Love gain’d is love unlovely, joy ne’er seeth’dBut in desire, still with possession cloy’d;If that the vows whose once perfection breath’d,Could hide with words the margin of their void,Then Love were hope, fulfilment, peace, combined,Into a concord of unearthly bliss;Then were the roses of enjoyment twinedAround the satire on young Love’s first kiss:But Love says, no, and Nature too denies;For Rapture rises but by woe’s decline:And too much bliss, with a brief respite, diesBy coldness, that shall make love dimlier shine.All love betrays man past its paltry base,He mounts his bubble, soars, and falls apace.
Love gain’d is love unlovely, joy ne’er seeth’dBut in desire, still with possession cloy’d;If that the vows whose once perfection breath’d,Could hide with words the margin of their void,Then Love were hope, fulfilment, peace, combined,Into a concord of unearthly bliss;Then were the roses of enjoyment twinedAround the satire on young Love’s first kiss:But Love says, no, and Nature too denies;For Rapture rises but by woe’s decline:And too much bliss, with a brief respite, diesBy coldness, that shall make love dimlier shine.All love betrays man past its paltry base,He mounts his bubble, soars, and falls apace.
Love gain’d is love unlovely, joy ne’er seeth’dBut in desire, still with possession cloy’d;If that the vows whose once perfection breath’d,Could hide with words the margin of their void,Then Love were hope, fulfilment, peace, combined,Into a concord of unearthly bliss;Then were the roses of enjoyment twinedAround the satire on young Love’s first kiss:But Love says, no, and Nature too denies;For Rapture rises but by woe’s decline:And too much bliss, with a brief respite, diesBy coldness, that shall make love dimlier shine.All love betrays man past its paltry base,He mounts his bubble, soars, and falls apace.
Puff’d with the pride that feeds on lonely thoughts,In seeking secure harbours, thou must failOf all the aim which with such toil thou sought’st:Either thy lot be wretchedness, or hailThe empty, fond creations of the brain,For the warm, glowing, living forms of flesh.I smile at danger, and such fears as reign,In some men’s brooding minds entangled mesh;I have a pleasant harbour, and a hope,For ever wooed by an ethereal breeze;Not Love but Friendship’s my ambitious scope,Ne’er shall such fantasies my bosom tease:Yet if I knew not Friendship, I would rest,Sad, not despairing, on Creation’s breast.
Puff’d with the pride that feeds on lonely thoughts,In seeking secure harbours, thou must failOf all the aim which with such toil thou sought’st:Either thy lot be wretchedness, or hailThe empty, fond creations of the brain,For the warm, glowing, living forms of flesh.I smile at danger, and such fears as reign,In some men’s brooding minds entangled mesh;I have a pleasant harbour, and a hope,For ever wooed by an ethereal breeze;Not Love but Friendship’s my ambitious scope,Ne’er shall such fantasies my bosom tease:Yet if I knew not Friendship, I would rest,Sad, not despairing, on Creation’s breast.
Puff’d with the pride that feeds on lonely thoughts,In seeking secure harbours, thou must failOf all the aim which with such toil thou sought’st:Either thy lot be wretchedness, or hailThe empty, fond creations of the brain,For the warm, glowing, living forms of flesh.I smile at danger, and such fears as reign,In some men’s brooding minds entangled mesh;I have a pleasant harbour, and a hope,For ever wooed by an ethereal breeze;Not Love but Friendship’s my ambitious scope,Ne’er shall such fantasies my bosom tease:Yet if I knew not Friendship, I would rest,Sad, not despairing, on Creation’s breast.
Theme of my thought, and beacon to my verse,Too long thy words have stolen me from thy praise;Yet now I’ll linger round thee, and rehearseAll that thou wast in past delightful days:As one, a boy, who leaves his home, his friends,And thinks he knows them well, sudden discernsA charm in what seem’d dead, he stops and sendsMessage to tree and stone, yet weeps not, turnsOnly one parting glance on what, review’dAfter few years, heaps quick EternityOn the bright Past, severing it from the broodOf the moody Future and the Present’s pity:So thick, so warm, the thoughts that press my heart,And goad the gain their frequence fails to impart.
Theme of my thought, and beacon to my verse,Too long thy words have stolen me from thy praise;Yet now I’ll linger round thee, and rehearseAll that thou wast in past delightful days:As one, a boy, who leaves his home, his friends,And thinks he knows them well, sudden discernsA charm in what seem’d dead, he stops and sendsMessage to tree and stone, yet weeps not, turnsOnly one parting glance on what, review’dAfter few years, heaps quick EternityOn the bright Past, severing it from the broodOf the moody Future and the Present’s pity:So thick, so warm, the thoughts that press my heart,And goad the gain their frequence fails to impart.
Theme of my thought, and beacon to my verse,Too long thy words have stolen me from thy praise;Yet now I’ll linger round thee, and rehearseAll that thou wast in past delightful days:As one, a boy, who leaves his home, his friends,And thinks he knows them well, sudden discernsA charm in what seem’d dead, he stops and sendsMessage to tree and stone, yet weeps not, turnsOnly one parting glance on what, review’dAfter few years, heaps quick EternityOn the bright Past, severing it from the broodOf the moody Future and the Present’s pity:So thick, so warm, the thoughts that press my heart,And goad the gain their frequence fails to impart.
How loathing’s germ is longing, grief wooes joy,’Tis but a comment on the hurrying world;Man knows such shiftings and is only coyTo match them to the stage, whereon he’s hurl’d:But thou, immutable substance of all beauty,Shalt yet defeat the purpose of this change,Shalt purge the essence of its vestment sooty,And guide its explorations quick and strange;Thou shalt inhabit and invest a soul,Whose myriad, intricate voices know one tone;And I, where’er wavers my wintry pole,Shall hail that music’s influence as my own:All Beauty, and all Love radiate from thee,Thou centre of my soul’s full harmony.
How loathing’s germ is longing, grief wooes joy,’Tis but a comment on the hurrying world;Man knows such shiftings and is only coyTo match them to the stage, whereon he’s hurl’d:But thou, immutable substance of all beauty,Shalt yet defeat the purpose of this change,Shalt purge the essence of its vestment sooty,And guide its explorations quick and strange;Thou shalt inhabit and invest a soul,Whose myriad, intricate voices know one tone;And I, where’er wavers my wintry pole,Shall hail that music’s influence as my own:All Beauty, and all Love radiate from thee,Thou centre of my soul’s full harmony.
How loathing’s germ is longing, grief wooes joy,’Tis but a comment on the hurrying world;Man knows such shiftings and is only coyTo match them to the stage, whereon he’s hurl’d:But thou, immutable substance of all beauty,Shalt yet defeat the purpose of this change,Shalt purge the essence of its vestment sooty,And guide its explorations quick and strange;Thou shalt inhabit and invest a soul,Whose myriad, intricate voices know one tone;And I, where’er wavers my wintry pole,Shall hail that music’s influence as my own:All Beauty, and all Love radiate from thee,Thou centre of my soul’s full harmony.
Bring me to some waste, whose stream’s Lethean trail,Scarce stirs its islands of monotonous grass;Where circling hills heal their huge tattered mail,With foliage fringing all the mountain pass;Where the quire that sings, deepens the deadly lull;Where Time responds, chiming a sullen note;Where Phœbus, mellowing, blends a glory dull,With shades that on the wings of darkness float;Where a gloom of mystery wears strange, luminous, shapes,Shadowing unholy, ghastly, wizard forms;Growing into the pulsing life, whose pregnance apesFierce fascinations, foul unspeaking storms;Where, in brief space, myriads of demons urgeOne quivering form to Hell’s red hideous verge.
Bring me to some waste, whose stream’s Lethean trail,Scarce stirs its islands of monotonous grass;Where circling hills heal their huge tattered mail,With foliage fringing all the mountain pass;Where the quire that sings, deepens the deadly lull;Where Time responds, chiming a sullen note;Where Phœbus, mellowing, blends a glory dull,With shades that on the wings of darkness float;Where a gloom of mystery wears strange, luminous, shapes,Shadowing unholy, ghastly, wizard forms;Growing into the pulsing life, whose pregnance apesFierce fascinations, foul unspeaking storms;Where, in brief space, myriads of demons urgeOne quivering form to Hell’s red hideous verge.
