Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;He slants his neck beneath the waters brightSo silently, it seems a beam of lightCome from the galaxy: anon he sports,—With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,Or ruffles all the surface of the lakeIn striving from its crystal face to takeSome diamond water drops, and them to treasureIn milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.But not a moment can he there insure them,Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;For down they rush as though they would be free,And drop like hours into eternity.Just like that bird am I in loss of time,Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme;With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent,I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;Still scooping up the water with my fingers,In which a trembling diamond never lingers.By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly seeWhy I have never penn'd a line to thee:Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,And little fit to please a classic ear;Because my wine was of too poor a savourFor one whose palate gladdens in the flavourOf sparkling Helicon:—small good it wereTo take him to a desert rude, and bare.Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease,While Tasso's page was floating in a breezeThat gave soft music from Armida's bowers,Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:Small good to one who had by Mulla's streamFondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,And lovely Una in a leafy nook,And Archimago leaning o'er his book:Who had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen,From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen;From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania,To the blue dwelling of divine Urania:One, who, of late, had ta'en sweet forest walksWith him who elegantly chats, and talks—The wrong'd Libert as,—who has told you storiesOf laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories;Of troops chivalrous prancing; through a city,And tearful ladies made for love, and pity:With many else which I have never known.Thus have I thought; and days on days have flownSlowly, or rapidly—unwilling stillFor you to try my dull, unlearned quill.Nor should I now, but that I've known you long;That you first taught me all the sweets of song:The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine;What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine:Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,And float along like birds o'er summer seas;Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness;Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudlyUp to its climax and then dying proudly?Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?Shew'd me that epic was of all the king,Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty,And pointed out the patriot's stern duty;The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fellUpon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen,Or known your kindness, what might I have been?What my enjoyments in my youthful years,Bereft of all that now my life endears?And can I e'er these benefits forget?And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?No, doubly no;—yet should these rhymings please,I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease:For I have long time been my fancy feedingWith hopes that you would one day think the readingOf my rough verses not an hour misspent;Should it e'er be so, what a rich content!Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spiresIn lucent Thames reflected:—warm desiresTo see the sun o'er peep the eastern dimness,And morning shadows streaking into slimnessAcross the lawny fields, and pebbly water;To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter;To feel the air that plays about the hills,And sips its freshness from the little rills;To see high, golden corn wave in the lightWhen Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night,And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white,As though she were reclining in a bedOf bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed.No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasuresThan I began to think of rhymes and measures:The air that floated by me seem'd to say"Write! thou wilt never have a better day."And so I did. When many lines I'd written,Though with their grace I was not oversmitten,Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd betterTrust to my feelings, and write you a letter.Such an attempt required an inspirationOf a peculiar sort,—a consummation;—Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have beenVerses from which the soul would never wean:But many days have past since last my heartWas warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart;By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd;Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sadden'd:What time you were before the music sitting,And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanesThat freshly terminate in open plains,And revel'd in a chat that ceased notWhen at night-fall among your books we got:No, nor when supper came, nor after that,—Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;No, nor till cordially you shook my handMid-way between our homes:—your accents blandStill sounded in my ears, when I no moreCould hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor.Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;You chang'd the footpath for the grassy plain.In those still moments I have wish'd you joysThat well you know to honour:—"Life's very toysWith him," said I, "will take a pleasant charm;It cannot be that ought will work him harm."These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might:—Again I shake your hand,—friend Charles, good night.September, 1816.
Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;He slants his neck beneath the waters brightSo silently, it seems a beam of lightCome from the galaxy: anon he sports,—With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,Or ruffles all the surface of the lakeIn striving from its crystal face to takeSome diamond water drops, and them to treasureIn milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.But not a moment can he there insure them,Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;For down they rush as though they would be free,And drop like hours into eternity.Just like that bird am I in loss of time,Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme;With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent,I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;Still scooping up the water with my fingers,In which a trembling diamond never lingers.By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly seeWhy I have never penn'd a line to thee:Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,And little fit to please a classic ear;Because my wine was of too poor a savourFor one whose palate gladdens in the flavourOf sparkling Helicon:—small good it wereTo take him to a desert rude, and bare.Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease,While Tasso's page was floating in a breezeThat gave soft music from Armida's bowers,Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:Small good to one who had by Mulla's streamFondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,And lovely Una in a leafy nook,And Archimago leaning o'er his book:Who had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen,From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen;From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania,To the blue dwelling of divine Urania:One, who, of late, had ta'en sweet forest walksWith him who elegantly chats, and talks—The wrong'd Libert as,—who has told you storiesOf laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories;Of troops chivalrous prancing; through a city,And tearful ladies made for love, and pity:With many else which I have never known.Thus have I thought; and days on days have flownSlowly, or rapidly—unwilling stillFor you to try my dull, unlearned quill.Nor should I now, but that I've known you long;That you first taught me all the sweets of song:The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine;What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine:Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,And float along like birds o'er summer seas;Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness;Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudlyUp to its climax and then dying proudly?Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?Shew'd me that epic was of all the king,Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty,And pointed out the patriot's stern duty;The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fellUpon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen,Or known your kindness, what might I have been?What my enjoyments in my youthful years,Bereft of all that now my life endears?And can I e'er these benefits forget?And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?No, doubly no;—yet should these rhymings please,I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease:For I have long time been my fancy feedingWith hopes that you would one day think the readingOf my rough verses not an hour misspent;Should it e'er be so, what a rich content!Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spiresIn lucent Thames reflected:—warm desiresTo see the sun o'er peep the eastern dimness,And morning shadows streaking into slimnessAcross the lawny fields, and pebbly water;To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter;To feel the air that plays about the hills,And sips its freshness from the little rills;To see high, golden corn wave in the lightWhen Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night,And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white,As though she were reclining in a bedOf bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed.No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasuresThan I began to think of rhymes and measures:The air that floated by me seem'd to say"Write! thou wilt never have a better day."And so I did. When many lines I'd written,Though with their grace I was not oversmitten,Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd betterTrust to my feelings, and write you a letter.Such an attempt required an inspirationOf a peculiar sort,—a consummation;—Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have beenVerses from which the soul would never wean:But many days have past since last my heartWas warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart;By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd;Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sadden'd:What time you were before the music sitting,And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanesThat freshly terminate in open plains,And revel'd in a chat that ceased notWhen at night-fall among your books we got:No, nor when supper came, nor after that,—Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;No, nor till cordially you shook my handMid-way between our homes:—your accents blandStill sounded in my ears, when I no moreCould hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor.Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;You chang'd the footpath for the grassy plain.In those still moments I have wish'd you joysThat well you know to honour:—"Life's very toysWith him," said I, "will take a pleasant charm;It cannot be that ought will work him harm."These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might:—Again I shake your hand,—friend Charles, good night.September, 1816.
Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;He slants his neck beneath the waters brightSo silently, it seems a beam of lightCome from the galaxy: anon he sports,—With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,Or ruffles all the surface of the lakeIn striving from its crystal face to takeSome diamond water drops, and them to treasureIn milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.But not a moment can he there insure them,Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;For down they rush as though they would be free,And drop like hours into eternity.Just like that bird am I in loss of time,Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme;With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent,I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;Still scooping up the water with my fingers,In which a trembling diamond never lingers.By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly seeWhy I have never penn'd a line to thee:Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,And little fit to please a classic ear;Because my wine was of too poor a savourFor one whose palate gladdens in the flavourOf sparkling Helicon:—small good it wereTo take him to a desert rude, and bare.Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease,While Tasso's page was floating in a breezeThat gave soft music from Armida's bowers,Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:Small good to one who had by Mulla's streamFondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,And lovely Una in a leafy nook,And Archimago leaning o'er his book:Who had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen,From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen;From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania,To the blue dwelling of divine Urania:One, who, of late, had ta'en sweet forest walksWith him who elegantly chats, and talks—The wrong'd Libert as,—who has told you storiesOf laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories;Of troops chivalrous prancing; through a city,And tearful ladies made for love, and pity:With many else which I have never known.Thus have I thought; and days on days have flownSlowly, or rapidly—unwilling stillFor you to try my dull, unlearned quill.Nor should I now, but that I've known you long;That you first taught me all the sweets of song:The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine;What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine:Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,And float along like birds o'er summer seas;Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness;Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudlyUp to its climax and then dying proudly?Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?Shew'd me that epic was of all the king,Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty,And pointed out the patriot's stern duty;The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fellUpon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen,Or known your kindness, what might I have been?What my enjoyments in my youthful years,Bereft of all that now my life endears?And can I e'er these benefits forget?And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?No, doubly no;—yet should these rhymings please,I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease:For I have long time been my fancy feedingWith hopes that you would one day think the readingOf my rough verses not an hour misspent;Should it e'er be so, what a rich content!Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spiresIn lucent Thames reflected:—warm desiresTo see the sun o'er peep the eastern dimness,And morning shadows streaking into slimnessAcross the lawny fields, and pebbly water;To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter;To feel the air that plays about the hills,And sips its freshness from the little rills;To see high, golden corn wave in the lightWhen Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night,And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white,As though she were reclining in a bedOf bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed.No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasuresThan I began to think of rhymes and measures:The air that floated by me seem'd to say"Write! thou wilt never have a better day."And so I did. When many lines I'd written,Though with their grace I was not oversmitten,Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd betterTrust to my feelings, and write you a letter.Such an attempt required an inspirationOf a peculiar sort,—a consummation;—Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have beenVerses from which the soul would never wean:But many days have past since last my heartWas warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart;By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd;Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sadden'd:What time you were before the music sitting,And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanesThat freshly terminate in open plains,And revel'd in a chat that ceased notWhen at night-fall among your books we got:No, nor when supper came, nor after that,—Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;No, nor till cordially you shook my handMid-way between our homes:—your accents blandStill sounded in my ears, when I no moreCould hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor.Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;You chang'd the footpath for the grassy plain.In those still moments I have wish'd you joysThat well you know to honour:—"Life's very toysWith him," said I, "will take a pleasant charm;It cannot be that ought will work him harm."These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might:—Again I shake your hand,—friend Charles, good night.September, 1816.
Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;He slants his neck beneath the waters brightSo silently, it seems a beam of lightCome from the galaxy: anon he sports,—With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,Or ruffles all the surface of the lakeIn striving from its crystal face to takeSome diamond water drops, and them to treasureIn milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.But not a moment can he there insure them,Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;For down they rush as though they would be free,And drop like hours into eternity.Just like that bird am I in loss of time,Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme;With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent,I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;Still scooping up the water with my fingers,In which a trembling diamond never lingers.
By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly seeWhy I have never penn'd a line to thee:Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,And little fit to please a classic ear;Because my wine was of too poor a savourFor one whose palate gladdens in the flavourOf sparkling Helicon:—small good it wereTo take him to a desert rude, and bare.Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease,While Tasso's page was floating in a breezeThat gave soft music from Armida's bowers,Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:Small good to one who had by Mulla's streamFondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,And lovely Una in a leafy nook,And Archimago leaning o'er his book:Who had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen,From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen;From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania,To the blue dwelling of divine Urania:One, who, of late, had ta'en sweet forest walksWith him who elegantly chats, and talks—The wrong'd Libert as,—who has told you storiesOf laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories;Of troops chivalrous prancing; through a city,And tearful ladies made for love, and pity:With many else which I have never known.Thus have I thought; and days on days have flownSlowly, or rapidly—unwilling stillFor you to try my dull, unlearned quill.Nor should I now, but that I've known you long;That you first taught me all the sweets of song:The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine;What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine:Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,And float along like birds o'er summer seas;Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness;Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudlyUp to its climax and then dying proudly?Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?Shew'd me that epic was of all the king,Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty,And pointed out the patriot's stern duty;The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fellUpon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen,Or known your kindness, what might I have been?What my enjoyments in my youthful years,Bereft of all that now my life endears?And can I e'er these benefits forget?And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?No, doubly no;—yet should these rhymings please,I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease:For I have long time been my fancy feedingWith hopes that you would one day think the readingOf my rough verses not an hour misspent;Should it e'er be so, what a rich content!Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spiresIn lucent Thames reflected:—warm desiresTo see the sun o'er peep the eastern dimness,And morning shadows streaking into slimnessAcross the lawny fields, and pebbly water;To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter;To feel the air that plays about the hills,And sips its freshness from the little rills;To see high, golden corn wave in the lightWhen Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night,And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white,As though she were reclining in a bedOf bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed.No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasuresThan I began to think of rhymes and measures:The air that floated by me seem'd to say"Write! thou wilt never have a better day."And so I did. When many lines I'd written,Though with their grace I was not oversmitten,Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd betterTrust to my feelings, and write you a letter.Such an attempt required an inspirationOf a peculiar sort,—a consummation;—Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have beenVerses from which the soul would never wean:But many days have past since last my heartWas warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart;By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd;Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sadden'd:What time you were before the music sitting,And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanesThat freshly terminate in open plains,And revel'd in a chat that ceased notWhen at night-fall among your books we got:No, nor when supper came, nor after that,—Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;No, nor till cordially you shook my handMid-way between our homes:—your accents blandStill sounded in my ears, when I no moreCould hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor.Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;You chang'd the footpath for the grassy plain.In those still moments I have wish'd you joysThat well you know to honour:—"Life's very toysWith him," said I, "will take a pleasant charm;It cannot be that ought will work him harm."These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might:—Again I shake your hand,—friend Charles, good night.
September, 1816.
Many the wonders I this day have seen:The sun, when first he kist away the tearsThat fill'd the eyes of morn;—the laurel'd peersWho from the feathery gold of evening lean:—The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,—Its voice mysterious, which whoso hearsMust think on what will be, and what has been.E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,Cynthia is from her silken curtains peepingSo scantly, that it seems her bridal night,And she her half-discover'd revels keeping.But what, without the social thought of thee,Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?
Many the wonders I this day have seen:The sun, when first he kist away the tearsThat fill'd the eyes of morn;—the laurel'd peersWho from the feathery gold of evening lean:—The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,—Its voice mysterious, which whoso hearsMust think on what will be, and what has been.E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,Cynthia is from her silken curtains peepingSo scantly, that it seems her bridal night,And she her half-discover'd revels keeping.But what, without the social thought of thee,Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?
Many the wonders I this day have seen:The sun, when first he kist away the tearsThat fill'd the eyes of morn;—the laurel'd peersWho from the feathery gold of evening lean:—The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,—Its voice mysterious, which whoso hearsMust think on what will be, and what has been.E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,Cynthia is from her silken curtains peepingSo scantly, that it seems her bridal night,And she her half-discover'd revels keeping.But what, without the social thought of thee,Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?
Many the wonders I this day have seen:The sun, when first he kist away the tearsThat fill'd the eyes of morn;—the laurel'd peersWho from the feathery gold of evening lean:—The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,—Its voice mysterious, which whoso hearsMust think on what will be, and what has been.E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,Cynthia is from her silken curtains peepingSo scantly, that it seems her bridal night,And she her half-discover'd revels keeping.But what, without the social thought of thee,Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?
Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighsBe echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so wellWould passion arm me for the enterprize:But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;I am no happy shepherd of the dellWhose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes;Yet must I dote upon thee,—call thee sweet.Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied rosesWhen steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,And when the moon her pallid face discloses,I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.
Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighsBe echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so wellWould passion arm me for the enterprize:But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;I am no happy shepherd of the dellWhose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes;Yet must I dote upon thee,—call thee sweet.Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied rosesWhen steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,And when the moon her pallid face discloses,I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.
Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighsBe echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so wellWould passion arm me for the enterprize:But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;I am no happy shepherd of the dellWhose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes;Yet must I dote upon thee,—call thee sweet.Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied rosesWhen steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,And when the moon her pallid face discloses,I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.
Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighsBe echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so wellWould passion arm me for the enterprize:But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;I am no happy shepherd of the dellWhose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes;Yet must I dote upon thee,—call thee sweet.Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied rosesWhen steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,And when the moon her pallid face discloses,I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.
What though, for showing truth to flatter'd stateKind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,In his immortal spirit, been as freeAs the sky-searching lark, and as elate.Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?Think you he nought but prison walls did see,Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key?Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate!In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair,Culling enchanted flowers; and he flewWith daring Milton through the fields of air:To regions of his own his genius trueTook happy flights. Who shall his fame impairWhen thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?
What though, for showing truth to flatter'd stateKind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,In his immortal spirit, been as freeAs the sky-searching lark, and as elate.Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?Think you he nought but prison walls did see,Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key?Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate!In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair,Culling enchanted flowers; and he flewWith daring Milton through the fields of air:To regions of his own his genius trueTook happy flights. Who shall his fame impairWhen thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?
