The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Bodryddan
BODRYDDAN.
TO THE MEMORY OF B. Y. AND A. M. D.
Our fairest dreams are made of truths,Nymphs are sweet women, angels youths,And Eden was an earthly bower:Not that the heavens are false;—oh no!But that the sweetest thoughts that growIn earth, must have an earthly flower:Blest, if they know how sweet they are,And that earth also is a star.
I met a lady by the sea,A heart long known, a face desir'd,Who led me with sweet breathful gleeTo one that sat retir'd;—That sat retir'd in reverend chair,That younger lady's pride and care,Fading heav'nward beauteouslyIn a long-drawn life of love,With smiles below and thoughts above:And round her play'd that fairy she,Like Impulse by Tranquillity.
And truly might they, in times old,Have deem'd her one of fairy mouldKeeping some ancestral queenDeathless, in a bow'r serene;For oft she might be noticed walkingWhere the seas at night were talking;Or extracting with deep lookPower from out some learned book;Or with pencil or with penCharming the rapt thoughts of men: And her eyes! they were so bright,They seemed to dance with elfin light,Playmates of pearly smiles, and yetSo often and so sadly wet,That Pity wonder'd to conceive,How lady so belov'd could grieve.And oft would both those ladies rare,Like enchantments out of air,In a sudden show'r descendOf balm on want, or flow'rs on friend;No matter how remote the place,For fairies laugh at time and space.From their hearts the gifts were given,As the light leaps out of heaven.
Their very house was fairy:—noneMight find it without favour wonFor some great zeal, like errant-knight,Or want and sorrow's holy right;And then they reach'd it by long roundsOf lanes between thick pastoral groundsNest-like, and alleys of old trees,Until at last, in lawny ease,Down by a garden and its fountains,In the ken of mild blue mountains,Rose, as if exempt from death,Its many-centuried household breath.The stone-cut arms above the doorWere such as earliest chieftains bore,Of simple gear, long laid aside;And low it was, and warm and wide,—A home to love, from sire to son,By white-grown servants waited on.Here a door opening breath'd of bowersOf ladies, who lead lives of flowers;There, walls were books; and the sweet witch,Painting, had there the rooms made richWith knights, and dames, and loving eyesOf heav'n-gone kindred, sweet and wise; Of bishops, gentle as their lawn,And sires, whose talk was one May-dawn.Last, on the roof, a clock's old graceLook'd forth, like some enchanted faceThat never slept, but in the nightDinted the air with thoughtful mightOf sudden tongue which seem'd to say,"The stars are firm, and hold their way."
Behold me now, like knight indeed,Whose balmed wound had ceas'd to bleed,Behold me in this green domainLeading a palfrey by the rein,On which the fairy lady satIn magic talk, which men call "chat,"Over mead, up hill, down dale,While the sweet thoughts never fail,Bright as what we pluck'd 'twixt whiles,The mountain-ash's thick red smiles;And aye she laugh'd, and talk'd, and rode,And to blest eyes her visions shew'dOf nook, and tow'r, and mountain rare,Like bosom, making mild the air;And seats, endear'd by friend and sire,Facing sunset's thoughtful fire.And then, to make romances true,Before this lady open flewA garden gate; and lo! right in,Where horse's foot had never been,Rode she! The gard'ner with a stareTo see her threat his lilies fair,Uncapp'd his bent old silver hair,And seem'd to say, "My lady goodMakes all things right in her sweet mood."
O land of Druid and of Bard,Worthy of bearded Time's regard,Quick-blooded, light-voiced, lyric Wales,Proud with mountains, rich with vales, And of such valour that in theeWas born a third of chivalry,(And is to come again, they say,Blowing its trumpets into day,With sudden earthquake from the ground,And in the midst, great Arthur crown'd,)I used to think of thee and thineAs one of an old faded lineLiving in his hills apart,Whose pride I knew, but not his heart:—But now that I have seen thy face,Thy fields, and ever youthful race,And women's lips of rosiest word(So rich they open), and have heardThe harp still leaping in thy halls,Quenchless as the waterfalls,I know thee full of pulse as strongAs the sea's more ancient song,And of a sympathy as wide;And all this truth, and more beside,I should have known, had I but seen,O Flint, thy little shore; and beenWhere Truth and Dream walk, hand-in-hand,Bodryddan's living Fairy-land.