Lovers’ Leap

’Tis said two lovers (and it may be true), For lack of reason, or of grace, Lept from this rugged precipice Down to the peaceful main below, Whose silvery waters ever flow (I’m more than glad it was not I or you).

Think ye, O reader,—while they scann’d the gulf, What feelings must have rack’d their brain! And picture in your mind the swain, As forth he wandered through the grove, Endeavouring to persuade his love. * * * The thought, alone, is dreadful to one’s self.

Dwell but a moment on the sorrowing scene:— Her arms entwined around his neck— His lips her orisons doth check— And in this act they reel the clift; Another moment life is rift! * * * The ruffled waters are at peace again.

What could, methinks, have caused such dread of life: Was it forbidden them to woo?— And thus despairingly they grew, Till, mutually agreed, they swept The craggy brink, and overlept: So, with the world, they finished all their strife.

Think of the sudden splashing of the stream, Which for a thousand years had flown Harmoniously careering on, Save when the clouds could not restrain Their burden from the moorland plain; And see each wave-ring’s sun-reflected beam.

Now, as the waters ’gan again to smooth, A thousand little bubbles leap From up the bottom of the deep; Say, what were these? Oh! globes of air— The breathings of the dying pair— All telling mournfully the solemn truth.

Enough, enough: turn to a calmer day. Here, once, on issuing from the wood, The gentle Albert stay’d and view’d. * * * The grandeur of the sight drew forth A plaudit of most precious worth (For never did he more pass by that way).

Turn’d ’round, he saw that midway pile, wherein In safety dwells the black-wing’d fowl, While foxes ’neath them nightly prowl: And then he turned around anew, And bade the lovely spot adieu, Expressing pleasure at the glorious scene.

(But he, alas! was in the harvest field Too soon; but God, who gave, received: Though it was hard for her who grieved— And never did one grieve more keen Than she, fair Albion’s widow’d Queen,— Taught the most earthly treasure thus to yield.)

The sun shone forth, and graced with golden strokes These time-carv’d crags, which intervenes Those various blooming evergreens— Dight here and there to garb the spot— That arch full many a cooling grot, Succeeding waterfalls, and purling brooks.

The Prince sped on towards the moorland height (’Twixt ash, and fir, and oak, and pine, Fair attributes of England’s “Rhine,”— The silver-beech, and gorse, and fern, Re-blooming every year in turn), For Plymouth Sound must be regain’d ere night.

Through fragrant bow’rs, on, on the chariot hies; Affrights, perchance, the timid hare; Entraps the rabbit in the snare; Sends high aloft the squirrel, too; The pheasant, to its instinct true, Spreads his fair sails, and to the azure flies.

“Ah!” some will say, “give me the open sea, A ‘mackerel sky,’ a gentle breeze— Much preferable to rocks and trees, And birds that build therein their nests— Give me the gull, that bravely breasts The mountain-waves—these are the joys for me.

“Let me enjoy a ship’s transporting sway, Replying to the faithful gale Which constant swells her trim white sail. I care not for the rock, the rill, The rugged precipice, nor dell, Which landsmen praise and call fine scenery!”

But when the storm converges fiercely round— What say they when the ship is toss’d, Strikes, breaks asunder, and is lost!— Not one alive to tell the tale! * * * Oh! think ye ’t better than the vale, The ivied cluster, nook, or mossy mound? * * *

No! never, never be it sung or said— “Sea scenes can ever match the land,” Where, like to this, God’s works so grand Majestically dight its face; When Sol, empower’d afresh, with grace Tips the lone cottage on the rough hill-side.

They’re happy out at sea: I’m happy here:— High on the moor, let me inhale The beauteous waftings of the gale, Or hear the mounting lark’s blithe sound, Reverb’rating the blue profound— In the ethereal main, free from all care!

I long to roam about those woods, wild grown, Where birds, at leisure, chirp so sweet, And now and then like mortals meet, Discussing instinctly their love, And hatching little ones, which move, Look up, are feather’d, wing’d, leap, and are flown.

Like as their parents—full of joy and glee— Out on the sun-tipp’d hazel hedge, Or black-berried thorn, or myrtle, sedge; Or bounding o’er the fallow plain, In search of some incumbent grain. ’Tis true their life-time’s short, but still ’tis free.

I love that precipice, of which my rhyme Tries to depict unto the mind. Go thither, thou’lt be sure to find (Though I might fail to pen aright) A picture pleasing to the sight; And none, I ween, more fairer in our clime.