What though, for showing truth to flatter'd stateKind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,In his immortal spirit, been as freeAs the sky-searching lark, and as elate.Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?Think you he nought but prison walls did see,Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key?Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate!In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair,Culling enchanted flowers; and he flewWith daring Milton through the fields of air:To regions of his own his genius trueTook happy flights. Who shall his fame impairWhen thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?
What though, for showing truth to flatter'd stateKind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,In his immortal spirit, been as freeAs the sky-searching lark, and as elate.Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?Think you he nought but prison walls did see,Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key?Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate!In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair,Culling enchanted flowers; and he flewWith daring Milton through the fields of air:To regions of his own his genius trueTook happy flights. Who shall his fame impairWhen thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?
How many bards gild the lapses of time!A few of them have ever been the foodOf my delighted fancy,—I could broodOver their beauties, earthly, or sublime:And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,These will in throngs before my mind intrude:But no confusion, no disturbance rudeDo they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store;The songs of birds—the whisp'ring of the leaves—The voice of waters—the great bell that heavesWith solemn sound,—and thousand others more,That distance of recognizance bereaves,Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.
How many bards gild the lapses of time!A few of them have ever been the foodOf my delighted fancy,—I could broodOver their beauties, earthly, or sublime:And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,These will in throngs before my mind intrude:But no confusion, no disturbance rudeDo they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store;The songs of birds—the whisp'ring of the leaves—The voice of waters—the great bell that heavesWith solemn sound,—and thousand others more,That distance of recognizance bereaves,Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.
How many bards gild the lapses of time!A few of them have ever been the foodOf my delighted fancy,—I could broodOver their beauties, earthly, or sublime:And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,These will in throngs before my mind intrude:But no confusion, no disturbance rudeDo they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store;The songs of birds—the whisp'ring of the leaves—The voice of waters—the great bell that heavesWith solemn sound,—and thousand others more,That distance of recognizance bereaves,Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.
How many bards gild the lapses of time!A few of them have ever been the foodOf my delighted fancy,—I could broodOver their beauties, earthly, or sublime:And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,These will in throngs before my mind intrude:But no confusion, no disturbance rudeDo they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store;The songs of birds—the whisp'ring of the leaves—The voice of waters—the great bell that heavesWith solemn sound,—and thousand others more,That distance of recognizance bereaves,Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.
As late I rambled in the happy fields,What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dewFrom his lush clover covert;—when anewAdventurous knights take up their dinted shields:I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threwIts sweets upon the summer: graceful it grewAs is the wand that queen Titania wields.And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd:But when, O Wells! thy roses came to meMy sense with their deliciousness was spell'd:Soft voices had they, that with tender pleaWhisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.
As late I rambled in the happy fields,What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dewFrom his lush clover covert;—when anewAdventurous knights take up their dinted shields:I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threwIts sweets upon the summer: graceful it grewAs is the wand that queen Titania wields.And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd:But when, O Wells! thy roses came to meMy sense with their deliciousness was spell'd:Soft voices had they, that with tender pleaWhisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.
As late I rambled in the happy fields,What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dewFrom his lush clover covert;—when anewAdventurous knights take up their dinted shields:I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threwIts sweets upon the summer: graceful it grewAs is the wand that queen Titania wields.And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd:But when, O Wells! thy roses came to meMy sense with their deliciousness was spell'd:Soft voices had they, that with tender pleaWhisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.
As late I rambled in the happy fields,What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dewFrom his lush clover covert;—when anewAdventurous knights take up their dinted shields:I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threwIts sweets upon the summer: graceful it grewAs is the wand that queen Titania wields.And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd:But when, O Wells! thy roses came to meMy sense with their deliciousness was spell'd:Soft voices had they, that with tender pleaWhisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.
Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance,In what diviner moments of the dayArt thou most lovely? When gone far astrayInto the labyrinths of sweet utterance?Or when serenely wand'ring in a tranceOf sober thought? Or when starting away,With careless robe, to meet the morning ray,Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance?Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,And so remain, because thou listenest:But thou to please wert nurtured so completelyThat I can never tell what mood is best.I shall as soon pronounce which grace more neatlyTrips it before Apollo than the rest.
Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance,In what diviner moments of the dayArt thou most lovely? When gone far astrayInto the labyrinths of sweet utterance?Or when serenely wand'ring in a tranceOf sober thought? Or when starting away,With careless robe, to meet the morning ray,Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance?Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,And so remain, because thou listenest:But thou to please wert nurtured so completelyThat I can never tell what mood is best.I shall as soon pronounce which grace more neatlyTrips it before Apollo than the rest.
Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance,In what diviner moments of the dayArt thou most lovely? When gone far astrayInto the labyrinths of sweet utterance?Or when serenely wand'ring in a tranceOf sober thought? Or when starting away,With careless robe, to meet the morning ray,Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance?Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,And so remain, because thou listenest:But thou to please wert nurtured so completelyThat I can never tell what mood is best.I shall as soon pronounce which grace more neatlyTrips it before Apollo than the rest.
Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance,In what diviner moments of the dayArt thou most lovely? When gone far astrayInto the labyrinths of sweet utterance?Or when serenely wand'ring in a tranceOf sober thought? Or when starting away,With careless robe, to meet the morning ray,Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance?Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,And so remain, because thou listenest:But thou to please wert nurtured so completelyThat I can never tell what mood is best.I shall as soon pronounce which grace more neatlyTrips it before Apollo than the rest.
OSolitude! if I must with thee dwell,Let it not be among the jumbled heapOf murky buildings; climb with me the steep,—Nature's observatory—whence the dell,Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep'Mongst boughs pavillion'd, where the deer's swift leapStartles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd,Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must beAlmost the highest bliss of human-kind,When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
OSolitude! if I must with thee dwell,Let it not be among the jumbled heapOf murky buildings; climb with me the steep,—Nature's observatory—whence the dell,Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep'Mongst boughs pavillion'd, where the deer's swift leapStartles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd,Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must beAlmost the highest bliss of human-kind,When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
OSolitude! if I must with thee dwell,Let it not be among the jumbled heapOf murky buildings; climb with me the steep,—Nature's observatory—whence the dell,Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep'Mongst boughs pavillion'd, where the deer's swift leapStartles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd,Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must beAlmost the highest bliss of human-kind,When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
OSolitude! if I must with thee dwell,Let it not be among the jumbled heapOf murky buildings; climb with me the steep,—Nature's observatory—whence the dell,Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep'Mongst boughs pavillion'd, where the deer's swift leapStartles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd,Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must beAlmost the highest bliss of human-kind,When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creepLike whispers of the household gods that keepA gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep,Upon the lore so voluble and deep,That aye at fall of night our care condoles.This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoiceThat thus it passes smoothly, quietly.Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noiseMay we together pass, and calmly tryWhat are this world's true joys,—ere the great voice,From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.November 18, 1816.
Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creepLike whispers of the household gods that keepA gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep,Upon the lore so voluble and deep,That aye at fall of night our care condoles.This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoiceThat thus it passes smoothly, quietly.Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noiseMay we together pass, and calmly tryWhat are this world's true joys,—ere the great voice,From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.November 18, 1816.
Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creepLike whispers of the household gods that keepA gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep,Upon the lore so voluble and deep,That aye at fall of night our care condoles.This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoiceThat thus it passes smoothly, quietly.Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noiseMay we together pass, and calmly tryWhat are this world's true joys,—ere the great voice,From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.November 18, 1816.
Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creepLike whispers of the household gods that keepA gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep,Upon the lore so voluble and deep,That aye at fall of night our care condoles.This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoiceThat thus it passes smoothly, quietly.Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noiseMay we together pass, and calmly tryWhat are this world's true joys,—ere the great voice,From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.
November 18, 1816.
Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and thereAmong the bushes half leafless, and dry;The stars look very cold about the sky,And I have many miles on foot to fare.Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:For I am brimfull of the friendlinessThat in a little cottage I have found;Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.
Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and thereAmong the bushes half leafless, and dry;The stars look very cold about the sky,And I have many miles on foot to fare.Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:For I am brimfull of the friendlinessThat in a little cottage I have found;Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.
Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and thereAmong the bushes half leafless, and dry;The stars look very cold about the sky,And I have many miles on foot to fare.Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:For I am brimfull of the friendlinessThat in a little cottage I have found;Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.
Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and thereAmong the bushes half leafless, and dry;The stars look very cold about the sky,And I have many miles on foot to fare.Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:For I am brimfull of the friendlinessThat in a little cottage I have found;Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.
To one who has been long in city pent,'Tis very sweet to look into the fairAnd open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayerFull in the smile of the blue firmament.Who is more happy, when, with hearts content,Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lairOf wavy grass, and reads a debonairAnd gentle tale of love and languishment?Returning home at evening, with an earCatching the notes of Philomel,—an eyeWatching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,He mourns that day so soon has glided by:E'en like the passage of an angel's tearThat falls through the clear ether silently.
To one who has been long in city pent,'Tis very sweet to look into the fairAnd open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayerFull in the smile of the blue firmament.Who is more happy, when, with hearts content,Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lairOf wavy grass, and reads a debonairAnd gentle tale of love and languishment?Returning home at evening, with an earCatching the notes of Philomel,—an eyeWatching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,He mourns that day so soon has glided by:E'en like the passage of an angel's tearThat falls through the clear ether silently.
To one who has been long in city pent,'Tis very sweet to look into the fairAnd open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayerFull in the smile of the blue firmament.Who is more happy, when, with hearts content,Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lairOf wavy grass, and reads a debonairAnd gentle tale of love and languishment?Returning home at evening, with an earCatching the notes of Philomel,—an eyeWatching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,He mourns that day so soon has glided by:E'en like the passage of an angel's tearThat falls through the clear ether silently.
To one who has been long in city pent,'Tis very sweet to look into the fairAnd open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayerFull in the smile of the blue firmament.Who is more happy, when, with hearts content,Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lairOf wavy grass, and reads a debonairAnd gentle tale of love and languishment?Returning home at evening, with an earCatching the notes of Philomel,—an eyeWatching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,He mourns that day so soon has glided by:E'en like the passage of an angel's tearThat falls through the clear ether silently.
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyesHe star'd at the Pacific—and all his menLook'd at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyesHe star'd at the Pacific—and all his menLook'd at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyesHe star'd at the Pacific—and all his menLook'd at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyesHe star'd at the Pacific—and all his menLook'd at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Give me a golden pen, and let me leanOn heap'd up flowers, in regions clear, and far;Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seenThe silver strings of heavenly harp atween:And let there glide by many a pearly car,Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,And half discovered wings, and glances keen.The while let music wander round my ears.And as it reaches each delicious ending,Let me write down a line of glorious tone,And full of many wonders of the spheres:For what a height my spirit is contending!'Tis not content so soon to be alone.
Give me a golden pen, and let me leanOn heap'd up flowers, in regions clear, and far;Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seenThe silver strings of heavenly harp atween:And let there glide by many a pearly car,Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,And half discovered wings, and glances keen.The while let music wander round my ears.And as it reaches each delicious ending,Let me write down a line of glorious tone,And full of many wonders of the spheres:For what a height my spirit is contending!'Tis not content so soon to be alone.
Give me a golden pen, and let me leanOn heap'd up flowers, in regions clear, and far;Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seenThe silver strings of heavenly harp atween:And let there glide by many a pearly car,Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,And half discovered wings, and glances keen.The while let music wander round my ears.And as it reaches each delicious ending,Let me write down a line of glorious tone,And full of many wonders of the spheres:For what a height my spirit is contending!'Tis not content so soon to be alone.
Give me a golden pen, and let me leanOn heap'd up flowers, in regions clear, and far;Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seenThe silver strings of heavenly harp atween:And let there glide by many a pearly car,Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,And half discovered wings, and glances keen.The while let music wander round my ears.And as it reaches each delicious ending,Let me write down a line of glorious tone,And full of many wonders of the spheres:For what a height my spirit is contending!'Tis not content so soon to be alone.
Highmindedness, a jealousy for good,A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,Dwells here and there with people of no name,In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:And where we think the truth least understood,Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"That ought to frighten into hooded shameA money mong'ring, pitiable brood.How glorious this affection for the causeOf stedfast genius, toiling gallantly!What when a stout unbending champion awesEnvy, and Malice to their native sty?Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause,Proud to behold him in his country's eye.
Highmindedness, a jealousy for good,A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,Dwells here and there with people of no name,In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:And where we think the truth least understood,Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"That ought to frighten into hooded shameA money mong'ring, pitiable brood.How glorious this affection for the causeOf stedfast genius, toiling gallantly!What when a stout unbending champion awesEnvy, and Malice to their native sty?Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause,Proud to behold him in his country's eye.
Highmindedness, a jealousy for good,A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,Dwells here and there with people of no name,In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:And where we think the truth least understood,Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"That ought to frighten into hooded shameA money mong'ring, pitiable brood.How glorious this affection for the causeOf stedfast genius, toiling gallantly!What when a stout unbending champion awesEnvy, and Malice to their native sty?Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause,Proud to behold him in his country's eye.
Highmindedness, a jealousy for good,A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,Dwells here and there with people of no name,In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:And where we think the truth least understood,Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"That ought to frighten into hooded shameA money mong'ring, pitiable brood.How glorious this affection for the causeOf stedfast genius, toiling gallantly!What when a stout unbending champion awesEnvy, and Malice to their native sty?Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause,Proud to behold him in his country's eye.
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake,Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing:He of the rose, the violet, the spring.The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake:And lo!—whose stedfastness would never takeA meaner sound than Raphael's whispering.And other spirits there are standing apartUpon the forehead of the age to come;These, these will give the world another heart,And other pulses. Hear ye not the humOf mighty workings?——————Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake,Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing:He of the rose, the violet, the spring.The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake:And lo!—whose stedfastness would never takeA meaner sound than Raphael's whispering.And other spirits there are standing apartUpon the forehead of the age to come;These, these will give the world another heart,And other pulses. Hear ye not the humOf mighty workings?——————Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake,Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing:He of the rose, the violet, the spring.The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake:And lo!—whose stedfastness would never takeA meaner sound than Raphael's whispering.And other spirits there are standing apartUpon the forehead of the age to come;These, these will give the world another heart,And other pulses. Hear ye not the humOf mighty workings?——————Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake,Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing:He of the rose, the violet, the spring.The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake:And lo!—whose stedfastness would never takeA meaner sound than Raphael's whispering.And other spirits there are standing apartUpon the forehead of the age to come;These, these will give the world another heart,And other pulses. Hear ye not the humOf mighty workings?——————Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.
The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the leadIn summer luxury,—he has never doneWith his delights; for when tired out with funHe rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frostHas wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.December 30, 1816.
The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the leadIn summer luxury,—he has never doneWith his delights; for when tired out with funHe rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frostHas wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.December 30, 1816.
The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the leadIn summer luxury,—he has never doneWith his delights; for when tired out with funHe rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frostHas wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.December 30, 1816.
The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the leadIn summer luxury,—he has never doneWith his delights; for when tired out with funHe rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frostHas wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
December 30, 1816.
Good Kosciusko, thy great name aloneIs a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;It comes upon us like the glorious pealingOf the wide spheres—an everlasting tone.And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,And changed to harmonies, for ever stealingThrough cloudless blue, and round each silver throne.It tells me too, that on a happy day,When some good spirit walks upon the earth,Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yoreGently commingling, gives tremendous birthTo a loud hymn, that sounds far, far awayTo where the great God lives for evermore.
Good Kosciusko, thy great name aloneIs a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;It comes upon us like the glorious pealingOf the wide spheres—an everlasting tone.And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,And changed to harmonies, for ever stealingThrough cloudless blue, and round each silver throne.It tells me too, that on a happy day,When some good spirit walks upon the earth,Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yoreGently commingling, gives tremendous birthTo a loud hymn, that sounds far, far awayTo where the great God lives for evermore.
Good Kosciusko, thy great name aloneIs a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;It comes upon us like the glorious pealingOf the wide spheres—an everlasting tone.And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,And changed to harmonies, for ever stealingThrough cloudless blue, and round each silver throne.It tells me too, that on a happy day,When some good spirit walks upon the earth,Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yoreGently commingling, gives tremendous birthTo a loud hymn, that sounds far, far awayTo where the great God lives for evermore.
Good Kosciusko, thy great name aloneIs a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;It comes upon us like the glorious pealingOf the wide spheres—an everlasting tone.And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,And changed to harmonies, for ever stealingThrough cloudless blue, and round each silver throne.It tells me too, that on a happy day,When some good spirit walks upon the earth,Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yoreGently commingling, gives tremendous birthTo a loud hymn, that sounds far, far awayTo where the great God lives for evermore.
