MONODY , WRITTEN AT MATLOCK . Matlock ! amid thy hoary-hanging views , Thy glens that smile sequestered , and thy nooks Which yon forsaken crag all dark o'erlooks ; Once more I court the long neglected Muse , As erst when by the mossy brink and falls Of solitary Wainsbeck , or the side Of Clysdale's cliffs , where first her voice she tried , I strayed a pensive boy . Since then , the thralls That wait life's upland road have chilled her breast , And much , as much they might , her wing depressed . Wan Indolence , resigned , her deadening hand Laid on her heart , and Fancy her cold wand Dropped at the frown of fortune ; yet once more I call her , and once more her converse sweet , ' Mid the still limits of this wild retreat , I woo ; — if yet delightful as of yore My heart she may revisit , nor deny The soothing aid of some sweet melody ! I hail the rugged scene that bursts around ; I mark the wreathed roots , the saplings gray , That bend o'er the dark Derwent's wandering way ; I mark its stream with peace-persuading sound , That steals beneath the fading foliage pale , Or , at the foot of frowning crags upreared , Complains like one forsaken and unheard . To me , it seems to tell the pensive tale Of spring-time , and the summer days all flown ; And while sad autumn's voice ev'n now I hear Along the umbrage of the high-wood moan , At intervals , whose shivering leaves fall sere ; Whilst o'er the group of pendant groves I view The slowly-spreading tints of pining hue , I think of poor Humanity's brief day , How fast its blossoms fade , its summers speed away ! When first young Hope , a golden-tressed boy , I have ventured in this place to make Hope a boy . Most musical his early madrigal Sings to the whispering waters as they fall , Breathing fresh airs of fragrance and of joy , The wild woods gently wave , the morning sheds Her rising radiance on the mountain heads , Strewed with green isles appears old ocean's reign , And seen at distance rays of resting light Silver the farthest promontory's height : Then hushed is the long murmur of the main , Whilst silent o'er the slowly-crisping tides , Bound to some beaming spot , the bark of pleasure glides . Alas ! the scenes that smile in light arrayed But catch the sense , and then in darkness fade . We , poor adventurers , of peace bereft , Look back on the green hills that late we left , Or turn , with beating breast and anxious eye , To some faint hope that glimmering meets our sight ( Like the lone watch-tower in the storm of night ) , Then on the dismal waste are driv'n despairing by ! Meantime , amid the landscape cold and mute , Hope , sweet enchanter , sighing drops his lute : So sad decay and mortal change succeeds , And o'er the silent scene Time , like a giant , speeds ! Yet the bleak cliffs that lift their heads so high ( Around whose beetling crags , with ceaseless coil , And still-returning flight , the ravens toil ) Heed not the changeful seasons as they fly , Nor spring , nor autumn : they their hoary brow Uprear , and ages past , as in this now , The same deep trenches unsubdued have worn , The same majestic frown , and looks of lofty scorn . So Fortitude , a mailed warrior old , Appears ; he lifts his scar-intrenched crest ; The tempest gathers round his dauntless breast ; He hears far off the storm of havoc rolled ; The feeble fall around : their sound is past ; Their sun is set , their place no more is known ; Like the wan leaves before the winter's blast They perish : — He , unshaken and alone Remains , his brow a sterner shade assumes , By age ennobled , whilst the hurricane , That raves resistless o'er the ravaged plain , But shakes unfelt his helmet's quivering plume . And so yon sovereign of the scene Matlock High Tor. I mark Above the woods rear his majestic head , That soon all shattered at his feet shall shed Their short-lived beauties : he the winter dark Regardless , and the wasteful time that flies , Rejoicing in his lonely might , defies . Thee , wandering in the deep and craggy dell , Sequestered stream , with other thoughts I view : Thou dost in solitude thy course pursue , As thou hadst bid life's busy scenes farewell , Yet making still such music as might cheer The weary passenger that journeys near . Such are the songs of Peace in Virtue's shade ; Unheard of Folly , or the vacant train That pipe and dance upon the noontide plain , Till in the dust together they are laid ! But not unheard of Him , who sits sublime Above the clouds of this tempestuous clime , Its stir and strife ; to whom more grateful rise The humble incense , and the still small voice Of those that on their pensive way rejoice , Than shouts of thousands echoing to the skies ; Than songs of conquest pealing round the car Of hard Ambition , or the Fiend of War , Sated with slaughter . Nor may I , sweet stream , From thy wild banks and still retreats depart , Where now I meditate my casual theme , Without some mild improvement on my heart Poured sad , yet pleasing ! so may I forget The crosses and the cares that sometimes fret Life's smoothest channel , and each wish prevent That mars the silent current of content ! In such a spot , amidst these rugged views , The pensive poet in his drooping age Might wish to place his reed-roofed hermitage ; Where much on life's vain shadows he might muse . If fortune smiled not on his early way , If he were doomed to mourn a faithless friend , Here he might rest , and when his hairs were gray , Behold in peace the parting day descend . If a hard world his errors scanned severe , When late the earth received his mouldering clay , Perhaps some loved companion , wandering near , Plucking the gray moss from the stone , might say : Him I remember , in our careless days , Vacant and glad , till many a loss severe First hung his placid eyelids with a tear ; Yet on such visions ardent would he gaze , As the Muse loved , that oft would smile and die , Like the faint bow that leaves the weeping sky ; His heart unguarded , yet it proudly beat Against hard wrong , or coward cold deceit ; — Nor passed he e'er without a sigh the cell Where wretchedness and her pale children dwell . He never wished to win the world's cold ear , Nor , prized by those he loved , its blame could fear ; Its praise he left to those who , at their will , The ingenious strain of torturing art could trill ! Content , as random fancies might inspire , If his weak reed , at times , or plaintive lyre , He touched with desultory hand , and drew Some softened tones , to Nature not untrue . The leaves , O Derwent ! on thy bosom still Oft with the gust now fall — the season pale Hath smote with hand unseen the silent vale , And slowly steals the verdure from the hill ; So the fair scene departs , yet wears a while The lingering traces of its beauteous smile : But we who by thy margin stray , or climb The cliff's aërial height , or join the song Of hope and gladness amidst yonder throng , Losing the brief and fleeting hours of time , Reck not how age , even thus , with icy hand , Hangs o'er us ; — how , as with a wizard's wand , Youth blooming like the spring , and roseate mirth , To slow and sere consumption he shall change , And with invisible mutation strange , Withered and wasted send them to the earth ; Whilst hushed , and by the mace of ruin rent , Sinks the forsaken hall of merriment ! Bright bursts the sun upon the shaggy scene ! The aged rocks their glittering summits gray Hang beautiful amid the beams of day ; And all the woods , with slowly-fading green , Yet smiling wave : — severer thoughts , away ! The night is distant , and the lovely day Looks on us yet ; — the sound of mirthful cheer From yonder dome comes pleasant to mine ear . From rock to rock reverberated swells , Hark , — the glad music of the village bells ! On the crag's naked point the heifer lows , And wide below the brightening landscape glows ! Though brief the time and short our course to run , Derwent ! amid the scenes that deck thy side , Ere yet the parting paths of life divide , Let us rejoice , seeking what may be won From the laborious day , or fortune's frown : Here may we , ere the sun of life goes down , A while regardless of the morrow , dwell ; Then to our destined roads , and speed us well !