Bring me to some waste, whose stream’s Lethean trail,Scarce stirs its islands of monotonous grass;Where circling hills heal their huge tattered mail,With foliage fringing all the mountain pass;Where the quire that sings, deepens the deadly lull;Where Time responds, chiming a sullen note;Where Phœbus, mellowing, blends a glory dull,With shades that on the wings of darkness float;Where a gloom of mystery wears strange, luminous, shapes,Shadowing unholy, ghastly, wizard forms;Growing into the pulsing life, whose pregnance apesFierce fascinations, foul unspeaking storms;Where, in brief space, myriads of demons urgeOne quivering form to Hell’s red hideous verge.
Methought, a breath stole and unsealed my eyesAnd bared the workings of the carcase world;An engine, like a skeleton, ever pliesA trade infernal, Death’s flag stood unfurled;With iron teeth, I mark’d, this hell-fiend toreThe gaspings relics of Creation’s throes;Fitted to a rack each substance, looming more,Lengthens unnatural shapes, in awful rows;And howlings, tears, and shriekings thrill’d the night,That mourn’d for ever, dumbly consonant;Each shape, to other bound in pitiless plight,Reluctant, must destroy, foster, or plant,What, it knows not, and cares not; whizzing wheelsWhirl, till the sick heart pants, the mad brain reels.
Methought, a breath stole and unsealed my eyesAnd bared the workings of the carcase world;An engine, like a skeleton, ever pliesA trade infernal, Death’s flag stood unfurled;With iron teeth, I mark’d, this hell-fiend toreThe gaspings relics of Creation’s throes;Fitted to a rack each substance, looming more,Lengthens unnatural shapes, in awful rows;And howlings, tears, and shriekings thrill’d the night,That mourn’d for ever, dumbly consonant;Each shape, to other bound in pitiless plight,Reluctant, must destroy, foster, or plant,What, it knows not, and cares not; whizzing wheelsWhirl, till the sick heart pants, the mad brain reels.
Methought, a breath stole and unsealed my eyesAnd bared the workings of the carcase world;An engine, like a skeleton, ever pliesA trade infernal, Death’s flag stood unfurled;With iron teeth, I mark’d, this hell-fiend toreThe gaspings relics of Creation’s throes;Fitted to a rack each substance, looming more,Lengthens unnatural shapes, in awful rows;And howlings, tears, and shriekings thrill’d the night,That mourn’d for ever, dumbly consonant;Each shape, to other bound in pitiless plight,Reluctant, must destroy, foster, or plant,What, it knows not, and cares not; whizzing wheelsWhirl, till the sick heart pants, the mad brain reels.
I gazed, with unaccustomed eyes, on night,Whose blackness dazzled more than midday sun,It rather seem’d, some new intenser light,Through which immortal powers, far wandering, run:I gazed, and hurled my curses at the rage,That traced its will on such a reckless course;Methought, a golden form of light did cageMy utterance’ portals, strengthening vision’s source;And, fool, it cried, look nearer, nor despair.I saw, ’twas, as the thunder-cloud, that burstIs glorious with the lightning, a child’s hairWithin whose gold entwined sunbeams are nurst,No cradle else so sweet; it was the breathWhose loveliness of life scares dreary death.
I gazed, with unaccustomed eyes, on night,Whose blackness dazzled more than midday sun,It rather seem’d, some new intenser light,Through which immortal powers, far wandering, run:I gazed, and hurled my curses at the rage,That traced its will on such a reckless course;Methought, a golden form of light did cageMy utterance’ portals, strengthening vision’s source;And, fool, it cried, look nearer, nor despair.I saw, ’twas, as the thunder-cloud, that burstIs glorious with the lightning, a child’s hairWithin whose gold entwined sunbeams are nurst,No cradle else so sweet; it was the breathWhose loveliness of life scares dreary death.
I gazed, with unaccustomed eyes, on night,Whose blackness dazzled more than midday sun,It rather seem’d, some new intenser light,Through which immortal powers, far wandering, run:I gazed, and hurled my curses at the rage,That traced its will on such a reckless course;Methought, a golden form of light did cageMy utterance’ portals, strengthening vision’s source;And, fool, it cried, look nearer, nor despair.I saw, ’twas, as the thunder-cloud, that burstIs glorious with the lightning, a child’s hairWithin whose gold entwined sunbeams are nurst,No cradle else so sweet; it was the breathWhose loveliness of life scares dreary death.
Dreams, visions, foolish echoings to the thought,That homeless wanders for the thing it loves:The fancies of man’s waking are so fraughtWith folly, or philosophy that rovesIt knows not where, that ’tis no marvel sleepShould pass its coinage as the current dross:Could man contain his dreamings in their keep,How great a gain should balance little loss:The world is wearied, to know why it plodsThe equal tenour of a various way;But half attends, smiles sometimes, sometimes nodsO’er its dissection, while its head is grey.It clears the rubble from its own high-road,And asks but truth, nor cares to increase its load.
Dreams, visions, foolish echoings to the thought,That homeless wanders for the thing it loves:The fancies of man’s waking are so fraughtWith folly, or philosophy that rovesIt knows not where, that ’tis no marvel sleepShould pass its coinage as the current dross:Could man contain his dreamings in their keep,How great a gain should balance little loss:The world is wearied, to know why it plodsThe equal tenour of a various way;But half attends, smiles sometimes, sometimes nodsO’er its dissection, while its head is grey.It clears the rubble from its own high-road,And asks but truth, nor cares to increase its load.
Dreams, visions, foolish echoings to the thought,That homeless wanders for the thing it loves:The fancies of man’s waking are so fraughtWith folly, or philosophy that rovesIt knows not where, that ’tis no marvel sleepShould pass its coinage as the current dross:Could man contain his dreamings in their keep,How great a gain should balance little loss:The world is wearied, to know why it plodsThe equal tenour of a various way;But half attends, smiles sometimes, sometimes nodsO’er its dissection, while its head is grey.It clears the rubble from its own high-road,And asks but truth, nor cares to increase its load.
Life is a river, that hath caught its gleamFrom age’s lingering years, and youth’s proud date,From dull despair, and from the hopes, that seemTo form their longing, and to hide their hate;From sickness, quailing underneath her pains;And health, exulting in his pride of life;From black meláncholy, that turns her gains,All to the theme of an unending strife;From that fine frame of beauty and of bliss,That, over-sensitive, will not distortNature’s delights to Hell’s triumphant hiss,That, ’mid its sorrows, lives near joy’s high court:From genius, freedom, beauty it assumesAs many forms, as hate’s dark hell consumes.
Life is a river, that hath caught its gleamFrom age’s lingering years, and youth’s proud date,From dull despair, and from the hopes, that seemTo form their longing, and to hide their hate;From sickness, quailing underneath her pains;And health, exulting in his pride of life;From black meláncholy, that turns her gains,All to the theme of an unending strife;From that fine frame of beauty and of bliss,That, over-sensitive, will not distortNature’s delights to Hell’s triumphant hiss,That, ’mid its sorrows, lives near joy’s high court:From genius, freedom, beauty it assumesAs many forms, as hate’s dark hell consumes.
Life is a river, that hath caught its gleamFrom age’s lingering years, and youth’s proud date,From dull despair, and from the hopes, that seemTo form their longing, and to hide their hate;From sickness, quailing underneath her pains;And health, exulting in his pride of life;From black meláncholy, that turns her gains,All to the theme of an unending strife;From that fine frame of beauty and of bliss,That, over-sensitive, will not distortNature’s delights to Hell’s triumphant hiss,That, ’mid its sorrows, lives near joy’s high court:From genius, freedom, beauty it assumesAs many forms, as hate’s dark hell consumes.
I once inquired, whence the cicada broughtThe joy whose music prattles through the day;I wished that the glad lark would but have taught,Whence came the glee that could incite his lay;And, as the rolling streams of music flow,Building all heaven along the deep blue wave,I prayed, that I might e’er thus rapturous glowAnd wholly live within the bliss they gave,When, on the dancing waters, the white sailGrows big with kisses of the lustful wind,Blushing at sunrise, and at midnight pale,All for some lurking love that match’d their kind;Then, anxiously, I sought that blissful bound;That was long since e’er thou, my friend, wast found.
