Now nearer trace
  The forms of trees distinct--the broad brown oak;
  The poplars, that, with silvery trunks, incline,
  Shading the lonely castle; flakes of light
  Are flung behind the massy groups, that, now
  Enlarging and enlarging still, unfold
  Their separate beauties. But awhile delay;
  Pass the foot-bridge, and listen (for we hear,
  Or think we hear her), listen to the song 
  Of yonder milkmaid, as she brims her pail;
  Whilst, in the yellow pasture, pensive near,
  The red cows ruminate.
  Break off, break off, for lo! where, all alarmed,
  The small birds, from the late resounding perch,
  Fly various, hushed their early song; and mark,
  Beneath the darkness of the bramble-bank
  That overhangs the half-seen brook, where nod
  The flowing rushes, dew-besprent, with breast
  Ruddy, and emerald wing, the kingfisher 
  Steals through the dripping sedge away. What shape
  Of terrors scares the woodland habitants,
  Marring the music of the dawn? Look round;
  See, where he creeps, beneath the willowy stump,
  Cowering and low, step silent after step,
  The booted fowler: keen his look, and fixed
  Upon the adverse bank, while, with firm hand,
  He grasps the deadly tube; his dog, with ears
  Hung back, and still and steady eye of fire,
  Points to the prey; the boor, intent, moves on 
  Panting, and creeping close beneath the leaves,
  And fears lest ev'n the rustling reeds betray
  His footfall; nearer yet, and yet more near,
  He stalks. Who now shall save the heedless group,
  The speckled partridges, that in the sun,
  On yonder hillock green, across the stream,
  Bask unalarmed beneath the hawthorn bush,
  Whose aged boughs the crawling blackberry
  Entwines!
  And thus, upon the sweetest scenes 
  Of human loveliness, and social peace
  Domestic, when the full fond heart reclines
  Upon its hopes, and almost mingles tears
  Of joy, to think that in this hollow world
  Such bliss should be its portion; then (alas,
  The bitter change!), then, with his unheard step,
  In darkness shrouded, yet approaching fast,
  Death, from amidst the sunny flowers, lifts up
  His giant dread anatomy, and smites,
  Smites the fair prospect once, whilst every bloom 
  Hangs shrivelled, and a sound of mourning fills
  The lone and blasted valley: but no sound
  Is here of sorrow or of death, though she,
  The country Kate, with shining morning cheek
  (Who, in the tumbril, with her market-gear,
  Sits seated high), seems to expect the flash
  Exploding, that shall lay the innocent
  And feathered tenants of the landscape low.
  Not so the clown, who, heedless whether life
  Or death betide, across the plashy ford 
  Drives slow; the beasts plod on, foot following foot,
  Aged and grave, with half-erected ears,
  As now his whip above their matted manes
  Hangs tremulous, while the dark and shallow stream
  Flashes beneath their fetlock: he, astride
  On harness saddle, not a sidelong look
  Deigns at the breathing landscape, or the maid
  Smiling behind; the cold and lifeless calf
  Her sole companion: and so mated oft
  Is some sweet maid, whose thrilling heart was formed 
  For dearer fellowship. But lift the eye,
  And hail the abode of rural ease. The man
  Walks forth, from yonder antique hall, that looks
  The mistress of the scene; its turrets gleam
  Amid the trees, and cheerful smoke is seen,
  As if no spectred shape (though most retired
  The spot) there ever wandered, stoled in white,
  Along the midnight chambers; but quaint Mab
  Her tiny revels led, till the rare dawn
  Peeped out, and chanticleer his shrill alarm 
  Beneath the window rang, then, with a wink,
  The shadowy rout have vanished!
  As the morn
  Jocund ascends, how lovely is the view
  To him who owns the fair domain! The friend
  Of his still hours is near, to whom he vowed
  His truth; her eyes reflect his bliss; his heart
  Beats high with joy; his little children play,
  Pleased, in his pathway; one the scattered flowers
  Straggling collects, the other spreads its arms, 
  In speechless blandishment, upon the neck
  Of its caressing nurse.
  Still let us gaze,
  And image every form of heartfelt joy
  Which scenes like these bestow, that charm the sight,
  Yet soothe the spirit. All is quiet here,
  Yet cheerful as the green sea, when it shines
  In some still bay, shines in its loneliness
  Beneath the breeze, that moves, and hardly moves,
  The placid surface. 
  On the balustrade
  Of the old bridge, that o'er the moat is thrown,
  The fisher with his angle leans intent,
  And turns, from the bright pomp of spreading plains,
  To watch the nimble fry, that glancing oft
  Beneath the gray arch shoot! Oh, happiest he
  Who steals through life, untroubled as unseen!
  The distant city, with its crowded spires,
  That dimly shines upon his view, awakes
  No thought but that of pleasure more composed, 
  As the winds whisper him to sounder sleep.
