Poems (Cook)/The Waters

by Eliza Cook

THE WATERS.

Waters, bright Waters, how sweetly ye glide
Where the tapering bulrush stands up in your tide:
Where the white lilies peep and the green cresses creep,
And your wimple just lulleth the minnow to sleep.
Now lurking in silence, all lonely you take
Your meandering course through the close-tangled brake;
Where the adder may wink as he basks on the brink,
And the fox-cub and timid fawn fearlessly drink.
'Mid valley and greenwood right onward ye ramble,
Through the maze of the rushes and trail of the bramble;
Where the hard with his note, and the child with his boat,
Will linger beside ye to dream and to dote
For a moment the mill-wheel may waken your wrath,
And disturb the repose of your silvery path;
But your passionate spray falls like rainbows at play,
And as gently as ever ye steal on your way,
Humming a song as ye loiter along,
Looking up in the face of a shadowless day.
Waters, bright Waters, how sweetly ye glide
In the brooklet, with blossoms and birds by your side!

 

Now the precious Waters lie
In a fountain never dry,
 "Full fathoms five" below;
While above, the moss is springing,
And the old well-bucket swinging
  To and fro.
Brown and busy hands are plying,
Fresh and limpid streams are flying,
  Splashing round;
Merrily the bumper floweth,
And down again the bucket goeth
 With a hollow sound.
Pilgrim bands on desert sands,
 With panting breath and parching skin,
What would ye not give to see
 That crazy bucket tumble in?
How gladly palms all dry and burning
Would help that old rope in its turning;
How the sore and cracking lip
Would laugh to see it drain and drip,
And prize each dribbling, icy gem,
Beyond an eastern diadem!
Let the merchant's garners hold
Silken sheen and molten gold:
Richer treasures still shall dwell,
Gather'd in the poor man's well,
  Dark and cold.
Waters, gentle Waters,
 Ye are beautiful in Rain,
Coming oft and pattering soft
 On hedgerow, hill, and plain.
 Wandering from afar
 In a cloud-swung ear—
Ye dim the blaze of noon,
Shut out the midnight moon,
 And veil the evening star.
The seed is in the earth,
 Of promised bread;
But ye must aid its sacred birth,
Or nations, press'd by starving dearth,
 Will groan, unfed.
Man may plant the root
 In some fair spot;
But where will be the spring-time shoot,
And who shall pluck the autumn fruit,
 If ye come not?
How the red grapes flush,
 Till the rich streams burst!
But your crystal gush
 Must have trickled first.
The ancient forest lord
 Had ne'er look'd proudly up,
Had ye not glitter'd on the sward
 That held the acorn-cup.
Waters, gentle Waters,
 Beautiful in Showers,
Ye help to wreathe the arms that breathe
 A perfume through the bowers:
Ye feed the blade in lowland glade,
 And nurse the mountain flowers;
Ye bathe Creation's lovely face,
And keep it young in every grace;
Where'er ye fall ye cherish all
 Most beautiful in Beauty's train:
Then, welcome, gentle Waters,
 In the soft, sweet Rain!

Now ye come in incense Dew,
Distilling from the churchyard yew,
Hemlock, rosemary, and rue,
 Odours sweet in evening shade.
Now ye drop into the rose,
Silently to heal and close
 Wounds the rifling bee has made.
Now ye tremble on the spray,
 Just above the nightingale;
While he chants his roundelay,
 Ringing through the moonlit vale.
Now ye rest upon his wing,
Till his constant trillings fling
Your diamond lustres scattering
 Upon the glow-worm's meteor tail.
King Oberon is on his throne
 In the fairy hall of light;
And a merry set of sprites have met
 To dance away the night.
What do they quaff in that revelling hour?
'Tis the Waters caught from the spicy flower;
And reeling away go the elfin crew,
Drunk with the balmy nectar Dew.

 

Waters, broad Waters, how nobly ye swell
Round the huge, coral reef and the nautilus shell!
Glory is shed on your Ocean breast,
Heaving in fury or placid in rest.
Ye live far down in the sparry cave,
Where the sea-boy lies in his amber grave;
Ye braid the dank weed in his hair,
And deck him with jewels pure and rare;
Ye keep the record of where and when
The brave ship sunk with her braver men;
Ye have treasures and secrets, and guard them well—
For no stores will ye give, and no word will ye tell.
Ye spread your waves on the rifted strand;
Where the white foam spangles the golden sand;
And ebb away with the deep perfume
Of the citron branch and orange bloom.
Ye dash where the gloomy pine-tree grows,
Where the northern tempest beats and blows;
The thunder may burst and the wolf-dog bay,
But ye will be louder and bolder than they.
Ages ago ye wash'd the feet
Of cities that sent ye a galley fleet;
Cities, and galleys, and people, are gone,
But the great Waters still roll on:
Kingdoms and empires flourish no more,
But ye still dwell by the desolate shore—
As fresh in your brightness, as strong in your flood,
As when the Immortal One "saw ye were good."

 

Waters, ye are fair
 In the winding River,
Running here, and twining there,
While the waking, twilight air,
Stirs the spreading sails ye bear,
 To a flapping shiver.
"Outward bound," the stripling one
Sighs to see the setting sun;
 And shadows lengthen on his heart,
As the rays that meet his gaze,
 One by one depart.
"Outward bound" for many a year,—
 A dream comes o'er his brain;
He looks into the lucid wave,
Where he was wont to plunge and lave
 In waters cool and clear;
And wonders if the chance of time
Will bring him to his native clime
 And native stream again.
He leans against the vessel's side,
 And the big burning tear
He cannot cheek, but fain would hide,
Has mingled with the River's tide.
Waters, ye are beautiful,
 Take what form ye will;
Leaping in the yeasty billow,
Toying with the pensive willow,
Bearing the mast before the blast,
 Or straws upon the rill!
Waters, ye are beautiful,
 Howsoe'er ye come,
In sheets that pour with falling roar—
Or moisture on the purple plum.
Ye are free as aught can be,
Singing strains of liberty
In bubbling Spring and booming Sea!
Waters, living Waters,
 Strew your pearls upon the sod,
And man needs no other beads
To count in memory of God.