Happy is England! I could be contentTo see no other verdure than its own;To feel no other breezes than are blownThrough its tall woods with high romances blent:Yet do I sometimes feel a languishmentFor skies Italian, and an inward groanTo sit upon an Alp as on a throne,And half forget what world or worldling meant.Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;Enough their simple loveliness for me,Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:Yet do I often warmly burn to seeBeauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,And float with them about the summer waters.
Happy is England! I could be contentTo see no other verdure than its own;To feel no other breezes than are blownThrough its tall woods with high romances blent:Yet do I sometimes feel a languishmentFor skies Italian, and an inward groanTo sit upon an Alp as on a throne,And half forget what world or worldling meant.Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;Enough their simple loveliness for me,Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:Yet do I often warmly burn to seeBeauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,And float with them about the summer waters.
Happy is England! I could be contentTo see no other verdure than its own;To feel no other breezes than are blownThrough its tall woods with high romances blent:Yet do I sometimes feel a languishmentFor skies Italian, and an inward groanTo sit upon an Alp as on a throne,And half forget what world or worldling meant.Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;Enough their simple loveliness for me,Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:Yet do I often warmly burn to seeBeauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,And float with them about the summer waters.
Happy is England! I could be contentTo see no other verdure than its own;To feel no other breezes than are blownThrough its tall woods with high romances blent:Yet do I sometimes feel a languishmentFor skies Italian, and an inward groanTo sit upon an Alp as on a throne,And half forget what world or worldling meant.Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;Enough their simple loveliness for me,Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:Yet do I often warmly burn to seeBeauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,And float with them about the summer waters.
What is more gentle than a wind in summer?What is more soothing than the pretty hummerThat stays one moment in an open flower,And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowingIn a green island, far from all men's knowing?More healthful than the leafiness of dales?More secret than a nest of nightingales?More serene than Cordelia's countenance?More full of visions than a high romance?What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!Low murmurer of tender lullabies!Light hoverer around our happy pillows!Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!Most happy listener! when the morning blessesThee for enlivening all the cheerful eyesThat glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.But what is higher beyond thought than thee?Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?What is it? And to what shall I compare it?It has a glory, and nought else can share it:The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,Chacing away all worldliness and folly;Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;And sometimes like a gentle whisperingOf all the secrets of some wond'rous thingThat breathes about us in the vacant air;So that we look around with prying stare,Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning,And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,That is to crown our name when life is ended.Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,And die away in ardent mutterings.No one who once the glorious sun has seen,And all the clouds, and felt his bosom cleanFor his great Maker's presence, but must knowWhat 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow:Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,By telling what he sees from native merit.O Poesy! for thee I hold my penThat am not yet a glorious denizenOf thy wide heaven—Should I rather kneelUpon some mountain-top until I feelA glowing splendour round about me hung,And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?O Poesy! for thee I grasp my penThat am not yet a glorious denizenOf thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,Smoothed for intoxication by the breathOf flowering bays, that I may die a deathOf luxury, and my young spirit followThe morning sun-beams to the great ApolloLike a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bearThe o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fairVisions of all places: a bowery nookWill be elysium—an eternal bookWhence I may copy many a lovely sayingAbout the leaves, and flowers—about the playingOf nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shadeKeeping a silence round a sleeping maid;And many a verse from so strange influenceThat we must ever wonder how, and whenceIt came. Also imaginings will hoverRound my fire-side, and haply there discoverVistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wanderIn happy silence, like the clear meanderThrough its lone vales; and where I found a spotOf awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dressOf flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,Write on my tablets all that was permitted,All that was for our human senses fitted.Then the events of this wide world I'd seizeLike a strong giant, and my spirit teazeTill at its shoulders it should proudly seeWings to find out an immortality.Stop and consider! life is but a day;A fragile dew-drop on its perilous wayFrom a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleepWhile his boat hastens to the monstrous steepOf Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;The reading of an ever-changing tale;The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,Riding the springy branches of an elm.O for ten years, that I may overwhelmMyself in poesy; so I may do the deedThat my own soul has to itself decreed.Then will I pass the countries that I seeIn long perspective, and continuallyTaste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll passOf Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,—Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders whiteInto a pretty shrinking with a biteAs hard as lips can make it: till agreed,A lovely tale of human life we'll read.And one will teach a tame dove how it bestMay fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,Will set a green robe floating round her head,And still will dance with ever varied case,Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:Another will entice me on, and onThrough almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;Till in the bosom of a leafy worldWe rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'dIn the recesses of a pearly shell.And can I ever bid these joys farewell?Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,Where I may find the agonies, the strifeOf human hearts: for lo! I see afar,O'er sailing the blue cragginess, a carAnd steeds with streamy manes—the charioteerLooks out upon the winds with glorious fear:And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightlyAlong a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightlyWheel downward come they into fresher skies,Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.Still downward with capacious whirl they glide,And now I see them on a green-hill's sideIn breezy rest among the nodding stalks.The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talksTo the trees and mountains; and there soon appearShapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,Passing along before a dusky spaceMade by some mighty oaks: as they would chaseSome ever-fleeting music on they sweep.Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;Some with their faces muffled to the earBetween their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,Go glad and smilingly, athwart the gloom;Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;Yes, thousands in a thousand different waysFlit onward—now a lovely wreath of girlsDancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;And now broad wings. Most awfully intentThe driver, of those steeds is forward bent,And seems to listen: O that I might knowAll that he writes with such a hurrying glow.The visions all are fled—the car is fledInto the light of heaven, and in their steadA sense of real things comes doubly strong,And, like a muddy stream, would bear alongMy soul to nothingness: but I will striveAgainst all doublings, and will keep aliveThe thought of that same chariot, and the strangeJourney it went.Is there so small a rangeIn the present strength of manhood, that the highImagination cannot freely flyAs she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,Paw up against the light, and do strange deedsUpon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all?From the clear space of ether, to the smallBreath of new buds unfolding? From the meaningOf Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greeningOf April meadows? Here her altar shone,E'en in this isle; and who could paragonThe fervid choir that lifted up a noiseOf harmony, to where it aye will poiseIts mighty self of convoluting sound,Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,Eternally around a dizzy void?Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'dWith honors; nor had any other careThan to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schismNurtured by foppery and barbarism,Made great Apollo blush for this his land.Men were thought wise who could not understandHis glories: with a puling infant's forceThey sway'd about upon a rocking horse,And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul'd!The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'dIts gathering waves—ye felt it not. The blueBared its eternal bosom, and the dewOf summer nights collected still to makeThe morning precious: beauty was awake!Why were ye not awake? But ye were deadTo things ye knew not of,—were closely wedTo musty laws lined out with wretched ruleAnd compass vile: so that ye taught a schoolOf dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:A thousand handicraftsmen wore the maskOf Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,And did not know it,—no, they went about,Holding a poor, decrepid standard outMark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in largeThe name of one Boileau!O ye whose chargeIt is to hover round our pleasant hills!Whose congregated majesty so fillsMy boundly reverence, that I cannot traceYour hallowed names, in this unholy place,So near those common folk; did not their shamesAffright you? Did our old lamenting ThamesDelight you? Did ye never cluster roundDelicious Avon, with a mournful sound,And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieuTo regions where no more the laurel grew?Or did ye stay to give a welcomingTo some lone spirits who could proudly singTheir youth away, and die? 