I once inquired, whence the cicada broughtThe joy whose music prattles through the day;I wished that the glad lark would but have taught,Whence came the glee that could incite his lay;And, as the rolling streams of music flow,Building all heaven along the deep blue wave,I prayed, that I might e’er thus rapturous glowAnd wholly live within the bliss they gave,When, on the dancing waters, the white sailGrows big with kisses of the lustful wind,Blushing at sunrise, and at midnight pale,All for some lurking love that match’d their kind;Then, anxiously, I sought that blissful bound;That was long since e’er thou, my friend, wast found.
I once inquired, whence the cicada broughtThe joy whose music prattles through the day;I wished that the glad lark would but have taught,Whence came the glee that could incite his lay;And, as the rolling streams of music flow,Building all heaven along the deep blue wave,I prayed, that I might e’er thus rapturous glowAnd wholly live within the bliss they gave,When, on the dancing waters, the white sailGrows big with kisses of the lustful wind,Blushing at sunrise, and at midnight pale,All for some lurking love that match’d their kind;Then, anxiously, I sought that blissful bound;That was long since e’er thou, my friend, wast found.
To some the world is but a ragged screen,Hiding the essence of eternal fire;They tear its tatters, and would peep between;The unknown is lovely, and the rest is mire.And other some glory in Nature’s robe,Dare scorn ideal monsters of the mind,Where man would test the heart with his nice probe,Suit his sick taste, and leave the rest behind;And some are drunken of they know not what,And cull what sweets may hang from every hour,Nor hope, nor pause, but magnify the sot;Know not the weed, or train it as their flower.Let these rejoice, yet happier, by far,The silly brutes, that gorge at pleasure, are.
To some the world is but a ragged screen,Hiding the essence of eternal fire;They tear its tatters, and would peep between;The unknown is lovely, and the rest is mire.And other some glory in Nature’s robe,Dare scorn ideal monsters of the mind,Where man would test the heart with his nice probe,Suit his sick taste, and leave the rest behind;And some are drunken of they know not what,And cull what sweets may hang from every hour,Nor hope, nor pause, but magnify the sot;Know not the weed, or train it as their flower.Let these rejoice, yet happier, by far,The silly brutes, that gorge at pleasure, are.
To some the world is but a ragged screen,Hiding the essence of eternal fire;They tear its tatters, and would peep between;The unknown is lovely, and the rest is mire.And other some glory in Nature’s robe,Dare scorn ideal monsters of the mind,Where man would test the heart with his nice probe,Suit his sick taste, and leave the rest behind;And some are drunken of they know not what,And cull what sweets may hang from every hour,Nor hope, nor pause, but magnify the sot;Know not the weed, or train it as their flower.Let these rejoice, yet happier, by far,The silly brutes, that gorge at pleasure, are.
All pleasures and all hopes are their own scorn,And man’s a measure, filling, never fill’d;Who’d not sell life, its promise something worn,For one week’s bliss with no awakening chill’d?It cannot be; and some, foil’d or despis’d,Or craving peace, life’s courted joys all spann’d,Have scouted all things which the world e’er prized;Dreaming of life, through the dead cloister scann’d,Fair sounds this, luring; yet, methinks, that showsA creed nor hard, nor healthy, which unscrewsThe rivets, that should pin us to the throes,That nature in begetting man renews:The earthly mind, fed on unearthly leaven,Diffuses Hell through earth, and earth through Heaven.
All pleasures and all hopes are their own scorn,And man’s a measure, filling, never fill’d;Who’d not sell life, its promise something worn,For one week’s bliss with no awakening chill’d?It cannot be; and some, foil’d or despis’d,Or craving peace, life’s courted joys all spann’d,Have scouted all things which the world e’er prized;Dreaming of life, through the dead cloister scann’d,Fair sounds this, luring; yet, methinks, that showsA creed nor hard, nor healthy, which unscrewsThe rivets, that should pin us to the throes,That nature in begetting man renews:The earthly mind, fed on unearthly leaven,Diffuses Hell through earth, and earth through Heaven.
All pleasures and all hopes are their own scorn,And man’s a measure, filling, never fill’d;Who’d not sell life, its promise something worn,For one week’s bliss with no awakening chill’d?It cannot be; and some, foil’d or despis’d,Or craving peace, life’s courted joys all spann’d,Have scouted all things which the world e’er prized;Dreaming of life, through the dead cloister scann’d,Fair sounds this, luring; yet, methinks, that showsA creed nor hard, nor healthy, which unscrewsThe rivets, that should pin us to the throes,That nature in begetting man renews:The earthly mind, fed on unearthly leaven,Diffuses Hell through earth, and earth through Heaven.
Who ponders on eternity, can drawIts shadow o’er the strangeness of this earth,And, quite immersed in future bliss, can storeHis fancy’s dreams with fables of new birth;And men have tortured, altering holiest phrase,And sanctified the hopes which they adored;Have made their souls more worthless than their praise,Saying, that perfect love to Heaven outpoured,Must hold its flood, nor risk the Heaven it decks,Making love less lovely than the hope of bliss;Fostering the demon Self, whose presence checks,And dulls each noble prompting with his kiss.Say ye, who steal the jewels from Heaven’s crown,Where lies the rigour of Hell’s fancied frown?
Who ponders on eternity, can drawIts shadow o’er the strangeness of this earth,And, quite immersed in future bliss, can storeHis fancy’s dreams with fables of new birth;And men have tortured, altering holiest phrase,And sanctified the hopes which they adored;Have made their souls more worthless than their praise,Saying, that perfect love to Heaven outpoured,Must hold its flood, nor risk the Heaven it decks,Making love less lovely than the hope of bliss;Fostering the demon Self, whose presence checks,And dulls each noble prompting with his kiss.Say ye, who steal the jewels from Heaven’s crown,Where lies the rigour of Hell’s fancied frown?
Who ponders on eternity, can drawIts shadow o’er the strangeness of this earth,And, quite immersed in future bliss, can storeHis fancy’s dreams with fables of new birth;And men have tortured, altering holiest phrase,And sanctified the hopes which they adored;Have made their souls more worthless than their praise,Saying, that perfect love to Heaven outpoured,Must hold its flood, nor risk the Heaven it decks,Making love less lovely than the hope of bliss;Fostering the demon Self, whose presence checks,And dulls each noble prompting with his kiss.Say ye, who steal the jewels from Heaven’s crown,Where lies the rigour of Hell’s fancied frown?
Heaven! ’tis a name, that as inconstant sways,As fame or love, the changes of the moon,Or, whatsoever wanders by dim waysTo a goal, fashioned by youth’s treacherous noon:Heaven! ’tis a sound that in its uttering mocksThe hopes, reposing round that various base;Adroitly differing, tempered to the shocks,That mind the slow world of its desperate case!The flattery of an echo from each heart,A mirror, where each soul, reflected, showsUnnatural choice of some unworthy part,Which nature’s whole must loathingly depose:Seek virtue for itself, or, seeking, loseA Heaven apart, else Hell would Heaven confuse.
Heaven! ’tis a name, that as inconstant sways,As fame or love, the changes of the moon,Or, whatsoever wanders by dim waysTo a goal, fashioned by youth’s treacherous noon:Heaven! ’tis a sound that in its uttering mocksThe hopes, reposing round that various base;Adroitly differing, tempered to the shocks,That mind the slow world of its desperate case!The flattery of an echo from each heart,A mirror, where each soul, reflected, showsUnnatural choice of some unworthy part,Which nature’s whole must loathingly depose:Seek virtue for itself, or, seeking, loseA Heaven apart, else Hell would Heaven confuse.
Heaven! ’tis a name, that as inconstant sways,As fame or love, the changes of the moon,Or, whatsoever wanders by dim waysTo a goal, fashioned by youth’s treacherous noon:Heaven! ’tis a sound that in its uttering mocksThe hopes, reposing round that various base;Adroitly differing, tempered to the shocks,That mind the slow world of its desperate case!The flattery of an echo from each heart,A mirror, where each soul, reflected, showsUnnatural choice of some unworthy part,Which nature’s whole must loathingly depose:Seek virtue for itself, or, seeking, loseA Heaven apart, else Hell would Heaven confuse.
