Classic and Contemporary Poetry
LINES WRITTEN IN THE BLUE RIDGE, VIRGINIA, by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN Poet's Biography First Line: A man, an irish man, 'tis true Last Line: Is living in a treetrunk. Subject(s): Mountains; Virginia | ||||||||
A man, an Irish man, 'tis true, Came from his island hither, Before the later autumn blew And woods had left to wither, To breathe an edge of mountain air, A smack of mountain danger, And gather fortune, friends, and fare: A poet and a stranger Come of that good old stock of old Who deemed the world suspended To minister to monks, and rolled But as their fortunes tended; Who saved their souls and spent their means, Knew but one path to heaven, But well good brawn from pulse and greens And always char from cheven. He doubted, thought the world was well Nor needed priests' redressing, So left behind the sacring bell Nor stood for ban or blessing; He left behind the sacring bell And "flat meads thatched with stover," Sought out a half-manned caravel And worked his passage over. Consistent! let us test his claims; In wealth not worth a dollar, Only the best now suits his aims: A churchman and a scholar. With buzom ale his heart he glads, Drinks wine instead of water, Nor cares for Little Iliads Or Lady day the latter. Vain, versatile, and fickle, lo! To each strange pipe he dances, Now crazed for newest glory, now Half-mad with old romances; Now goes unwashed and sinks his tone To what his toil or trade is, Now strolls a fop, his time his own, And a mere man of ladies: And May dew for a morning face He thinks more rare confection Than paints and pargets in their place, Patches, pots of complexion. Now half a boy he steals alone And slow, through sun and shadow, Looking for gold, the lapwing's stone, Or mandrake, or right maddow. And so time went: philosophy He tried, then claimed invention Of some new stop in poesy With matters not to mention. Too genuine far to make his mark Mid tricksters and trepanners, He lectures turned, and theses dark, Fate, doctrine, men and manners Most learnedly would talk upon; And yet as one who jostles The doers and the deeds in one, Epistles and apostles: O'er Scriptural names of Achsah, Ruth, And Leah, would hitch and hirple To Lydia, faithful to the truth, A seller too of purple. Nicaula, in her robes of state, Dorcas, Demetrias, Lilias, And men of might, the scarce known great From Gilpin back to Gillias: Strange peers in evil look and life, Crooked Richard and Constandel, He knew, and heads with learning rife In Cork and Coromandel. Yet never heeding place or kind, Whate'er he gave his views on, He all the wealth of all his mind O'erturned in rich confusion; Nor parted up his ware in lots That all might portion fairly, But proffered pearls and peridots For better beans and barley: And so they rent him, story old, Till he cried, sick with striving, "Pinchbeck and orsidue are gold! And Fame is had for diving!" Yet finding where one came to ground, The water sure would drown ten, He left the Mart and left the Sound For breezes of the mountain. He left the Mart and left the Strand, And now our plot commences To heighten, like the barren land Beyond the fields and fences. But more astray and ill at ease We get, the higher clamber we. "The morning is dark and smells of cheese" Quoth Giles with his head in the ambery. Keep courage! we shall see the light And breathe the northwind blowing; The little hamlet is in sight Towards which our steps are going Where, hidden in a mountain notch Like gray bats clung together, A quiet folk, and chiefly Scotch, Had huddled from the weather. A little Paradise it seemed, Half-shadowed and half-whitened. The slow cloud sailed, the sunshine gleamed, The river dusked and brightened: A little Paradise it seemed, Worth losing name and fame for, But ah! they cared not what he dreamed But only what he came for! Some said he was a landless lord, And some a rogue of station, And every movement, deed, or word Lacked not interpretation. And if he nothing did but sleep Or shift his daily clothing, "'T was plain," they said, "he'd never keep So calm a sough for nothing!" And thus from hand to hand he flew; Through tradesmen, herdsmen, mowers Sped ball-like till he fell into The Circle of the Sewers Who weekly strive for charity And heads to heap abuse on, Whose lightest touch's profanity, Whose handling is pollution: Who fairest fabrics smirch and soil Without one pleading voice, Who never heard of Pope and Boyle, And never read Pomfret's Choice; Sisters of the consistory Who make the village histories: Some said it was a mystery, Some said it was a mistress. Poor devils! on their praise or ban He little built or reckoned, But fled as if