On A Landscape By 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,[1] 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.     Arial 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,[2]     Shadowing his wildest landscapes! tna'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 tna's pines,     The vine-hung grotts, and branching planes, that shade     The silver Arethusa's stealing wave.