Solitude Poem by John Anster

Oh, what a lovely silent spot!
'Mid such a scene the eremite would hope
To build his lowly cot,
Just where with easy slope
The wooded mountain bends,
Where the clear rill descends
Now hid the jutting rocks beneath,
Now faintly sparkling on the eye,
Itself conceal'd, its course we now descry
By the long grass, and blossomy heath,
By the cowslip's saffron hue,
By the violet's clouded blue,
Beside its fostering bed
In waste profusion spread;
Its widening wave at distance now we hail,
Where bright, and blue, and broad, it rolls along the vale.
Now turn and gaze on cliffs sublime,
And see the goat laborious climb
Where the clinging ivy grows,
White are those cliffs with Winter snows,
While spring--tide breezes gaily breathe,
And bless the joyous vale beneath:--
--At Spring's return the earth is glad,
And yet to me, at this lone hour,
The wood--dove's note, from yonder natural bower,
Tho' winning sweet, is sad;
And there is sadness in the tone
Of the robin, that alone
Sings, as mourning o'er the dead,
From the yew, whose branches throw
Their shadows on the grave below,
Whose leaves upon the grave are shed;
The robin's notes, low--warbled o'er the tomb,
Soothe, while they make me mourn, are sad, yet without gloom.

In such a scene, when all around
Wakes in the breast the Poet's flame,
Whose glories shall the harp with warmth resound?
SPIRIT, whate'er thy name,
That, when no noisy cares intrude,
Dost breathe 'mid nature's quietude,
Bidding its charms with new--born lustre shine,
Who givest to earth a livelier hue,
To midnight skies a deeper blue,
SPIRIT, no other hymn than thine
Shall tremble from the Clarshec's frame,
Whose strings neglected long,
Again shall echo to the song,
Shall hail th'inspiring nymph, whose holy power
Bids wisdom and delight to bless the lonely hour.

See where most mild, most sad,
The goddess on her mountain throne
Of rocks, with many--coloured lichens clad,
Is soothed by gurgling waters near,
Or song of sky lark wild and clear,
Or music's mellow tone:
The scarce--heard hum of distant strife
Gives to her lonely votary's breast
An hallow'd calm of rest,
Unruffled by the woes, above the mirth of life.
Here Genius in fantastic trance
Enjoys his wildest reverie,
Or pores with anxious eye
Upon some old romance,
'Till all the pomp of chivalry,
The visor quaint, the armed knight,
The princely dame, the tournay bright
Are present to his glance;--
And Fancy here delights to stray,
And shed around her smiles serene,
Not those alone that for the Poet play,
Too grandly, too divinely bright,
They pain with luxury of light!--
Here she exerts a gentler sway,
And consecrates to happiness the scene;
She breathes with soft controul
An holy sense of sober'd joy,
And sorrows that no more annoy
Are pleasant to the soul:--
The breast that throbb'd before too much
At Sorrow's wound, at Pleasure's touch,
Indulging here in calm repose
No change of shifting passions knows,
Thus when the winds with wanton play
Among the Alder's branches stray,
The twinkling leaves are seen
Give to the light their lively gray,
But when the breezes die away,
They shine in softest green;--
Oft, in that solemn silence of the breast,
When passions pause, and all is peace within,
There breathes a voice that cannot be represt,
That speaks to man of holiness--of sin;--
There breathes a voice the spirit to controul
With warning power, unfelt 'mid Pleasure's mirth;
Its accents are not of the earth--
'Tis GOD that speaketh to the SOUL!

