Dartmeet

STANZAS - WRITTEN AT DARTMEET, ON DARTMOOR.

By Darts' blue wave the Harp is still,

No echo, save the billow's roar,

Is heard from Sherber's rugged hill

To wind along its forest-shore;

And where twofold streams roll down,

While flashing round yon roughened fell;

Through whistling oaks, and sedges brown,

No softer voice is heard to swell.

Yet, wave ye boughs! where Dartmeet's Vale

Doth in the summer-noon repose;

Oh wave! some voice shall yet prevail

Your mystic breathings to disclose!

Though Moorland hinds, belated start

Amid the haunted wilderness,

And deem the Spirits of the Dart

A warning sound of woe express;-

Or scathed with fear, direct their way

By scattered Cairn, and broken grave;

Awe-struck the mountain peaks survey,

And tremble as the wild-winds rave.

Yet if poetic ear should note

Those boughs with all their rustling leaves-

What sounds of air-born music float!

What viewless hand the branches heaves!

What joy, by Dart's loud gushing stream

The voices of the Wild to hear,-

And watch the troublous waters gleam

Far onward, in their fleet career.

While not a thrilling vein should move

The Bard's congenial breast to fear;-

He only feels the hallowing love

That makes the things of nature dear.

And through their channel as he sees

The spell-touched billows glide below;

Or in the echoes of the trees

Hears the charmed breath of spirits blow:

His soul comes back! - that flood of song!

The magic strings obey the call!

So pure, so present, and so strong,

From heart and hand the measures fall.

Then bend, ye Woods! your shadowy boughs,

Let all your rushing breezes speed,-

The answers of the Desert rouse,

The Bard your symphony shall heed.

And you, Oh plighted Streams! that roll

Together on in bridal glee-

Fair rivers! let the minstrel's soul

Exult in union with ye.

Sophie Dixon