'Twas even so:But let me think away those times of woe:Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathedRich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathedFresh garlands: for sweet music has been heardIn many places;—some has been upstirr'dFrom out its crystal dwelling in a lake,By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,Nested and quiet in a valley mild,Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wildAbout the earth: happy are ye and glad.These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've hadStrange thunders from the potency of song;Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,From majesty: but in clear truth the themesAre ugly clubs, the Poets PolyphemesDisturbing the grand sea. A drainless showerOf light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power;'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.The very archings of her eye-lids charmA thousand willing agents to obey,And still she governs with the mildest sway:But strength alone though of the Muses bornIs like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchresDelight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,And thorns of life; forgetting the great endOf poesy, that it should be a friendTo sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer thanE'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weedsLifts its sweet head into the air, and feedsA silent space with ever sprouting green.All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.Then let us clear away the choaking thornsFrom round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrownWith simple flowers: let there nothing beMore boisterous than a lover's bended knee;Nought more ungentle than the placid lookOf one who leans upon a closed book;Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopesBetween two hills. All hail delightful hopes!As she was wont, th' imaginationInto most lovely labyrinths will be gone,And they shall be accounted poet kingsWho simply tell the most heart-easing things.O may these joys be ripe before I die.Will not some say that I presumptuouslyHave spoken? that from hastening disgrace'Twere better far to hide my foolish face?That whining boyhood should with reverence bowEre the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!If I do hide myself, it sure shall beIn the very fane, the light of Poesy:If I do fall, at least I will be laidBeneath the silence of a poplar shade;And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;And there shall be a kind memorial graven.But oft' Despondence! miserable bane!They should not know thee, who athirst to gainA noble end, are thirsty every hour.What though I am not wealthy in the dowerOf spanning wisdom; though I do not knowThe shiftings of the mighty winds, that blowHither and thither all the changing thoughtsOf man: though no great minist'ring reason sortsOut the dark mysteries of human soulsTo clear conceiving: yet there ever rollsA vast idea before me, and I gleanTherefrom my liberty; thence too I've seenThe end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clearAs any thing most true; as that the yearIs made of the four seasons—manifestAs a large cross, some old cathedral's crest,Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should IBe but the essence of deformity,A coward, did my very eye-lids winkAt speaking out what I have dared to think.Ah! rather let me like a madman runOver some precipice; let the hot sunMelt my Dedalian wings, and drive me downConvuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frownOf conscience bids me be more calm awhile.An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!How many days! what desperate turmoil!Ere I can have explored its widenesses.Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,I could unsay those—no, impossible!Impossible!For sweet relief I'll dwellOn humbler thoughts, and let this strange assayBegun in gentleness die so away.E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades:I turn full hearted to the friendly aidsThat smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnetInto the brain ere one can think upon it;The silence when some rhymes are coming out;And when they're come, the very pleasant rout:The message certain to be done to-morrow.'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrowSome precious book from out its snug retreat,To cluster round it when we next shall meet.Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airsAre fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;Many delights of that glad day recalling,When first my senses caught their tender falling.And with these airs come forms of eleganceStooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance,Careless, and grand—fingers soft and roundParting luxuriant curls;—and the swift boundOf Bacchus from his chariot, when his eyeMade Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.Thus I remember all the pleasant flowOf words at opening a portfolio.Things such as these are ever harbingersTo trains of peaceful images: the stirsOf a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:A linnet starting all about the bushes:A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smartedWith over pleasure—many, many more,Might I indulge at large in all my storeOf luxuries: yet I must not forgetSleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:For what there may be worthy in these rhymesI partly owe to him: and thus, the chimesOf friendly voices had just given placeTo as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retraceThe pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.It was a poet's house who keeps the keysOf pleasure's temple. Round about were hungThe glorious features of the bards who sungIn other ages—cold and sacred bustsSmiled at each other. Happy he who trustsTo clear Futurity his darling fame!Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aimAt swelling apples with a frisky leapAnd reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heapOf vine leaves. Then there rose to view a faneOf liny marble, and thereto a trainOf nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:One, loveliest, holding her white band towardThe dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweetBending their graceful figures till they meetOver the trippings of a little child:And some are hearing, eagerly, the wildThrilling liquidity of dewy piping.See, in another picture, nymphs are wipingCherishingly Diana's timorous limbs;—A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swimsAt the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motionWith the subsiding crystal: as when oceanHeaves calmly its broad swelling smoothiness o'erIts rocky marge, and balances once moreThe patient weeds; that now unshent by foamFeel all about their undulating home.Sappho's meek head was there half smiling downAt nothing; just as though the earnest frownOf over thinking had that moment goneFrom off her brow, and left her all alone.Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,As if he always listened to the sighsOf the goaded world; and Kosciusko's wornBy horrid suffrance—mightily forlorn.Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can weanHis eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!For over them was seen a free displayOf out-spread wings, and from between them shoneThe face of Poesy: from off her throneShe overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.The very sense of where I was might wellKeep Sleep aloof: but more than that there cameThought after thought to nourish up the flameWithin my breast; so that the morning lightSurprised me even from a sleepless night;And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,Resolving to begin that very dayThese lines; and howsoever they be done,I leave them as a father does his son.Finis.
What is more gentle than a wind in summer?What is more soothing than the pretty hummerThat stays one moment in an open flower,And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowingIn a green island, far from all men's knowing?More healthful than the leafiness of dales?More secret than a nest of nightingales?More serene than Cordelia's countenance?More full of visions than a high romance?What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!Low murmurer of tender lullabies!Light hoverer around our happy pillows!Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!Most happy listener! when the morning blessesThee for enlivening all the cheerful eyesThat glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.But what is higher beyond thought than thee?Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?What is it? And to what shall I compare it?It has a glory, and nought else can share it:The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,Chacing away all worldliness and folly;Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;And sometimes like a gentle whisperingOf all the secrets of some wond'rous thingThat breathes about us in the vacant air;So that we look around with prying stare,Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning,And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,That is to crown our name when life is ended.Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,And die away in ardent mutterings.No one who once the glorious sun has seen,And all the clouds, and felt his bosom cleanFor his great Maker's presence, but must knowWhat 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow:Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,By telling what he sees from native merit.O Poesy! for thee I hold my penThat am not yet a glorious denizenOf thy wide heaven—Should I rather kneelUpon some mountain-top until I feelA glowing splendour round about me hung,And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?O Poesy! for thee I grasp my penThat am not yet a glorious denizenOf thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,Smoothed for intoxication by the breathOf flowering bays, that I may die a deathOf luxury, and my young spirit followThe morning sun-beams to the great ApolloLike a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bearThe o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fairVisions of all places: a bowery nookWill be elysium—an eternal bookWhence I may copy many a lovely sayingAbout the leaves, and flowers—about the playingOf nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shadeKeeping a silence round a sleeping maid;And many a verse from so strange influenceThat we must ever wonder how, and whenceIt came. Also imaginings will hoverRound my fire-side, and haply there discoverVistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wanderIn happy silence, like the clear meanderThrough its lone vales; and where I found a spotOf awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dressOf flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,Write on my tablets all that was permitted,All that was for our human senses fitted.Then the events of this wide world I'd seizeLike a strong giant, and my spirit teazeTill at its shoulders it should proudly seeWings to find out an immortality.Stop and consider! life is but a day;A fragile dew-drop on its perilous wayFrom a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleepWhile his boat hastens to the monstrous steepOf Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;The reading of an ever-changing tale;The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,Riding the springy branches of an elm.O for ten years, that I may overwhelmMyself in poesy; so I may do the deedThat my own soul has to itself decreed.Then will I pass the countries that I seeIn long perspective, and continuallyTaste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll passOf Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,—Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders whiteInto a pretty shrinking with a biteAs hard as lips can make it: till agreed,A lovely tale of human life we'll read.And one will teach a tame dove how it bestMay fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,Will set a green robe floating round her head,And still will dance with ever varied case,Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:Another will entice me on, and onThrough almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;Till in the bosom of a leafy worldWe rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'dIn the recesses of a pearly shell.And can I ever bid these joys farewell?Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,Where I may find the agonies, the strifeOf human hearts: for lo! I see afar,O'er sailing the blue cragginess, a carAnd steeds with streamy manes—the charioteerLooks out upon the winds with glorious fear:And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightlyAlong a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightlyWheel downward come they into fresher skies,Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.Still downward with capacious whirl they glide,And now I see them on a green-hill's sideIn breezy rest among the nodding stalks.The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talksTo the trees and mountains; and there soon appearShapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,Passing along before a dusky spaceMade by some mighty oaks: as they would chaseSome ever-fleeting music on they sweep.Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;Some with their faces muffled to the earBetween their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,Go glad and smilingly, athwart the gloom;Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;Yes, thousands in a thousand different waysFlit onward—now a lovely wreath of girlsDancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;And now broad wings. Most awfully intentThe driver, of those steeds is forward bent,And seems to listen: O that I might knowAll that he writes with such a hurrying glow.The visions all are fled—the car is fledInto the light of heaven, and in their steadA sense of real things comes doubly strong,And, like a muddy stream, would bear alongMy soul to nothingness: but I will striveAgainst all doublings, and will keep aliveThe thought of that same chariot, and the strangeJourney it went.Is there so small a rangeIn the present strength of manhood, that the highImagination cannot freely flyAs she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,Paw up against the light, and do strange deedsUpon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all?From the clear space of ether, to the smallBreath of new buds unfolding? From the meaningOf Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greeningOf April meadows? Here her altar shone,E'en in this isle; and who could paragonThe fervid choir that lifted up a noiseOf harmony, to where it aye will poiseIts mighty self of convoluting sound,Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,Eternally around a dizzy void?Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'dWith honors; nor had any other careThan to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schismNurtured by foppery and barbarism,Made great Apollo blush for this his land.Men were thought wise who could not understandHis glories: with a puling infant's forceThey sway'd about upon a rocking horse,And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul'd!The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'dIts gathering waves—ye felt it not. The blueBared its eternal bosom, and the dewOf summer nights collected still to makeThe morning precious: beauty was awake!Why were ye not awake? But ye were deadTo things ye knew not of,—were closely wedTo musty laws lined out with wretched ruleAnd compass vile: so that ye taught a schoolOf dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:A thousand handicraftsmen wore the maskOf Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,And did not know it,—no, they went about,Holding a poor, decrepid standard outMark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in largeThe name of one Boileau!O ye whose chargeIt is to hover round our pleasant hills!Whose congregated majesty so fillsMy boundly reverence, that I cannot traceYour hallowed names, in this unholy place,So near those common folk; did not their shamesAffright you? Did our old lamenting ThamesDelight you? Did ye never cluster roundDelicious Avon, with a mournful sound,And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieuTo regions where no more the laurel grew?Or did ye stay to give a welcomingTo some lone spirits who could proudly singTheir youth away, and die? 'Twas even so:But let me think away those times of woe:Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathedRich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathedFresh garlands: for sweet music has been heardIn many places;—some has been upstirr'dFrom out its crystal dwelling in a lake,By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,Nested and quiet in a valley mild,Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wildAbout the earth: happy are ye and glad.These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've hadStrange thunders from the potency of song;Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,From majesty: but in clear truth the themesAre ugly clubs, the Poets PolyphemesDisturbing the grand sea. A drainless showerOf light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power;'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.The very archings of her eye-lids charmA thousand willing agents to obey,And still she governs with the mildest sway:But strength alone though of the Muses bornIs like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchresDelight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,And thorns of life; forgetting the great endOf poesy, that it should be a friendTo sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer thanE'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weedsLifts its sweet head into the air, and feedsA silent space with ever sprouting green.All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.Then let us clear away the choaking thornsFrom round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrownWith simple flowers: let there nothing beMore boisterous than a lover's bended knee;Nought more ungentle than the placid lookOf one who leans upon a closed book;Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopesBetween two hills. All hail delightful hopes!As she was wont, th' imaginationInto most lovely labyrinths will be gone,And they shall be accounted poet kingsWho simply tell the most heart-easing things.O may these joys be ripe before I die.Will not some say that I presumptuouslyHave spoken? that from hastening disgrace'Twere better far to hide my foolish face?That whining boyhood should with reverence bowEre the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!If I do hide myself, it sure shall beIn the very fane, the light of Poesy:If I do fall, at least I will be laidBeneath the silence of a poplar shade;And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;And there shall be a kind memorial graven.But oft' Despondence! miserable bane!They should not know thee, who athirst to gainA noble end, are thirsty every hour.What though I am not wealthy in the dowerOf spanning wisdom; though I do not knowThe shiftings of the mighty winds, that blowHither and thither all the changing thoughtsOf man: though no great minist'ring reason sortsOut the dark mysteries of human soulsTo clear conceiving: yet there ever rollsA vast idea before me, and I gleanTherefrom my liberty; thence too I've seenThe end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clearAs any thing most true; as that the yearIs made of the four seasons—manifestAs a large cross, some old cathedral's crest,Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should IBe but the essence of deformity,A coward, did my very eye-lids winkAt speaking out what I have dared to think.Ah! rather let me like a madman runOver some precipice; let the hot sunMelt my Dedalian wings, and drive me downConvuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frownOf conscience bids me be more calm awhile.An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!How many days! what desperate turmoil!Ere I can have explored its widenesses.Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,I could unsay those—no, impossible!Impossible!For sweet relief I'll dwellOn humbler thoughts, and let this strange assayBegun in gentleness die so away.E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades:I turn full hearted to the friendly aidsThat smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnetInto the brain ere one can think upon it;The silence when some rhymes are coming out;And when they're come, the very pleasant rout:The message certain to be done to-morrow.'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrowSome precious book from out its snug retreat,To cluster round it when we next shall meet.Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airsAre fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;Many delights of that glad day recalling,When first my senses caught their tender falling.And with these airs come forms of eleganceStooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance,Careless, and grand—fingers soft and roundParting luxuriant curls;—and the swift boundOf Bacchus from his chariot, when his eyeMade Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.Thus I remember all the pleasant flowOf words at opening a portfolio.Things such as these are ever harbingersTo trains of peaceful images: the stirsOf a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:A linnet starting all about the bushes:A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smartedWith over pleasure—many, many more,Might I indulge at large in all my storeOf luxuries: yet I must not forgetSleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:For what there may be worthy in these rhymesI partly owe to him: and thus, the chimesOf friendly voices had just given placeTo as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retraceThe pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.It was a poet's house who keeps the keysOf pleasure's temple. Round about were hungThe glorious features of the bards who sungIn other ages—cold and sacred bustsSmiled at each other. Happy he who trustsTo clear Futurity his darling fame!Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aimAt swelling apples with a frisky leapAnd reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heapOf vine leaves. Then there rose to view a faneOf liny marble, and thereto a trainOf nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:One, loveliest, holding her white band towardThe dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweetBending their graceful figures till they meetOver the trippings of a little child:And some are hearing, eagerly, the wildThrilling liquidity of dewy piping.See, in another picture, nymphs are wipingCherishingly Diana's timorous limbs;—A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swimsAt the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motionWith the subsiding crystal: as when oceanHeaves calmly its broad swelling smoothiness o'erIts rocky marge, and balances once moreThe patient weeds; that now unshent by foamFeel all about their undulating home.Sappho's meek head was there half smiling downAt nothing; just as though the earnest frownOf over thinking had that moment goneFrom off her brow, and left her all alone.Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,As if he always listened to the sighsOf the goaded world; and Kosciusko's wornBy horrid suffrance—mightily forlorn.Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can weanHis eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!For over them was seen a free displayOf out-spread wings, and from between them shoneThe face of Poesy: from off her throneShe overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.The very sense of where I was might wellKeep Sleep aloof: but more than that there cameThought after thought to nourish up the flameWithin my breast; so that the morning lightSurprised me even from a sleepless night;And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,Resolving to begin that very dayThese lines; and howsoever they be done,I leave them as a father does his son.Finis.