Life is a brook, that over pebbles glides,And tints with colour of the cloud his wave;Now, the East blazes, now, sad Phœbus slidesDown the red hills, that shroud him for his grave;The waters now are calm, now, troubled, foam,Exult on ridges, now o’er slopes decline,Now, in their summer sprightliness, they roam,Now, stand, congealed, in winter’s icy twine;Full many a flower is often mirror’d there,And the fresh grass, and the green shady trees,Full many a pebble glistens through them, fair,All in confusion, toss’d by wave and breeze;’Tis strange, though many stones are form’d to fit,Few meet their mates, most roll confus’dly knit.
Life is a brook, that over pebbles glides,And tints with colour of the cloud his wave;Now, the East blazes, now, sad Phœbus slidesDown the red hills, that shroud him for his grave;The waters now are calm, now, troubled, foam,Exult on ridges, now o’er slopes decline,Now, in their summer sprightliness, they roam,Now, stand, congealed, in winter’s icy twine;Full many a flower is often mirror’d there,And the fresh grass, and the green shady trees,Full many a pebble glistens through them, fair,All in confusion, toss’d by wave and breeze;’Tis strange, though many stones are form’d to fit,Few meet their mates, most roll confus’dly knit.
Life is a brook, that over pebbles glides,And tints with colour of the cloud his wave;Now, the East blazes, now, sad Phœbus slidesDown the red hills, that shroud him for his grave;The waters now are calm, now, troubled, foam,Exult on ridges, now o’er slopes decline,Now, in their summer sprightliness, they roam,Now, stand, congealed, in winter’s icy twine;Full many a flower is often mirror’d there,And the fresh grass, and the green shady trees,Full many a pebble glistens through them, fair,All in confusion, toss’d by wave and breeze;’Tis strange, though many stones are form’d to fit,Few meet their mates, most roll confus’dly knit.
The world’s but a rude frame, whose substance takesColouring from all who flatter, or who curse;How oft man’s heart, all discontented wakes,His frame’s a coffin, and the world’s his hearse;How oft, despairing, he goes forth to findYet more assurance of the thing he hates;How oft he leaves misanthropy behind,New folly found, of former folly prates:Needs but some precept, touch, face, form, or wordTo dam the current, and to turn its course;Earth, in her loveliness, or music heard,While low sweet voices harmonize its force:There’s nought so small in Nature, but can sumEarth’s total process, which it seems to numb.
The world’s but a rude frame, whose substance takesColouring from all who flatter, or who curse;How oft man’s heart, all discontented wakes,His frame’s a coffin, and the world’s his hearse;How oft, despairing, he goes forth to findYet more assurance of the thing he hates;How oft he leaves misanthropy behind,New folly found, of former folly prates:Needs but some precept, touch, face, form, or wordTo dam the current, and to turn its course;Earth, in her loveliness, or music heard,While low sweet voices harmonize its force:There’s nought so small in Nature, but can sumEarth’s total process, which it seems to numb.
The world’s but a rude frame, whose substance takesColouring from all who flatter, or who curse;How oft man’s heart, all discontented wakes,His frame’s a coffin, and the world’s his hearse;How oft, despairing, he goes forth to findYet more assurance of the thing he hates;How oft he leaves misanthropy behind,New folly found, of former folly prates:Needs but some precept, touch, face, form, or wordTo dam the current, and to turn its course;Earth, in her loveliness, or music heard,While low sweet voices harmonize its force:There’s nought so small in Nature, but can sumEarth’s total process, which it seems to numb.
Lo! thus, that life, which seem’d to me a void,E’er thou my sun did’st gild it with thy light,Now looks as merry, as the bubble buoy’dOn summer’s billow, whose quick glory’s bright:My scouted woe now glares as sourly-strange,As once joy show’d to my grief-fashioned breast;Each act, each thought, as through the world I range,Finds new commencement, in young vigour drest:Rich centre, around which my life revolves,How strong the attraction of thy far intent;How living, and how joyous, the resolvesWhose object, thou, thy will, their utmost bent:Though thou art far, fancy relieves her fear,Imagining thoughts whose love may bring thee near.
Lo! thus, that life, which seem’d to me a void,E’er thou my sun did’st gild it with thy light,Now looks as merry, as the bubble buoy’dOn summer’s billow, whose quick glory’s bright:My scouted woe now glares as sourly-strange,As once joy show’d to my grief-fashioned breast;Each act, each thought, as through the world I range,Finds new commencement, in young vigour drest:Rich centre, around which my life revolves,How strong the attraction of thy far intent;How living, and how joyous, the resolvesWhose object, thou, thy will, their utmost bent:Though thou art far, fancy relieves her fear,Imagining thoughts whose love may bring thee near.
Lo! thus, that life, which seem’d to me a void,E’er thou my sun did’st gild it with thy light,Now looks as merry, as the bubble buoy’dOn summer’s billow, whose quick glory’s bright:My scouted woe now glares as sourly-strange,As once joy show’d to my grief-fashioned breast;Each act, each thought, as through the world I range,Finds new commencement, in young vigour drest:Rich centre, around which my life revolves,How strong the attraction of thy far intent;How living, and how joyous, the resolvesWhose object, thou, thy will, their utmost bent:Though thou art far, fancy relieves her fear,Imagining thoughts whose love may bring thee near.
O immense chaos whence each forms his world!Where difference lovely suits distinctive minds:How hideous others’ landskips were, unfurled;Fancy guides all, enlightens, or else blinds:Yet, at my idol’s shrine, I’d fain believeThe pride of each were quick constrain’d to pray,Could I but e’er impart, that I receiveFrom the mind imaged in thy beauty’s ray:But, founder’d in my bliss, I helpless lie,Like Phrygia’s king, incompetent in wealth;When I behold thee, laden thought would die;And seeing not, I picture thee, by stealth:It wants thy equal, to report thy praise,Let such fill up the inkling in these lays.
O immense chaos whence each forms his world!Where difference lovely suits distinctive minds:How hideous others’ landskips were, unfurled;Fancy guides all, enlightens, or else blinds:Yet, at my idol’s shrine, I’d fain believeThe pride of each were quick constrain’d to pray,Could I but e’er impart, that I receiveFrom the mind imaged in thy beauty’s ray:But, founder’d in my bliss, I helpless lie,Like Phrygia’s king, incompetent in wealth;When I behold thee, laden thought would die;And seeing not, I picture thee, by stealth:It wants thy equal, to report thy praise,Let such fill up the inkling in these lays.
O immense chaos whence each forms his world!Where difference lovely suits distinctive minds:How hideous others’ landskips were, unfurled;Fancy guides all, enlightens, or else blinds:Yet, at my idol’s shrine, I’d fain believeThe pride of each were quick constrain’d to pray,Could I but e’er impart, that I receiveFrom the mind imaged in thy beauty’s ray:But, founder’d in my bliss, I helpless lie,Like Phrygia’s king, incompetent in wealth;When I behold thee, laden thought would die;And seeing not, I picture thee, by stealth:It wants thy equal, to report thy praise,Let such fill up the inkling in these lays.
Dear child of joy, who read thy soul shall find,That all things shifting, man must vary too;Sometimes in thunder, earthquake, and in wind,Nature will mourn, so grief her sons should woo;But when the winning breeze coys with the sail,That bears thy bark along the flowing wave;Then, know, perfection lives not in the paleOf that small space, where thy mad fancies rave:If there’s no happiness, then conquer time,And grandly dare to build, scorning blind Fate;Fate lives enshrined within the spirit sublime,Which o’er a faltering world asserts its weight.Let fools of circumstance wither and yield,Some in themselves foster the fate they wield.
Dear child of joy, who read thy soul shall find,That all things shifting, man must vary too;Sometimes in thunder, earthquake, and in wind,Nature will mourn, so grief her sons should woo;But when the winning breeze coys with the sail,That bears thy bark along the flowing wave;Then, know, perfection lives not in the paleOf that small space, where thy mad fancies rave:If there’s no happiness, then conquer time,And grandly dare to build, scorning blind Fate;Fate lives enshrined within the spirit sublime,Which o’er a faltering world asserts its weight.Let fools of circumstance wither and yield,Some in themselves foster the fate they wield.
