ON A LANDSCAPE BY RUBENS. William Lisle Bowles Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Bowles, William Lisle, 1762-1850. The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles, Vol. I. With Memoir, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes by George Gilfillan. Edinburgh James Nichol, 9 North Bank Street... 1855 pp. 142-150.

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ON A LANDSCAPE BY RUBENS . Nay , let us gaze , ev'n till the sense is full , Upon the rich creation , shadowed so That not great Nature , in her loftiest pomp Of living beauty , ever on the sight Rose more magnificent ; nor aught so fair Hath Fancy , in her wildest , brightest mood , Imaged of things most lovely , when the sounds Of this cold cloudy world at distance sink , And all alone the warm idea lives Of what is great , or beautiful , or good , In Nature's general plan . So the vast scope , O Rubens ! of thy mighty mind , and such The fervour of thy pencil , pouring wide The still illumination , that the mind Pauses , absorbed , and scarcely thinks what powers Of mortal art the sweet enchantment wrought . She sees the painter , with no human touch , Create , embellish , animate at will , The mimic scenes , from Nature's ampler range Caught as by inspiration ; while the clouds , High wandering , and the fairest form of things , Seem at his bidding to emerge , and burn With radiance and with life ! Let us , subdued , Now to the magic of the moment lose The thoughts of life , and mingle every sense Ev'n in the scenes before us ! The fresh morn Of summer shines ; the white clouds of the east Are crisped ; beneath , the bright blue champaign steams ; The banks , the meadows , and the flowers , send up An incensed exhalation , like the meek And holy praise of Him whose soul's deep joy The lone woods witness . Thou , whose heart is sick Of vanities ; who , in the throng of men , Dost feel no lenient fellowship ; whose eye Turns , with a languid carelessness , around Upon the toiling crowd , still murmuring on , Restless ; — oh , think , in summer scenes like these , How sweet the sense of quiet gladness is , That , like the silent breath of morning , steals From lowly nooks , and feels itself expand Amid the works of Nature , to the Power That made them : to the awful thought of Him Who , when the morning stars shouted for joy , Bade the great sun from tenfold darkness burst , The green earth roll in light , and solitude First hear the voice of man , whilst hills and woods Stood eminent , in orient hues arrayed , His dwelling ; and all living Nature smiled , As in this pictured semblance , beaming full Before us ! Mark again the various view : Some city's far-off spires and domes appear , Breaking the long horizon , where the morn Sits blue and soft : what glowing imagery Is spread beneath ! — Towns , villages , light smoke , And scarce-seen windmill-sails , and devious woods , Chequering ' mid sunshine the grass-level land , That stretches from the sight . Now nearer trace The forms of trees distinct — the broad brown oak ; The poplars , that , with silvery trunks , incline , Shading the lonely castle ; flakes of light Are flung behind the massy groups , that , now Enlarging and enlarging still , unfold Their separate beauties . But awhile delay ; Pass the foot-bridge , and listen ( for we hear , Or think we hear her ) , listen to the song Of yonder milkmaid , as she brims her pail ; Whilst , in the yellow pasture , pensive near , The red cows ruminate . Break off , break off , for lo ! where , all alarmed , The small birds , The landscape is on so large a scale , that all these circumstances are most accurately delineated . from the late resounding perch , Fly various , hushed their early song ; and mark , Beneath the darkness of the bramble-bank That overhangs the half-seen brook , where nod The flowing rushes , dew-besprent , with breast Ruddy , and emerald wing , the kingfisher Steals through the dripping sedge away . What shape Of terrors scares the woodland habitants , Marring the music of the dawn ? Look round ; See , where he creeps , beneath the willowy stump , Cowering and low , step silent after step , The booted fowler : keen his look , and fixed Upon the adverse bank , while , with firm hand , He grasps the deadly tube ; his dog , with ears Hung back , and still and steady eye of fire , Points to the prey ; the boor , intent , moves on Panting , and creeping