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It goes this way, I think: 'Never did the sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill, Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep; The river glideth at his own sweet will. Dear God! the very houses seem asleep, And all this mighty heart is standing still!......" She finished the tremendous classic almost in a whisper.
The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!" And Whistler, by the witchery of his brush and his needle, has transmuted the confusion and sordidness and filth of this Thames-side into exquisite emotion. The essence of beauty is harmony, but that harmony is not to be reduced to rule and measure.
And in like manner, the poet may turn from the world of action to the world of repose, and portray Nature as enfolding and subduing the human element in his picture. In Keats's "Ode to Autumn," Shelley's "Autumn," in Wordsworth's "Solitary Reaper," Browning's "Where the Mayne Glideth," we find poets absorbed in the external scene or object and striving to paint it.
"Sing to me, my sweet bird," said Hulda that night as she lay down to sleep. "Tell me why you pecked my wrist." Then the bird sang to her: "Who came from the ruin, the ivy-clad ruin, With old shaking arches, all moss overgrown, Where the flitter-bat hideth, The limber snake glideth, And chill water drips from the slimy green stone?" "Who did?" asked Hulda. "Not the pedlar, surely?
One light shines forth from the lattice window of the ancient mill; but in the cool thick-walled houses the honest peasants are slumbering in deep, peaceful sleep. "Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep. The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God, the very houses seem asleep." We are in the very heart of England.
I advance with My face set towards Him Who is the Almighty, the All-Bounteous, whilst behind Me glideth the serpent. Mine eyes have rained down tears until My bed is drenched. I sorrow not for Myself, however. By God! Mine head yearneth for the spear out of love for its Lord.
England, the old victorious island kingdom, bequeathed to us by Raleigh, Drake, Nelson; the nineteenth-century England of triumphant commercialism; England till then inviolate for a thousand years; rich and powerful beyond all other lands; broken now under the invader's heel that ancient England slept. Exoriare aliquis de nostris ex ossibus ultor. The river glideth at his own sweet will.
"'Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! "'The river glideth at its own sweet will: Dear God! The very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!"
I advance with My face set towards Him Who is the Almighty, the All-Bounteous, whilst behind Me glideth the serpent. Mine eyes have rained down tears until My bed is drenched. 266 I sorrow not for Myself, however. By God! Mine head yearneth for the spear out of love for its Lord.
From the dark The floating smell of flowers invisible, The mystic yearning of the garden wet, The moonless-passing night into his brain Wandered, until he rose and outward leaned In the dim summer; 'twas the moment deep When we are conscious of the secret dawn, Amid the darkness that we feel is green.... When the long day that glideth without cloud, The summer day, was at her deep blue hour Of lilies musical with busy bliss, Whose very light trembled as with excess, And heat was frail, and every bush and flower Was drooping in the glory overcome;
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