Dear child of joy, who read thy soul shall find,That all things shifting, man must vary too;Sometimes in thunder, earthquake, and in wind,Nature will mourn, so grief her sons should woo;But when the winning breeze coys with the sail,That bears thy bark along the flowing wave;Then, know, perfection lives not in the paleOf that small space, where thy mad fancies rave:If there’s no happiness, then conquer time,And grandly dare to build, scorning blind Fate;Fate lives enshrined within the spirit sublime,Which o’er a faltering world asserts its weight.Let fools of circumstance wither and yield,Some in themselves foster the fate they wield.
Men err, and blindly happiness propose,Whither their steps and fortunes should aspire;Alas! they seek, what Earth no longer knows;Once haply clasp’d, the wanton’s waxing shier;For, now, it hath ascended to the heavens,And sits commingling Nature’s shapes and dyes:Who’s rash to seek it, him, ill fortune leavensWith sick acquirement of unworthy sighs:Youth courts the sunshine to his vigorous wings;Sees Hope, that beckons, thinks himself a God;Rivals the lark, acting the joy it sings;Till age desponds at Life’s too real rod:Let youth abandon hope, and court content,Now bliss mocks hope, then joys were blessings lent.
Men err, and blindly happiness propose,Whither their steps and fortunes should aspire;Alas! they seek, what Earth no longer knows;Once haply clasp’d, the wanton’s waxing shier;For, now, it hath ascended to the heavens,And sits commingling Nature’s shapes and dyes:Who’s rash to seek it, him, ill fortune leavensWith sick acquirement of unworthy sighs:Youth courts the sunshine to his vigorous wings;Sees Hope, that beckons, thinks himself a God;Rivals the lark, acting the joy it sings;Till age desponds at Life’s too real rod:Let youth abandon hope, and court content,Now bliss mocks hope, then joys were blessings lent.
Men err, and blindly happiness propose,Whither their steps and fortunes should aspire;Alas! they seek, what Earth no longer knows;Once haply clasp’d, the wanton’s waxing shier;For, now, it hath ascended to the heavens,And sits commingling Nature’s shapes and dyes:Who’s rash to seek it, him, ill fortune leavensWith sick acquirement of unworthy sighs:Youth courts the sunshine to his vigorous wings;Sees Hope, that beckons, thinks himself a God;Rivals the lark, acting the joy it sings;Till age desponds at Life’s too real rod:Let youth abandon hope, and court content,Now bliss mocks hope, then joys were blessings lent.
O ye, the eastern glory of whose hope,Laughs at the shadow, which your phantom shames,Abase the aery tenour of your scope,E’er woe involve its promise, earth your frames:Who ponder, reckon vain all reason’s forts;Who think not, live, but know not joy’s true tones:They wander, vacant, through high Nature’s courts;Their spirit seems unworthy, even of groans:Intrusion of vain tears but mocks the woe,Whose dregs are tasteless of the former draught;Time was, when the harp wrung the tears that flow,Grateful, since needful, then the people quafft.But time rolls on, and in its changes bringsThe age that scoffs at its ancestors’ wings.
O ye, the eastern glory of whose hope,Laughs at the shadow, which your phantom shames,Abase the aery tenour of your scope,E’er woe involve its promise, earth your frames:Who ponder, reckon vain all reason’s forts;Who think not, live, but know not joy’s true tones:They wander, vacant, through high Nature’s courts;Their spirit seems unworthy, even of groans:Intrusion of vain tears but mocks the woe,Whose dregs are tasteless of the former draught;Time was, when the harp wrung the tears that flow,Grateful, since needful, then the people quafft.But time rolls on, and in its changes bringsThe age that scoffs at its ancestors’ wings.
O ye, the eastern glory of whose hope,Laughs at the shadow, which your phantom shames,Abase the aery tenour of your scope,E’er woe involve its promise, earth your frames:Who ponder, reckon vain all reason’s forts;Who think not, live, but know not joy’s true tones:They wander, vacant, through high Nature’s courts;Their spirit seems unworthy, even of groans:Intrusion of vain tears but mocks the woe,Whose dregs are tasteless of the former draught;Time was, when the harp wrung the tears that flow,Grateful, since needful, then the people quafft.But time rolls on, and in its changes bringsThe age that scoffs at its ancestors’ wings.
A new Narcissus gazed himself to death,Picturing his lonely beauty in the flood,The river, onward flowing, flouts the breathThat charm’d the fire, Promethean, from its mud:Who topple on a pinnacle, scorn the stepsThat usher to the pride, whereon they stand;Yet Nature’s structure swerves not, men, adeptsAt self-deception, judge from whence they’ve scann’d;View the whole plot, and just should all appear,What’s beauteous, the relief that Nature wears,The base, by difficult straits and shoals, should steerTo quicken praise, shunning monotonous cares:What fail’d of high fulfilment, where it lack’d,Should live in others’ worth when all were pack’d.
A new Narcissus gazed himself to death,Picturing his lonely beauty in the flood,The river, onward flowing, flouts the breathThat charm’d the fire, Promethean, from its mud:Who topple on a pinnacle, scorn the stepsThat usher to the pride, whereon they stand;Yet Nature’s structure swerves not, men, adeptsAt self-deception, judge from whence they’ve scann’d;View the whole plot, and just should all appear,What’s beauteous, the relief that Nature wears,The base, by difficult straits and shoals, should steerTo quicken praise, shunning monotonous cares:What fail’d of high fulfilment, where it lack’d,Should live in others’ worth when all were pack’d.
A new Narcissus gazed himself to death,Picturing his lonely beauty in the flood,The river, onward flowing, flouts the breathThat charm’d the fire, Promethean, from its mud:Who topple on a pinnacle, scorn the stepsThat usher to the pride, whereon they stand;Yet Nature’s structure swerves not, men, adeptsAt self-deception, judge from whence they’ve scann’d;View the whole plot, and just should all appear,What’s beauteous, the relief that Nature wears,The base, by difficult straits and shoals, should steerTo quicken praise, shunning monotonous cares:What fail’d of high fulfilment, where it lack’d,Should live in others’ worth when all were pack’d.
Thy voice still cautioned, ’tis no time for woe,Nor only warned, but marked out safety’s road;Who crams his yearning heart with earthly show,Straight to be voided, fondles with the goad;Who nods to Passion, as he gulps the chaffThat whitens the base highway of the world,Totters to age, on an unstable staff,Shook by the winds, which his own hopes unfurl’d;Who tamely would let Age assert his claims,And stiffen self to a distincter mould,Who would not rather curse all shapes, thoughts, names,That frame men’s hearts to forms, as meagre-cold:He ne’er shall triumph o’er the powers of woe;Mad Passion bursts his bounds, and thunders, “No.”
Thy voice still cautioned, ’tis no time for woe,Nor only warned, but marked out safety’s road;Who crams his yearning heart with earthly show,Straight to be voided, fondles with the goad;Who nods to Passion, as he gulps the chaffThat whitens the base highway of the world,Totters to age, on an unstable staff,Shook by the winds, which his own hopes unfurl’d;Who tamely would let Age assert his claims,And stiffen self to a distincter mould,Who would not rather curse all shapes, thoughts, names,That frame men’s hearts to forms, as meagre-cold:He ne’er shall triumph o’er the powers of woe;Mad Passion bursts his bounds, and thunders, “No.”
Thy voice still cautioned, ’tis no time for woe,Nor only warned, but marked out safety’s road;Who crams his yearning heart with earthly show,Straight to be voided, fondles with the goad;Who nods to Passion, as he gulps the chaffThat whitens the base highway of the world,Totters to age, on an unstable staff,Shook by the winds, which his own hopes unfurl’d;Who tamely would let Age assert his claims,And stiffen self to a distincter mould,Who would not rather curse all shapes, thoughts, names,That frame men’s hearts to forms, as meagre-cold:He ne’er shall triumph o’er the powers of woe;Mad Passion bursts his bounds, and thunders, “No.”