Who hath not felt in some lone hour
Feelings sublimely sad
Steal o'er his spirit with resistless power?
Go! seek that man among the bad,
Go, seek him 'mid the heartless throng
Whom courtly luxury calls her own,
Bid him his worthless days prolong
Where thoughtless Pleasure haunts the throne;
Yet will there come an hour to him
When anguish in his breast shall wake,
And that bright eye--ball--weak and dim,
Gazing on former days, shall ache;
When solitude bids visions drear
Of raptures, now no longer dear,
In gloomy ghastliness appear--
When thoughts arise of errors past--
Of Vice, that Virtue's hopes could blast--
Of Passion's unresisted rage--
Of Youth, that thought not upon Age--
Of earthly hopes, too fondly nurst,
That caught the giddy eye at first,
But, like the flowers of Arab sands,
That wither'd in the closing hands.
Blame not the silent monitress
That thus the bosom would address--
Blame not the guardian Spirit sent
To call the guilty to repent--
Oh blame not her whose holy breath
Inspires with hopes from Heaven the soul that starts at Death!

Are we indeed in solitude alone?
Are there not spirits hovering near
The lonely mind to cheer,
And breathe into the heart an holy tone?
Hath not the Poet heard with ear entranc'd
As, by some devious stream,
He lay in strange romantic dream,
Hath not he heard his harp faint echoing,
As if an Angel's hand had glanc'd
Along its every string?
Have not the Dead, in such an hour as this,
Bent from their homes of bliss,
To tell the mourner that they do not sleep
Within the grave's unbroken gloom,
The damp, dull silence of the tomb,
Oh come they not from Heaven to soothe the hearts that weep?--
Say are we then alone in solitude?
In Night's mid hour, when all around is still,
When hush'd is every passion rude,
What awful reveries the bosom fill!
In such an hour the Prophet's tone hath woke
On mortal's hallow'd lips, and on the eye
Visions of other days have broke,
Of days, that slumber still in deep futurity;
Such sights, and sounds as met his eye and ear,
When slept in Patmos' isle the solitary Seer.

Say not that it is solitude
When stands in loneliness the Good
Amid surrounding enemies--
When Pain, and Woe, and Malice rise,
When Tyranny hath fixed his fate,
Even then in that eventful hour
Shall Virtue triumph still, and Power
Shall envy him she still must hate!
Was there when fearless Sidney fell
No angel form to guard his cell?
And when around the tyrant's throne
The courtly sons of Flattery stood,
Oh saw he then their pomp alone?
Dwelt not his ear on Sidney's groan?
Gaz'd not his eye on Sidney's blood?
Oh heard he not--tho' Music's breath,
Tho' rapture's voice his soul address--
Oh heard he not a voice of Death,
And all was loneliness?
But Sidney, there were those who stood
Around to guard thy solitude;
And Martyr, there were thoughts of healing
That on thy wounded spirit gleam,
And many a proud and patriot feeling
Is mingling with thy dream;
Angelic hosts surround thee, and forbid
The dew of selfish fear thine eye to cloud,
Unseen they stand, as when his foes amid
Elisha woke, and seem'd to Man's weak gaze
Alone, till bursting from the tempest's shroud
With cars, and arms of fire his seraph guardian blaze.

Oh thou, whose influence breathes thro' solitude
SPIRIT, whate'er thy name,
With all thy warmth inflame
A breast, that long in no unholy mood
The loveliness of Nature's charms hath wooed;
Long with no idle gaze mine eye hath view'd
The beauteous scene of earth, and sea, and sky,
But Wisdom lives in all that I descry;--
All that I hear is speaking to my breast,
The thunder's crash, the lark's enlivening lay,
All Nature's sights and sounds, or sad or gay,
Dwell in my soul, indelibly imprest;
Even now, the view of yonder ruinous tower,
Whose fissur'd walls admit the moon's cold beams,
Sheds on my bosom melancholy dreams
Most suited to the sober hour;
Mine eye beholds those early days,
When shining in the pride of power
They burst upon the gaze;--
But soon like Man the turret falls,
The pilgrim mourns beneath its walls,
Sees o'er its strength the wild flower rise,
Hears from its heights the night--bird's cries,
And, musing sadly, learns to scan
The vice and vanity of Man;--
But from this lonely dream of earth
What feelings spring to sudden birth;
No more the pilgrim looks beneath,
For him new hopes, new raptures breathe,
The soul beholds new worlds before it rise,
Soars from the mists of earth, and communes with the skies!