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.