The poison well’d from Circe’s treacherous cupsBeyond the shape, with fell designment, work’d;Had thought not pander’d to nectareous sups,And, brute-like, veiled what beastly semblance lurk’d,Sure change had mock’d his aim, by death and spleen.’Tis bounteous Nature smoothes the wrinkled brow,Bellying with pride the front that looks too lean:She plants conceit in gaping brains enow;She salves with flattery some unequal wounds,Impartial measures grief for men and years;One age inglorious slumbers on and swounds;One moistens deathless leaves with blood and tears:All drink, and die, but oh! how deep a draught,E’er separate life’s a blessing, must be quafft.
The poison well’d from Circe’s treacherous cupsBeyond the shape, with fell designment, work’d;Had thought not pander’d to nectareous sups,And, brute-like, veiled what beastly semblance lurk’d,Sure change had mock’d his aim, by death and spleen.’Tis bounteous Nature smoothes the wrinkled brow,Bellying with pride the front that looks too lean:She plants conceit in gaping brains enow;She salves with flattery some unequal wounds,Impartial measures grief for men and years;One age inglorious slumbers on and swounds;One moistens deathless leaves with blood and tears:All drink, and die, but oh! how deep a draught,E’er separate life’s a blessing, must be quafft.
The poison well’d from Circe’s treacherous cupsBeyond the shape, with fell designment, work’d;Had thought not pander’d to nectareous sups,And, brute-like, veiled what beastly semblance lurk’d,Sure change had mock’d his aim, by death and spleen.’Tis bounteous Nature smoothes the wrinkled brow,Bellying with pride the front that looks too lean:She plants conceit in gaping brains enow;She salves with flattery some unequal wounds,Impartial measures grief for men and years;One age inglorious slumbers on and swounds;One moistens deathless leaves with blood and tears:All drink, and die, but oh! how deep a draught,E’er separate life’s a blessing, must be quafft.
LXI
The rivulets, the earth, the skies, the motionWhose substance varies to a higher change,The clouds, the woods, the mountains, and the oceanWhose endless blue defies the fancy’s range,The sun, and the calm host that guide the nightThroughout the seasons of the changeful year,The warmth, the snow, the music, and the brightFoliage that quivers to the songsters’ cheer;And the swift thought that wings its measureless way(Though clogg’d with self, it feels but how it fails,)Just to the confines of eternal day,In outer orbit whirl’d it pines, and sails;And more than these, Love, Beauty, Reason, Joy.All these are life, but self’s a half-formed toy.
The rivulets, the earth, the skies, the motionWhose substance varies to a higher change,The clouds, the woods, the mountains, and the oceanWhose endless blue defies the fancy’s range,The sun, and the calm host that guide the nightThroughout the seasons of the changeful year,The warmth, the snow, the music, and the brightFoliage that quivers to the songsters’ cheer;And the swift thought that wings its measureless way(Though clogg’d with self, it feels but how it fails,)Just to the confines of eternal day,In outer orbit whirl’d it pines, and sails;And more than these, Love, Beauty, Reason, Joy.All these are life, but self’s a half-formed toy.
The rivulets, the earth, the skies, the motionWhose substance varies to a higher change,The clouds, the woods, the mountains, and the oceanWhose endless blue defies the fancy’s range,The sun, and the calm host that guide the nightThroughout the seasons of the changeful year,The warmth, the snow, the music, and the brightFoliage that quivers to the songsters’ cheer;And the swift thought that wings its measureless way(Though clogg’d with self, it feels but how it fails,)Just to the confines of eternal day,In outer orbit whirl’d it pines, and sails;And more than these, Love, Beauty, Reason, Joy.All these are life, but self’s a half-formed toy.
O ye faint touches, that but tire the gaze,Casting reflection on incompetence;O all ye thoughts, that weave truth’s tangled maze,Would we might grasp your spirit’s hidden sense:Man is shut out from what himself assists;Too dear-bought self, rich privilege to conceal,Strange substance, individualized, that twistsA web, it knows not how, more stiff than steel:Man knows not how, or wherefore, whence, or why;He thinks that he must go; whither? he doubts,Creeds he must form and hopes; he cannot fly,And haply would not, fostering fears he scouts;Thrown on the world, he’d lose, in the world’s din,Too fine perception of sad worlds within.
O ye faint touches, that but tire the gaze,Casting reflection on incompetence;O all ye thoughts, that weave truth’s tangled maze,Would we might grasp your spirit’s hidden sense:Man is shut out from what himself assists;Too dear-bought self, rich privilege to conceal,Strange substance, individualized, that twistsA web, it knows not how, more stiff than steel:Man knows not how, or wherefore, whence, or why;He thinks that he must go; whither? he doubts,Creeds he must form and hopes; he cannot fly,And haply would not, fostering fears he scouts;Thrown on the world, he’d lose, in the world’s din,Too fine perception of sad worlds within.
O ye faint touches, that but tire the gaze,Casting reflection on incompetence;O all ye thoughts, that weave truth’s tangled maze,Would we might grasp your spirit’s hidden sense:Man is shut out from what himself assists;Too dear-bought self, rich privilege to conceal,Strange substance, individualized, that twistsA web, it knows not how, more stiff than steel:Man knows not how, or wherefore, whence, or why;He thinks that he must go; whither? he doubts,Creeds he must form and hopes; he cannot fly,And haply would not, fostering fears he scouts;Thrown on the world, he’d lose, in the world’s din,Too fine perception of sad worlds within.
And Death is the glad clasp of knotted braids;Death seals the circlet, that Life gradual twines;In all that’s fair, Death, inartistic, trades;Beauty he saps, beleaguering Youth with mines;O, art thou usher to a fuller world,Grim Death, whose smile is cased in a frown?Or speak’st thou only to an infant curl’d,Dreaming a moment in a bed of down?Stalk not too proudly, ravisher of life,Thy boast shall reach no pearl in Nature’s casket;What sinks, benumb’d, though lovely, in the strifeShall cast the slough, that could a moment mask it.I cannot wholly hate nor love thee, Death,Thou tak’st my life, but robb’st my friend of breath.
And Death is the glad clasp of knotted braids;Death seals the circlet, that Life gradual twines;In all that’s fair, Death, inartistic, trades;Beauty he saps, beleaguering Youth with mines;O, art thou usher to a fuller world,Grim Death, whose smile is cased in a frown?Or speak’st thou only to an infant curl’d,Dreaming a moment in a bed of down?Stalk not too proudly, ravisher of life,Thy boast shall reach no pearl in Nature’s casket;What sinks, benumb’d, though lovely, in the strifeShall cast the slough, that could a moment mask it.I cannot wholly hate nor love thee, Death,Thou tak’st my life, but robb’st my friend of breath.
And Death is the glad clasp of knotted braids;Death seals the circlet, that Life gradual twines;In all that’s fair, Death, inartistic, trades;Beauty he saps, beleaguering Youth with mines;O, art thou usher to a fuller world,Grim Death, whose smile is cased in a frown?Or speak’st thou only to an infant curl’d,Dreaming a moment in a bed of down?Stalk not too proudly, ravisher of life,Thy boast shall reach no pearl in Nature’s casket;What sinks, benumb’d, though lovely, in the strifeShall cast the slough, that could a moment mask it.I cannot wholly hate nor love thee, Death,Thou tak’st my life, but robb’st my friend of breath.
Doubt struggles into Faith, and calls it life,Hopes turn to gods, and fears take demon forms;Man must be somewhere stayed in this strange strife;He feels himself so weak against its storms.Dim eyes he strains into futurity;Weak arms, extending, gropes to find his road;His fingers clutch at what seems Purity;Thank Heaven! he sees not all their ghastly load.And, whether all footpaths lead to the same place,Or the weed hope blossoms into a flower;Or whether all struggle in a phantom race,And blow the bubbles of fame, love and power;All this he knows not, somewhere he would rest,By pleasure, or content, aye so ’twere best.
Doubt struggles into Faith, and calls it life,Hopes turn to gods, and fears take demon forms;Man must be somewhere stayed in this strange strife;He feels himself so weak against its storms.Dim eyes he strains into futurity;Weak arms, extending, gropes to find his road;His fingers clutch at what seems Purity;Thank Heaven! he sees not all their ghastly load.And, whether all footpaths lead to the same place,Or the weed hope blossoms into a flower;Or whether all struggle in a phantom race,And blow the bubbles of fame, love and power;All this he knows not, somewhere he would rest,By pleasure, or content, aye so ’twere best.
