Poems on Travel Part 1

Poems on Travel.

by Various.

TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE

The ceaseless rain is falling fast, And yonder gilded vane, Immovable for three days past, Points to the misty main.

It drives me in upon myself 5 And to the fireside gleams, To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, And still more pleasant dreams.

I read whatever bards have sung Of lands beyond the sea, 10 And the bright days when I was young Come thronging back to me.

In fancy I can hear again The Alpine torrent's roar, The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, 15 The sea at Elsinore.

I see the convent's gleaming wall Rise from its groves of pine, And towers of old cathedrals tall, And castles by the Rhine. 20

I journey on by park and spire, Beneath centennial trees, Through fields with poppies all on fire, And gleams of distant seas.

I fear no more the dust and heat, 25 No more I fear fatigue, While journeying with another's feet O'er many a lengthening league.

Let others traverse sea and land, And toil through various climes, 30 I turn the world round with my hand Reading these poets' rhymes.

From them I learn whatever lies Beneath each changing zone, And see, when looking with their eyes, 35 Better than with mine own.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

FANCIES FOR MEMORIES

Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits, Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth, Come, let us go,--to a land wherein G.o.ds of the old time wandered, Where every breath even now changes to ether divine.

Come, let us go; though withal a voice whisper, 'The world that we live in, 5 Whithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow crib; 'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we travel; Let who would 'scape and be free go to his chamber and think; 'Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully falser; 'Tis but to go and have been.'--Come, little bark! let us go. 10

A. H. CLOUGH.

THE CRY OF ULYSSES

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on sh.o.r.e, and when Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 5 Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men, And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honoured of them all; 10 And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. 16

LORD TENNYSON.

THE TRAVELLER

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 5 A weary waste expanding to the skies: Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee; Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 10 In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs--and G.o.d has given my share-- still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, 15 And keep the flame from wasting by repose.

I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 20 And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations pa.s.sed, Here to return--and die at home at last.

O. GOLDSMITH.

I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN

I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream! 5 Nor will I quit thy sh.o.r.e A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; 10 And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, The bowers where Lucy played; And thine too is the last green field 15 That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

W. WORDSWORTH.

WHERE LIES THE LAND

Where lies the land to which yon s.h.i.+p must go?

Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, Festively she puts forth in trim array; Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?

What boots the inquiry?--Neither friend nor foe 5 She cares for; let her travel where she may, She finds familiar names, a beaten way Ever before her, and a wind to blow.

Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?

And, almost as it was when s.h.i.+ps were rare, 10 (From time to time, like pilgrims, here and there Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, Of the old sea some reverential fear, Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark!

W. WORDSWORTH.

A Pa.s.sER-BY

Whither, O splendid s.h.i.+p, thy white sails crowding, Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?

Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, 5 When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, Wilt thou glide on the blue Pacific, or rest In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.

I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air: 10 I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, And anchor queen of the strange s.h.i.+pping there, Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare; Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped, grandest Peak, that is over the feathery palms more fair 15 Than thou, so upright, so stately, and still thou standest.

And yet, O splendid s.h.i.+p, unhailed and nameless, I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, Thy port a.s.sured in a happier land than mine. 20 But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding, From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.

R. BRIDGES.

AT CARNAC

Far on its rocky knoll descried Saint Michael's chapel cuts the sky.

I climbed;--beneath me, bright and wide, Lay the lone coast of Brittany.

Bright in the sunset, weird and still 5 It lay beside the Atlantic wave, As if the wizard Merlin's will Yet charmed it from his forest grave.

Behind me on their gra.s.sy sweep, Bearded with lichen, scrawled and grey, 10 The giant stones of Carnac sleep, In the mild evening of the May.

No priestly stern procession now Streams through their rows of pillars old; No victims bleed, no Druids bow; 15 Sheep make the furze-grown aisles their fold.

From bush to bush the cuckoo flies, The orchis red gleams everywhere; Gold broom with furze in blossom vies, The blue-bells perfume all the air. 20