  He leans upon the faithful arm of her
  For whom his youthful heart beat, fondly beat,
  When life was new: time steals away, yet health
  And exercise are his; and in these shades,
  Though sometimes he has mourned a proud world's wrong,
  He feels an independence that all cares
  Breasts with a carol of content; he hears
  The green leaves of his old paternal trees
  Make music, soothing as they stir: the elm, 
  And poplar with its silvery trunk, that shades
  The green sward of the bank before his porch,
  Are to him as companions;--whilst he turns
  With more endearment to the living smile
  Of those his infants, who, when he is dead,
  Shall hear the music of the self-same trees
  Waving, till years roll on, and their gray hairs
  Go to the dust in peace.
  Away, sad thought!
  Lo! where the morning light, through the dark wood, 
  Upon the window-pane is flung like fire,
  Hail, Life and Hope; and thou, great work of art,
  That 'mid this populous and busy swarm
  Of men dost smile serene, as with the hues
  Of fairest, grandest Nature; may'st thou speak
  Not vainly of the endearments and best joys
  That Nature yields. The manliest heart that swells
  With honest English feelings,--while the eye,
  Saddened, but not cast down, beholds far off
  The darkness of the onward rolling storm,-- 
  Charmed for a moment by this mantling view,
  Its anxious tumults shall suspend: and such,
  The pensive patriot shall exclaim, thy scenes,
  My own beloved country, such the abode
  Of rural peace! and while the soul has warmth,
  And voice has energy, the brave arm strength,
  England, thou shalt not fall! The day shall come,
  Yes, and now is, that thou shalt lift thyself;
  And woe to him who sets upon thy shores
  His hostile foot! Proud victor though he be, 
  His bloody march shall never soil a flower
  That hangs its sweet head, in the morning dew,
  On thy green village banks! His mustered hosts
  Shall be rolled back in thousands, and the surge
  Bury them! Then, when peace illumes once more,
  My country, thy green nooks and inmost vales,
  It will be sweet amidst the forest glens
  To stray, and think upon the distant storm
  That howled, but injured not!
  At thoughts like these, 
  What heart, what English heart, but shall beat high!
  Meantime, its keen flash passed, thine eye intent,
  Beaumont, shall trace the master-strokes of art,
  And view the assemblage of the finished piece,
  As with his skill who formed it: ruder views,
  Savage, with solitary pines, hung high
  Amid the broken crags (where scowling wait
  The fierce banditti), stern Salvator's hand
  Shall aptly shade: o'er Poussin's clustering domes,
  With ampler umbrage, the black woods shall hang, 
  Beneath whose waving gloom the sudden flash
  Of broken light upon the brawling stream
  Is flung below.
  Aerial Claude shall paint
  The gray fane peering o'er the summer woods,
  The azure lake below, or distant seas,
  And sails, in the pellucid atmosphere,
  Soft gleaming to the morn. Dark on the rock,
  Where the red lightnings burst, shall Wilson stand,
  Like mighty Shakspeare, whom the imps of fire 
  Await. Nor oh, sweet Gainsborough! shall thee
  The Muse forget, whose simple landscape smiles
  Attractive, whether we delight to view
  The cottage chimney through the high wood peep;
  Or beggar beauty stretch her little hand,
  With look most innocent; or homeward kine
  Wind through the hollow road at eventide,
  Or browse the straggling branches.
  Scenes like these
  Shall charm all hearts, while truth and beauty live, 
  And Nature's pictured loveliness shall own
  Each master's varied touch; but chiefly thou,
  Great Rubens! shalt the willing senses lead,
  Enamoured of the varied imagery,
  That fills the vivid canvas, swelling still
  On the enraptured eye of taste, and still
  New charms unfolding; though minute, yet grand,
  Simple, yet most luxuriant; every light
  And every shade, greatly opposed, and all
  Subserving to one magical effect 
  Of truth and harmony.
  So glows the scene;
  And to the pensive thought refined displays
  The richest rural poem. Oh, may views
  So pictured animate thy classic mind,
  Beaumont, to wander 'mid Sicilian scenes,
  And catch the beauties of the pastoral bard,
  Shadowing his wildest landscapes! AEtna's fires,
  Bebrycian rocks, Anapus' holy stream,
  And woods of ancient Pan; the broken crag 
  And the old fisher here; the purple vines
  There bending; and the smiling boy set down
  To guard, who, innocent and happy, weaves,
  Intent, his rushy basket, to ensnare
  The chirping grasshoppers, nor sees the while
  The lean fox meditate her morning meal,
  Eyeing his scrip askance; whilst further on
  Another treads the purple grapes--he sits,
  Nor aught regards, but the green rush he weaves.
  O Beaumont! let this pomp of light and shade 
  Wake thee, to paint the woods that the sweet Muse
  Has consecrated: then the summer scenes
  Of Phasidamus, clad in richer light,
  Shall glow, the glancing poplars, and clear fount;
  While distant times admire (as now we trace
  This summer-mantling view) hoar AEtna's pines,
  The vine-hung grotts, and branching planes, that shade
  The silver Arethusa's stealing wave.