Doubt struggles into Faith, and calls it life,Hopes turn to gods, and fears take demon forms;Man must be somewhere stayed in this strange strife;He feels himself so weak against its storms.Dim eyes he strains into futurity;Weak arms, extending, gropes to find his road;His fingers clutch at what seems Purity;Thank Heaven! he sees not all their ghastly load.And, whether all footpaths lead to the same place,Or the weed hope blossoms into a flower;Or whether all struggle in a phantom race,And blow the bubbles of fame, love and power;All this he knows not, somewhere he would rest,By pleasure, or content, aye so ’twere best.
Life’s but a straw, that’s piped upon by winds,Fluttering to different tunes at every blast;But he is strong who conquers what he finds,Dragging it onward, as the unyielding mastToils up the wave, and draws, from victory won,Fresh presage, and fresh purpose, for the fight:So let man struggle upward; like the sunNe’er slacken, till he sinks beneath the night;Swell action’s tide, that rolls along the world,Or force from Nature secrets undisclosed;Or, if less apt to be thus rudely whirl’d,Rest in this din on sure content reposed.These words sound fair, but Passion scorns such strains,And mocks Endeavour with her empty pains.
Life’s but a straw, that’s piped upon by winds,Fluttering to different tunes at every blast;But he is strong who conquers what he finds,Dragging it onward, as the unyielding mastToils up the wave, and draws, from victory won,Fresh presage, and fresh purpose, for the fight:So let man struggle upward; like the sunNe’er slacken, till he sinks beneath the night;Swell action’s tide, that rolls along the world,Or force from Nature secrets undisclosed;Or, if less apt to be thus rudely whirl’d,Rest in this din on sure content reposed.These words sound fair, but Passion scorns such strains,And mocks Endeavour with her empty pains.
Life’s but a straw, that’s piped upon by winds,Fluttering to different tunes at every blast;But he is strong who conquers what he finds,Dragging it onward, as the unyielding mastToils up the wave, and draws, from victory won,Fresh presage, and fresh purpose, for the fight:So let man struggle upward; like the sunNe’er slacken, till he sinks beneath the night;Swell action’s tide, that rolls along the world,Or force from Nature secrets undisclosed;Or, if less apt to be thus rudely whirl’d,Rest in this din on sure content reposed.These words sound fair, but Passion scorns such strains,And mocks Endeavour with her empty pains.
How should the cloud cry to the summer sea,Take not the leaden impress from my sails?How should the amorous eve not taste the gleeThat mantles golden o’er its hills and vales?Were ocean to contemn the rain’s increase,Or woods to spurn the dew, and chide the wind;Reft of their source, sudden they all would cease,Lacking that element they once thought unkind:So, were man shorn of passions and of hates,And nicely pared of what uneven seems,He’d seem some plaything, jostled by rough fatesInto existence, from poor Fancy’s dreams.Nature has naught superfluous,—clip her pride,You mar her beauties, and the man beside.
How should the cloud cry to the summer sea,Take not the leaden impress from my sails?How should the amorous eve not taste the gleeThat mantles golden o’er its hills and vales?Were ocean to contemn the rain’s increase,Or woods to spurn the dew, and chide the wind;Reft of their source, sudden they all would cease,Lacking that element they once thought unkind:So, were man shorn of passions and of hates,And nicely pared of what uneven seems,He’d seem some plaything, jostled by rough fatesInto existence, from poor Fancy’s dreams.Nature has naught superfluous,—clip her pride,You mar her beauties, and the man beside.
How should the cloud cry to the summer sea,Take not the leaden impress from my sails?How should the amorous eve not taste the gleeThat mantles golden o’er its hills and vales?Were ocean to contemn the rain’s increase,Or woods to spurn the dew, and chide the wind;Reft of their source, sudden they all would cease,Lacking that element they once thought unkind:So, were man shorn of passions and of hates,And nicely pared of what uneven seems,He’d seem some plaything, jostled by rough fatesInto existence, from poor Fancy’s dreams.Nature has naught superfluous,—clip her pride,You mar her beauties, and the man beside.
Should one proclaim, what perfect man might be,What finest tonings of trained passion’s host,What calm should murmur on a breathless sea,What childhood’s joy linger around the coast,How the rare form should tremble to each stringOf the ever-pulsing, passionate, tranquil frame:His virtues should steal lustre while they bring,For Beauty sanctifies even Virtue’s name:’Twere vain, words cannot paint, nor the mind’s maze,Compose perfections in such various mould:Create the hero, and the world shall gaze,Not unobservant, nor profanely cold.Vain is the juggle of consenting phrase,Nature is just, and claims the larger praise.
Should one proclaim, what perfect man might be,What finest tonings of trained passion’s host,What calm should murmur on a breathless sea,What childhood’s joy linger around the coast,How the rare form should tremble to each stringOf the ever-pulsing, passionate, tranquil frame:His virtues should steal lustre while they bring,For Beauty sanctifies even Virtue’s name:’Twere vain, words cannot paint, nor the mind’s maze,Compose perfections in such various mould:Create the hero, and the world shall gaze,Not unobservant, nor profanely cold.Vain is the juggle of consenting phrase,Nature is just, and claims the larger praise.
Should one proclaim, what perfect man might be,What finest tonings of trained passion’s host,What calm should murmur on a breathless sea,What childhood’s joy linger around the coast,How the rare form should tremble to each stringOf the ever-pulsing, passionate, tranquil frame:His virtues should steal lustre while they bring,For Beauty sanctifies even Virtue’s name:’Twere vain, words cannot paint, nor the mind’s maze,Compose perfections in such various mould:Create the hero, and the world shall gaze,Not unobservant, nor profanely cold.Vain is the juggle of consenting phrase,Nature is just, and claims the larger praise.
To shape from infinite words and big-wombed thought,The form that mimics Nature, yet transcends;To shower beauty, from the sunbeam caught,On one who, lofty, walks toward lofty ends;To live within that which themselves create,By sufferance swelling more exalted ranks,With such communion still to recreateThe pauses of the world, whose iron harsh clanks,In that most sweet society, how soonTo lose all sense, all memory of the earth;Aye, this were godlike, and the priceless boonWhich Nature grudges prompters of true birth:Holier, she bids them worship what inspiresAnd guides the blast that feeds Pygmalion fires.
To shape from infinite words and big-wombed thought,The form that mimics Nature, yet transcends;To shower beauty, from the sunbeam caught,On one who, lofty, walks toward lofty ends;To live within that which themselves create,By sufferance swelling more exalted ranks,With such communion still to recreateThe pauses of the world, whose iron harsh clanks,In that most sweet society, how soonTo lose all sense, all memory of the earth;Aye, this were godlike, and the priceless boonWhich Nature grudges prompters of true birth:Holier, she bids them worship what inspiresAnd guides the blast that feeds Pygmalion fires.
To shape from infinite words and big-wombed thought,The form that mimics Nature, yet transcends;To shower beauty, from the sunbeam caught,On one who, lofty, walks toward lofty ends;To live within that which themselves create,By sufferance swelling more exalted ranks,With such communion still to recreateThe pauses of the world, whose iron harsh clanks,In that most sweet society, how soonTo lose all sense, all memory of the earth;Aye, this were godlike, and the priceless boonWhich Nature grudges prompters of true birth:Holier, she bids them worship what inspiresAnd guides the blast that feeds Pygmalion fires.
O Beauty is too holy to be handledBy the indiscriminate, rude, critic-touch!Gently be its timorous, blushing blossoms dandledOn the fringed boughs, coy to the breezes’ clutch;Yea the ransack’d Past’s aroma should dwell on it,While the coronetted Future, breathing, fann’d it:The flowers of love garden its paths and throng it,And Fancy’s cloud-like sails on lone stars land it:It should be the idea’s gradual unfolding,Whose rosebud leaves astonish niggard Hope:It should be the delicate and fleece-like mouldingThat snowy clouds build on the heaven’s blue scope:It should be,—who can say except the heart?It should be all, nor lovelier than thou art.