close beneath the leaves , And fears lest ev'n the rustling reeds betray His footfall ; nearer yet , and yet more near , He stalks . Who now shall save the heedless group , The speckled partridges , that in the sun , On yonder hillock green , across the stream , Bask unalarmed beneath the hawthorn bush , Whose aged boughs the crawling blackberry Entwines ! And thus , upon the sweetest scenes Of human loveliness , and social peace Domestic , when the full fond heart reclines Upon its hopes , and almost mingles tears Of joy , to think that in this hollow world Such bliss should be its portion ; then ( alas , The bitter change ! ) , then , with his unheard step , In darkness shrouded , yet approaching fast , Death , from amidst the sunny flowers , lifts up His giant dread anatomy , and smites , Smites the fair prospect once , whilst every bloom Hangs shrivelled , and a sound of mourning fills The lone and blasted valley : but no sound Is here of sorrow or of death , though she , The country Kate , with shining morning cheek ( Who , in the tumbril , with her market-gear , Sits seated high ) , seems to expect the flash Exploding , that shall lay the innocent And feathered tenants of the landscape low . Not so the clown , who , heedless whether life Or death betide , across the plashy ford Drives slow ; the beasts plod on , foot following foot , Aged and grave , with half-erected ears , As now his whip above their matted manes Hangs tremulous , while the dark and shallow stream Flashes beneath their fetlock : he , astride On harness saddle , not a sidelong look Deigns at the breathing landscape , or the maid Smiling behind ; the cold and lifeless calf Her sole companion : and so mated oft Is some sweet maid , whose thrilling heart was formed For dearer fellowship . But lift the eye , And hail the abode of rural ease . The man Walks forth , from yonder antique hall , that looks The mistress of the scene ; its turrets gleam Amid the trees , and cheerful smoke is seen , As if no spectred shape ( though most retired The spot ) there ever wandered , stoled in white , Along the midnight chambers ; but quaint Mab Her tiny revels led , till the rare dawn Peeped out , and chanticleer his shrill alarm Beneath the window rang , then , with a wink , The shadowy rout have vanished ! As the morn Jocund ascends , how lovely is the view To him who owns the fair domain ! The friend Of his still hours is near , to whom he vowed His truth ; her eyes reflect his bliss ; his heart Beats high with joy ; his little children play , Pleased , in his pathway ; one the scattered flowers Straggling collects , the other spreads its arms , In speechless blandishment , upon the neck Of its caressing nurse . Still let us gaze , And image every form of heartfelt joy Which scenes like these bestow , that charm the sight , Yet soothe the spirit . All is quiet here , Yet cheerful as the green sea , when it shines In some still bay , shines in its loneliness Beneath the breeze , that moves , and hardly moves , The placid surface . On the balustrade Of the old bridge , that o'er the moat is thrown , The fisher with his angle leans intent , And turns , from the bright pomp of spreading plains , To watch the nimble fry , that glancing oft Beneath the gray arch shoot ! Oh , happiest he Who steals through life , untroubled as unseen ! The distant city , with its crowded spires , That dimly shines upon his view , awakes No thought but that of pleasure more composed , As the winds whisper him to sounder sleep . He leans upon the faithful arm of her For whom his youthful heart beat , fondly beat , When life was new : time steals away , yet health And exercise are his ; and in these shades , Though sometimes he has mourned a proud world's wrong , He feels an independence that all cares Breasts with a carol of content ; he hears The green leaves of his old paternal trees Make music , soothing as they stir : the elm , And poplar with its silvery trunk , that shades The green sward of the bank before his porch , Are to him as companions ; — whilst he turns With more endearment to the living smile Of those his infants , who , when he is dead , Shall hear the music of the self-same trees Waving , till years roll on , and their gray hairs Go to the dust in peace . Away , sad thought ! Lo ! where the morning light , through the dark wood , Upon the window-pane is flung like fire , Hail , Life and Hope ; and thou , great work of art , That ' mid this populous and busy swarm Of men dost smile serene , as with the hues Of fairest , grandest Nature ; may'st thou speak Not vainly of the endearments and best joys That Nature yields . The manliest heart that swells With honest English feelings , — while the eye , Saddened , but not cast down , beholds far off The darkness of the onward rolling storm , — Charmed for a moment by this mantling view , Its anxious tumults shall suspend : and such , The pensive patriot shall exclaim , thy scenes , My own beloved country , such the abode Of rural peace ! and while the soul has warmth , And voice has energy , the brave arm strength , England , thou shalt not fall ! The day shall come , Yes , and now is , that thou shalt lift thyself ; And woe to him who sets upon thy shores His hostile foot ! Proud victor though he be , His bloody march shall never soil a flower That hangs its sweet head , in the morning dew , On thy green village banks ! His mustered hosts Shall be rolled back in thousands , and the surge Bury them ! Then , when peace illumes once more , My country , thy green nooks and inmost vales , It will be sweet amidst the forest glens To stray , and think upon the distant storm That howled , but injured not ! At thoughts like these , What heart , what English heart , but shall beat high ! Meantime , its keen flash passed , thine eye intent , Beaumont , shall trace the master-strokes of art , And view the assemblage of the finished piece , As with his skill who formed it : ruder views , Savage , with solitary pines , hung high Amid the broken crags ( where scowling wait The fierce banditti ) , stern Salvator's hand Shall aptly shade : o'er Poussin's clustering domes , With ampler umbrage , the black woods shall hang , Beneath whose waving gloom the sudden flash Of broken light upon the brawling stream Is flung below . Aërial Claude shall paint The gray fane peering o'er the summer woods , The azure lake below , or distant seas , And sails , in the pellucid atmosphere , Soft gleaming to the morn . Dark on the rock , Where the red lightnings burst , shall Wilson stand , Like mighty Shakspeare , whom the imps of fire Await . Nor oh , sweet Gainsborough ! shall thee The Muse forget , whose simple landscape smiles Attractive , whether we delight to view The cottage chimney through the high wood peep ; Or beggar beauty stretch her little hand , With look most innocent ; or homeward kine Wind through the hollow road at eventide , Or browse the straggling branches . Scenes like these Shall charm all hearts , while truth and beauty live , And Nature's pictured loveliness shall own Each master's varied touch ; but chiefly thou , Great Rubens ! shalt the willing senses lead , Enamoured of the varied imagery , That fills the vivid canvas , swelling still On the enraptured eye of taste , and still New charms unfolding ; though minute , yet grand , Simple , yet most luxuriant ; every light And every shade , greatly opposed , and all Subserving to one magical effect Of truth and harmony . So glows the scene ; And to the pensive thought refined displays The richest rural poem . Oh , may views So pictured animate thy classic mind , Beaumont , to wander ' mid Sicilian scenes , And catch the beauties of the pastoral bard , Theocritus . Alluding to a design of illustrating the picturesque character of the venerable Sicilian , by paintings of Sir George , from new translations of Messrs Sotheby , Rogers , Howley , W. Spencer , and the author . Shadowing his wildest landscapes ! Ætna's fires , Bebrycian rocks , Anapus ' holy stream , And woods of ancient Pan ; the broken crag And the old fisher here ; the purple vines There bending ; and the smiling boy set down To guard , who , innocent and happy , weaves , Intent , his rushy basket , to ensnare The chirping grasshoppers , nor sees the while The lean fox meditate her morning meal , Eyeing his scrip askance ; whilst further on Another treads the purple grapes — he sits , Nor aught regards , but the green rush he weaves . O Beaumont ! let this pomp of light and shade Wake thee , to paint the woods that the sweet Muse Has consecrated : then the summer scenes Of Phasidamus , clad in richer light , Shall glow , the glancing poplars , and clear fount ; While distant times admire ( as now we trace This summer-mantling view ) hoar Ætna's pines , The vine-hung grotts , and branching planes , that shade The silver Arethusa's stealing wave .