Poems (Southey)/Volume 1/On a landscape of Gaspar Poussin
On a LANDSCAPE of
GASPAR POUSSIN.
Poussin! most pleasantly thy pictur'd scenesBeguile the lonely hour; I sit and gazeWith lingering eye, till charmed Fancy makesThe lovely landscape live, and the rapt soulFrom the foul haunts of herded humankindFlies far away with spirit speed, and tastesThe untainted air, that with the lively hueOf health and happiness illumes the cheekOf mountain Liberty. My willing soulAll eager follows on thy faery flights.Fancy! best friend; whose blessed witcheriesWith loveliest prospects cheat the travellerO'er the long wearying desart of the world.Nor dost thou, Fancy! with such magic mockMy heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew,Or Alquif, or Zarzafiel's sister sage, Whose vengeful anguish for so many a yearHeld in the jacinth sepulchre entrancedLisvart and Perion, pride of chivalry.Friend of my lonely hours! thou leadest meTo such calm joys as Nature wise and goodProffers in vain to all her wretched sons;Her wretched sons who pine with want amidilThe abundant earth, and blindly bow them downBefore the Moloch shrines of Wealth and Power,Authors of Evil. Oh it is most sweetTo medicine with thy wiles the wearied heart,Sick of reality. The little pileThat tops the summit of that craggy hillShall be my dwelling; craggy is the hillAnd steep, yet thro' yon hazels upward leadsThe easy path, along whose winding wayNow close embowered I hear the unseen streamDash down, anon behold its sparkling foamGleam thro' the thicket; and ascending onNow pause me to survey the goodly vale That opens on my vision. Half way upPleasant it were upon some broad smooth rockTo sit and sun me, and look down belowAnd watch the goatherd down that high-bank'd pathUrging his flock grotesque; and bidding nowHis lean rough dog from some near cliff to driveThe straggler; while his barkings loud and quickAmid their trembling bleat arising oft,Fainter and fainter from the hollow roadSend their faint echoes, till the waterfall,Hoarse bursting from the cavern'd cliff beneath,Their dying murmurs drown. A little yetOnward, and I have gain'd the upmost height.Fair spreads the vale below: I see the streamStream radiant on beneath the noontide sky.A passing cloud darkens the bordering steep,Where the town-spires behind the castle towersRise graceful; brown the mountain in its shade,Whose circling grandeur, part by mists conceal'd,Part with white rocks resplendent in the sun, Should bound mine eyes; aye and my wishes too,For I would have no hope or fear beyond.The empty turmoil of the worthless world,Its vanities and vices would not vexMy quiet heart. The traveller, who beheldThe low tower of the little pile, might deemIt were the house of God: nor would he errSo deeming, for that home would be the homeOf Peace and Love, and they would hallow itTo Him. Oh life of blessedness! to reapThe fruit of honourable toil, and boundOur wishes with our wants! delightful ThoughtsThat sooth the solitude of maniac Hope,Ye leave her to reality awak'd,Like the poor captive, from some fleeting dreamOf friends and liberty and home restor'd,Startled, and listening as the midnight stormBeats hard and heavy thro' his dungeon bars.1796.