O Beauty is too holy to be handledBy the indiscriminate, rude, critic-touch!Gently be its timorous, blushing blossoms dandledOn the fringed boughs, coy to the breezes’ clutch;Yea the ransack’d Past’s aroma should dwell on it,While the coronetted Future, breathing, fann’d it:The flowers of love garden its paths and throng it,And Fancy’s cloud-like sails on lone stars land it:It should be the idea’s gradual unfolding,Whose rosebud leaves astonish niggard Hope:It should be the delicate and fleece-like mouldingThat snowy clouds build on the heaven’s blue scope:It should be,—who can say except the heart?It should be all, nor lovelier than thou art.
O Beauty is too holy to be handledBy the indiscriminate, rude, critic-touch!Gently be its timorous, blushing blossoms dandledOn the fringed boughs, coy to the breezes’ clutch;Yea the ransack’d Past’s aroma should dwell on it,While the coronetted Future, breathing, fann’d it:The flowers of love garden its paths and throng it,And Fancy’s cloud-like sails on lone stars land it:It should be the idea’s gradual unfolding,Whose rosebud leaves astonish niggard Hope:It should be the delicate and fleece-like mouldingThat snowy clouds build on the heaven’s blue scope:It should be,—who can say except the heart?It should be all, nor lovelier than thou art.
O thou glad phantom of my waking hours,I will not clasp thee, lest the vision fail;I only, sometimes, wander o’er the flowersWhose perfume lingers in my summer’s vale:Whether joy’s victorious, when I oft recountThe former kisses of indulgent Time;Or the sad Present fathoms sorrow’s fount,And bids my eyes assist my bosom’s chime;I yet will fashion pleasure from each mood,Shaming the Present with the Past’s record,And gather strength, from memory’s darling brood,To temper, and to wield the eventful sword:Thy aid delightful seems, for thy dear sake,And I shall seem to give, even what I take.
O thou glad phantom of my waking hours,I will not clasp thee, lest the vision fail;I only, sometimes, wander o’er the flowersWhose perfume lingers in my summer’s vale:Whether joy’s victorious, when I oft recountThe former kisses of indulgent Time;Or the sad Present fathoms sorrow’s fount,And bids my eyes assist my bosom’s chime;I yet will fashion pleasure from each mood,Shaming the Present with the Past’s record,And gather strength, from memory’s darling brood,To temper, and to wield the eventful sword:Thy aid delightful seems, for thy dear sake,And I shall seem to give, even what I take.
O thou glad phantom of my waking hours,I will not clasp thee, lest the vision fail;I only, sometimes, wander o’er the flowersWhose perfume lingers in my summer’s vale:Whether joy’s victorious, when I oft recountThe former kisses of indulgent Time;Or the sad Present fathoms sorrow’s fount,And bids my eyes assist my bosom’s chime;I yet will fashion pleasure from each mood,Shaming the Present with the Past’s record,And gather strength, from memory’s darling brood,To temper, and to wield the eventful sword:Thy aid delightful seems, for thy dear sake,And I shall seem to give, even what I take.
What is more lovely than to celebrateThat Beauty’s virtue we can never reach?What’s heavenlier, than our pride to lowly rateIn that great Love where nought is left to teach?To admire, to adore, to fall at Beauty’s feet,To lose all sense of this corporeal frame,Who’d not choose Life’s intense, perpetual heat,Whose walk of love were blessed by Beauty’s name?O better shows our worship falsely placed,Than the fixed heart of an unfruitful doubt!Happier were he, with love of Hell disgraced,Than he whose hope of Heaven gazed coldly out.Love’s measured by the heart, from whence it flows,Though all be void, yet it must rest on shows.
What is more lovely than to celebrateThat Beauty’s virtue we can never reach?What’s heavenlier, than our pride to lowly rateIn that great Love where nought is left to teach?To admire, to adore, to fall at Beauty’s feet,To lose all sense of this corporeal frame,Who’d not choose Life’s intense, perpetual heat,Whose walk of love were blessed by Beauty’s name?O better shows our worship falsely placed,Than the fixed heart of an unfruitful doubt!Happier were he, with love of Hell disgraced,Than he whose hope of Heaven gazed coldly out.Love’s measured by the heart, from whence it flows,Though all be void, yet it must rest on shows.
What is more lovely than to celebrateThat Beauty’s virtue we can never reach?What’s heavenlier, than our pride to lowly rateIn that great Love where nought is left to teach?To admire, to adore, to fall at Beauty’s feet,To lose all sense of this corporeal frame,Who’d not choose Life’s intense, perpetual heat,Whose walk of love were blessed by Beauty’s name?O better shows our worship falsely placed,Than the fixed heart of an unfruitful doubt!Happier were he, with love of Hell disgraced,Than he whose hope of Heaven gazed coldly out.Love’s measured by the heart, from whence it flows,Though all be void, yet it must rest on shows.
Who hath not wakened, dizzy, from the dream,The fairyland, that boyhood claim’d his own?Who hath not gulped down memories that teem,E’er such sweet seed of madness were full grown?Who hath not, when his wound less rawly looked,Lightly tripped over the yet sunny fields?What ominous garnitures have we not brook’d,For the kind promise, that the spectre shields?Else how much life must, vacant, pass man by,Or seem the babblings of an uncrude mind:How poor the pageant of the world must dieIn uncongenial souls, of purpose blind:Sooner than such I’d the light insect be,Whose little summer world is revelry.
Who hath not wakened, dizzy, from the dream,The fairyland, that boyhood claim’d his own?Who hath not gulped down memories that teem,E’er such sweet seed of madness were full grown?Who hath not, when his wound less rawly looked,Lightly tripped over the yet sunny fields?What ominous garnitures have we not brook’d,For the kind promise, that the spectre shields?Else how much life must, vacant, pass man by,Or seem the babblings of an uncrude mind:How poor the pageant of the world must dieIn uncongenial souls, of purpose blind:Sooner than such I’d the light insect be,Whose little summer world is revelry.
Who hath not wakened, dizzy, from the dream,The fairyland, that boyhood claim’d his own?Who hath not gulped down memories that teem,E’er such sweet seed of madness were full grown?Who hath not, when his wound less rawly looked,Lightly tripped over the yet sunny fields?What ominous garnitures have we not brook’d,For the kind promise, that the spectre shields?Else how much life must, vacant, pass man by,Or seem the babblings of an uncrude mind:How poor the pageant of the world must dieIn uncongenial souls, of purpose blind:Sooner than such I’d the light insect be,Whose little summer world is revelry.
Two children wandered o’er one plain together,Like beauteous planets, shot from some new lair;Proud flowers grew up, exulting in fair weather,Tendered their sweets, and twined their glowing hair:Some lovelier, but more lonely, lay enshrined,Whispering the affable breath of modesty:I marked the children; these, they oft entwinedAbout their locks, and thought them fair as shy:Heedless, they trampled o’er the gaudy flowers,Whose larger plenty paved the ensuing way:But, soon, alas! you might well count the hoursBy the few lilies, hidden far away.At length the wanderers passed a river’s ford,One kept his primrose wealth, one cull’d new hoard.
Two children wandered o’er one plain together,Like beauteous planets, shot from some new lair;Proud flowers grew up, exulting in fair weather,Tendered their sweets, and twined their glowing hair:Some lovelier, but more lonely, lay enshrined,Whispering the affable breath of modesty:I marked the children; these, they oft entwinedAbout their locks, and thought them fair as shy:Heedless, they trampled o’er the gaudy flowers,Whose larger plenty paved the ensuing way:But, soon, alas! you might well count the hoursBy the few lilies, hidden far away.At length the wanderers passed a river’s ford,One kept his primrose wealth, one cull’d new hoard.
Two children wandered o’er one plain together,Like beauteous planets, shot from some new lair;Proud flowers grew up, exulting in fair weather,Tendered their sweets, and twined their glowing hair:Some lovelier, but more lonely, lay enshrined,Whispering the affable breath of modesty:I marked the children; these, they oft entwinedAbout their locks, and thought them fair as shy:Heedless, they trampled o’er the gaudy flowers,Whose larger plenty paved the ensuing way:But, soon, alas! you might well count the hoursBy the few lilies, hidden far away.At length the wanderers passed a river’s ford,One kept his primrose wealth, one cull’d new hoard.