from death he ran And went where Nature beckoned. Better to lie the turf below The water where the moss sips Than knitting lace like sad Rousseau, Make peace with country gossips. And thus upon the hills we met Like patriots sick of mobrule, Or mercury-drops of varying weight, Yet blending in one globule; And there this record line by line Of strife, ambition, folly, He told to me. The rhymes are mine, The matter his--his wholly. "And now," he said, "the world is done For me, no world redressor, Yet here a man the world might shun And live his own possessor: Nor help nor hindrance would he find In upper world or nether, Though he should feed him with the wind And clothe him with the weather; Here might be found a concave good! Or made by boring-blasting, And if Religion was his mood, How fair a place for fasting! Or would he pet his carnal sins Nor take himself to task for; Wild honey hoards and chinguapins Are all a man could ask for. He should not care in wine to wet His barken loaf or bannock, While from this ridge of mountain yet Runs out the Rappahannock; Nor like the swain who gets no crop Save where he sets or seeds it, He should find shelter when to stop And meat where'er he needs it. So might the poet cease to roam Far shores and islands many For fairer food than grows at home: But here in Alleghany, Nipping the verdure here along These mountain necks and passes, Hang like a goat to browse among Poor pines and Indian grasses; For thou, O Nature, tuft and tree, A war with want still warrest To feed thy children grudgingly: And so these walks of forest A natural sustenance, bleak and rude, To mountain sheep and kid owe, Sheddings and shack of the wild wood, Woodchuck and chuckwill's widow. Glean by the moon: and eft and fly; In shower and sunshine flourish. And only He, the Master high, Finds naught or naught to nourish; And shall it be he may not do Like these with reason greater? Perhaps remake himself anew And be his own creator? His spirit and his fleshly force Corroborate so fully, He should outrun the swiftest horse And talk with angels duly; With senses fined, with vision cleansed From sin and self indulgence, What light would be to him dispensed! What glory! what effulgence!" He ceased. A little wind rose free; Far off we heard it humming. "And like that wind," he said, "shall be My going and my coming. Here will I build, here fix my bridge From here to the hereafter." And fierce old Fell and Grummet Ridge Shook softly as with laughter. Too long a tale! We wandered down To meet not on the morrow, For he was gone, yet left for one Some words of love and sorrow. The little hamlet in the cleft, Bequeathed his discontent to, But ah! they cared not what he left But only where he went to. But this they never knew or found: Perhaps across the ocean He fled again to greener ground, Found peace if not promotion. Or if within these hills he stayed In rest and golden quiet, I wondered how his bed he made And how he liked his diet; And after, when the hills fell bare And all the grass went reddish, How fared he with his mountain fare: Fall-feed and winter eddish? And did he thus his days prolong? And was his heaven the nearer? And whether, while his legs grew strong, He felt his head get clearer. I wondered too if peak and wood United to outbrave him, Or took him to their brotherhood With welcome wild and gave him The freedom of their rocks and earth And sky, for life a member-- And how he liked their mountain mirth In snowtime and December. I wondered then, I wonder now, When gazing at the Grummet, Whether alone and gathering snow He sits upon some summit, Stylites-like, the storm to mock! Or packed for Cork his seatrunk; Or humbler namesake Simon Stock Is living in a treetrunk. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A LATTER-DAY SAINT by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN A SAMPLE OF COFFEE BEANS by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN AN INCIDENT by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN ANYBODY'S CRITIC by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN APRIL by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN AS SOMETIMES IN A GROVE by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN CORALIE by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN ELIDORE by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN G.D.W. by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN GUNHILDA by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN HYMN TO THE VIRGIN by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN HYMN WRITTEN FOR THE DEDICATION OF A CEMETERY by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN |
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