Wood Walk and Hymn. [421]
“Move along these shades
In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand
Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.”—Wordsworth.
Father—Child.
Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves
Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime
And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood
Were all one picture!
Father. Hast thou heard, my boy,
The peasant’s legend of that quivering tree?
Child. No, father: doth he say the fairies dance
Amidst the branches?
Father. Oh! a cause more deep,
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!
The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon
The meek Redeemer bow’d his head to death,
Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze
Disturbs the airy thistle-down, or shakes
The light lines of the shining gossamer.
Child., (after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, father?
Father. Nay, my child,
We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now,
With something of a lingering love, I read
The characters, by that mysterious hour,
Stamp’d on the reverential soul of man
In visionary days; and thence thrown back
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign
Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven,
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!
They do not wisely that, with hurried hand,
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth
From their strong soil within the peasant’s breast,
And scatter them—far, far too fast!—away
As worthless weeds. Oh! little do we know
When they have soothed, when saved!
But come, dear boy!
My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee.
Come—let us search for violets.
Child. Know you not
More of the legends which the woodmen tell
Amidst the trees and flowers?
Father. Wilt thou know more?
Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown stains
There—by the mossy roots of yon old beech,
Midst the rich tuft of cowslips—see’st thou not?
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree
Just bending o’er it with a wild bee’s weight.
Child. The Arum leaf?
Father. Yes. These deep inwrought marks,
The villager will tell thee, (and with voice
Lower’d in his true heart’s reverent earnestness,)
Are the flower’s portion from th’ atoning blood
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew;
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf,
Catching from that dread shower of agony
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus
Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains,
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind
Never to waft away!
And hast thou seen
The passion-flower? It grows not in the woods,
But midst the bright things brought from other climes.
Child. What! the pale star-shaped flower, with purple streaks,
And light green tendrils?
Father. Thou hast mark’d it well.
Yes! a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower,
As from a land of spirits! To mine eye
Those faint, wan petals—colourless, and yet
Not white, but shadowy—with the mystic lines
(As letters of some wizard language gone)
Into their vapour-like transparence wrought,
Bear something of a strange solemnity,
Awfully lovely!—and the Christian’s thought
Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find
Dread symbols of his Lord’s last mortal pangs
Set by God’s hand—the coronal of thorns—
The cross, the wounds—with other meanings deep
Which I will teach thee when we meet again
That flower, the chosen for the martyr’s wreath,
The Saviour’s holy flower.
But let us pause:
Now have we reach’d the very inmost heart
Of the old wood. How the green shadows close
Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round,
A luxury of gloom! Scarce doth one ray,
Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal
O’er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades;
Or if it doth, ’tis with a mellow’d hue
Of glow-worm colour’d light.
Here, in the days
Of pagan visions, would have been a place
For worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these oaks
A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts
On the stream’s bosom, or a sculptured form,
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom,
Have bow’d its head o’er that dark crystal down,
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops
Under bright rain. But we, my child, are here
With God, our God, a Spirit, who requires
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth;
And this high knowledge—deep, rich, vast enough
To fill and hallow all the solitude—
Makes consecrated earth where’er we move,
Without the aid of shrines.
What! dost thou feel
The solemn whispering influence of the scene
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand
Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child!
’Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here,
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope
With dark exuberance; and beneath these plumes
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds
In its pure, crimson goblets, fresh and bright,
The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile,
And let me hear once more the woodland verse
I taught thee late—’twas made for such a scene.
Child speaks.
[421] “It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and ignorant ages dealt with in so gentle and agreeable a manner as by Mrs Hemans. She seizes, in common with others, the poetic aspect these present, but diffuses over them, at the same time, a refinement of sentiment gathered entirely from her own feelings. A subject which, from another pencil, would have been disagreeable and offensive to us, is made by her graceful touches to win upon our imagination. Witness the poem called ‘The Wood Walk and Hymn;’ we will quote the commencement of it—
‘There are the aspens with their silvery leaves,’” etc.
Blackwood’s Magazine, Dec. 1848.
Wood Hymn.
Broods there some spirit here?
The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud;
And o’er the pools, all still and darkly clear,
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow’d;
And something of a tender cloistral gloom
Deepens the violet’s bloom.
The very light that streams
Through the dim, dewy veil of foliage round
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams—
As if it knew the place were holy ground;
And would not startle, with too bright a burst,
Flowers, all divinely nursed.
Wakes there some spirit here?
A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by;
And leaves and waters, in its wild career,
Shed forth sweet voices—each a mystery!
Surely some awful influence must pervade
These depths of trembling shade!
Yes! lightly, softly move!
There is a power, a presence in the woods;
A viewless being that, with life and love,
Informs the reverential solitudes:
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod—
Thou—thou art here, my God!
And if with awe we tread
The minster-floor, beneath the storied pane,
And, midst the mouldering banners of the dead,
Shall the green, voiceful wild seem less thy fane,
Where thou alone hast built?—where arch and roof
Are of thy living woof?
The silence and the sound,
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee;
The temple-twilight of the gloom profound,
The dew-cup of the frail anemone,
The reed by every wandering whisper thrill’d—
All, all with thee are fill’d!
Oh! purify mine eyes,
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought,
Thy presence, holiest One! to recognise
In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought
And, midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear
Ever thy voice to hear!
And sanctify my heart
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start,
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own—
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden’s glorious bowers
Ere sin had dimm’d the flowers.
Let me not know the change
O’er nature thrown by guilt!—the boding sky,
The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange,
The weight wherewith the dark tree-shadows lie!
Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free,
To walk the woods with thee!