What is more gentle than a wind in summer?What is more soothing than the pretty hummerThat stays one moment in an open flower,And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowingIn a green island, far from all men's knowing?More healthful than the leafiness of dales?More secret than a nest of nightingales?More serene than Cordelia's countenance?More full of visions than a high romance?What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!Low murmurer of tender lullabies!Light hoverer around our happy pillows!Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!Most happy listener! when the morning blessesThee for enlivening all the cheerful eyesThat glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.But what is higher beyond thought than thee?Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?What is it? And to what shall I compare it?It has a glory, and nought else can share it:The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,Chacing away all worldliness and folly;Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;And sometimes like a gentle whisperingOf all the secrets of some wond'rous thingThat breathes about us in the vacant air;So that we look around with prying stare,Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning,And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,That is to crown our name when life is ended.Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,And die away in ardent mutterings.No one who once the glorious sun has seen,And all the clouds, and felt his bosom cleanFor his great Maker's presence, but must knowWhat 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow:Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,By telling what he sees from native merit.O Poesy! for thee I hold my penThat am not yet a glorious denizenOf thy wide heaven—Should I rather kneelUpon some mountain-top until I feelA glowing splendour round about me hung,And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?O Poesy! for thee I grasp my penThat am not yet a glorious denizenOf thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,Smoothed for intoxication by the breathOf flowering bays, that I may die a deathOf luxury, and my young spirit followThe morning sun-beams to the great ApolloLike a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bearThe o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fairVisions of all places: a bowery nookWill be elysium—an eternal bookWhence I may copy many a lovely sayingAbout the leaves, and flowers—about the playingOf nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shadeKeeping a silence round a sleeping maid;And many a verse from so strange influenceThat we must ever wonder how, and whenceIt came. Also imaginings will hoverRound my fire-side, and haply there discoverVistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wanderIn happy silence, like the clear meanderThrough its lone vales; and where I found a spotOf awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dressOf flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,Write on my tablets all that was permitted,All that was for our human senses fitted.Then the events of this wide world I'd seizeLike a strong giant, and my spirit teazeTill at its shoulders it should proudly seeWings to find out an immortality.Stop and consider! life is but a day;A fragile dew-drop on its perilous wayFrom a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleepWhile his boat hastens to the monstrous steepOf Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;The reading of an ever-changing tale;The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,Riding the springy branches of an elm.O for ten years, that I may overwhelmMyself in poesy; so I may do the deedThat my own soul has to itself decreed.Then will I pass the countries that I seeIn long perspective, and continuallyTaste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll passOf Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,—Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders whiteInto a pretty shrinking with a biteAs hard as lips can make it: till agreed,A lovely tale of human life we'll read.And one will teach a tame dove how it bestMay fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,Will set a green robe floating round her head,And still will dance with ever varied case,Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:Another will entice me on, and onThrough almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;Till in the bosom of a leafy worldWe rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'dIn the recesses of a pearly shell.And can I ever bid these joys farewell?Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,Where I may find the agonies, the strifeOf human hearts: for lo! I see afar,O'er sailing the blue cragginess, a carAnd steeds with streamy manes—the charioteerLooks out upon the winds with glorious fear:And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightlyAlong a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightlyWheel downward come they into fresher skies,Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.Still downward with capacious whirl they glide,And now I see them on a green-hill's sideIn breezy rest among the nodding stalks.The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talksTo the trees and mountains; and there soon appearShapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,Passing along before a dusky spaceMade by some mighty oaks: as they would chaseSome ever-fleeting music on they sweep.Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;Some with their faces muffled to the earBetween their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,Go glad and smilingly, athwart the gloom;Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;Yes, thousands in a thousand different waysFlit onward—now a lovely wreath of girlsDancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;And now broad wings. Most awfully intentThe driver, of those steeds is forward bent,And seems to listen: O that I might knowAll that he writes with such a hurrying glow.The visions all are fled—the car is fledInto the light of heaven, and in their steadA sense of real things comes doubly strong,And, like a muddy stream, would bear alongMy soul to nothingness: but I will striveAgainst all doublings, and will keep aliveThe thought of that same chariot, and the strangeJourney it went.Is there so small a rangeIn the present strength of manhood, that the highImagination cannot freely flyAs she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,Paw up against the light, and do strange deedsUpon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all?From the clear space of ether, to the smallBreath of new buds unfolding? From the meaningOf Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greeningOf April meadows? Here her altar shone,E'en in this isle; and who could paragonThe fervid choir that lifted up a noiseOf harmony, to where it aye will poiseIts mighty self of convoluting sound,Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,Eternally around a dizzy void?Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'dWith honors; nor had any other careThan to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schismNurtured by foppery and barbarism,Made great Apollo blush for this his land.Men were thought wise who could not understandHis glories: with a puling infant's forceThey sway'd about upon a rocking horse,And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul'd!The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'dIts gathering waves—ye felt it not. The blueBared its eternal bosom, and the dewOf summer nights collected still to makeThe morning precious: beauty was awake!Why were ye not awake? But ye were deadTo things ye knew not of,—were closely wedTo musty laws lined out with wretched ruleAnd compass vile: so that ye taught a schoolOf dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:A thousand handicraftsmen wore the maskOf Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,And did not know it,—no, they went about,Holding a poor, decrepid standard outMark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in largeThe name of one Boileau!O ye whose chargeIt is to hover round our pleasant hills!Whose congregated majesty so fillsMy boundly reverence, that I cannot traceYour hallowed names, in this unholy place,So near those common folk; did not their shamesAffright you? Did our old lamenting ThamesDelight you? Did ye never cluster roundDelicious Avon, with a mournful sound,And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieuTo regions where no more the laurel grew?Or did ye stay to give a welcomingTo some lone spirits who could proudly singTheir youth away, and die? 'Twas even so:But let me think away those times of woe:Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathedRich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathedFresh garlands: for sweet music has been heardIn many places;—some has been upstirr'dFrom out its crystal dwelling in a lake,By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,Nested and quiet in a valley mild,Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wildAbout the earth: happy are ye and glad.These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've hadStrange thunders from the potency of song;Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,From majesty: but in clear truth the themesAre ugly clubs, the Poets PolyphemesDisturbing the grand sea. A drainless showerOf light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power;'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.The very archings of her eye-lids charmA thousand willing agents to obey,And still she governs with the mildest sway:But strength alone though of the Muses bornIs like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchresDelight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,And thorns of life; forgetting the great endOf poesy, that it should be a friendTo sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer thanE'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weedsLifts its sweet head into the air, and feedsA silent space with ever sprouting green.All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.Then let us clear away the choaking thornsFrom round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrownWith simple flowers: let there nothing beMore boisterous than a lover's bended knee;Nought more ungentle than the placid lookOf one who leans upon a closed book;Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopesBetween two hills. All hail delightful hopes!As she was wont, th' imaginationInto most lovely labyrinths will be gone,And they shall be accounted poet kingsWho simply tell the most heart-easing things.O may these joys be ripe before I die.Will not some say that I presumptuouslyHave spoken? that from hastening disgrace'Twere better far to hide my foolish face?That whining boyhood should with reverence bowEre the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!If I do hide myself, it sure shall beIn the very fane, the light of Poesy:If I do fall, at least I will be laidBeneath the silence of a poplar shade;And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;And there shall be a kind memorial graven.But oft' Despondence! miserable bane!They should not know thee, who athirst to gainA noble end, are thirsty every hour.What though I am not wealthy in the dowerOf spanning wisdom; though I do not knowThe shiftings of the mighty winds, that blowHither and thither all the changing thoughtsOf man: though no great minist'ring reason sortsOut the dark mysteries of human soulsTo clear conceiving: yet there ever rollsA vast idea before me, and I gleanTherefrom my liberty; thence too I've seenThe end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clearAs any thing most true; as that the yearIs made of the four seasons—manifestAs a large cross, some old cathedral's crest,Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should IBe but the essence of deformity,A coward, did my very eye-lids winkAt speaking out what I have dared to think.Ah! rather let me like a madman runOver some precipice; let the hot sunMelt my Dedalian wings, and drive me downConvuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frownOf conscience bids me be more calm awhile.An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!How many days! what desperate turmoil!Ere I can have explored its widenesses.Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,I could unsay those—no, impossible!Impossible!For sweet relief I'll dwellOn humbler thoughts, and let this strange assayBegun in gentleness die so away.E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades:I turn full hearted to the friendly aidsThat smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnetInto the brain ere one can think upon it;The silence when some rhymes are coming out;And when they're come, the very pleasant rout:The message certain to be done to-morrow.'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrowSome precious book from out its snug retreat,To cluster round it when we next shall meet.Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airsAre fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;Many delights of that glad day recalling,When first my senses caught their tender falling.And with these airs come forms of eleganceStooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance,Careless, and grand—fingers soft and roundParting luxuriant curls;—and the swift boundOf Bacchus from his chariot, when his eyeMade Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.Thus I remember all the pleasant flowOf words at opening a portfolio.Things such as these are ever harbingersTo trains of peaceful images: the stirsOf a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:A linnet starting all about the bushes:A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smartedWith over pleasure—many, many more,Might I indulge at large in all my storeOf luxuries: yet I must not forgetSleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:For what there may be worthy in these rhymesI partly owe to him: and thus, the chimesOf friendly voices had just given placeTo as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retraceThe pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.It was a poet's house who keeps the keysOf pleasure's temple. Round about were hungThe glorious features of the bards who sungIn other ages—cold and sacred bustsSmiled at each other. Happy he who trustsTo clear Futurity his darling fame!Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aimAt swelling apples with a frisky leapAnd reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heapOf vine leaves. Then there rose to view a faneOf liny marble, and thereto a trainOf nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:One, loveliest, holding her white band towardThe dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweetBending their graceful figures till they meetOver the trippings of a little child:And some are hearing, eagerly, the wildThrilling liquidity of dewy piping.See, in another picture, nymphs are wipingCherishingly Diana's timorous limbs;—A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swimsAt the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motionWith the subsiding crystal: as when oceanHeaves calmly its broad swelling smoothiness o'erIts rocky marge, and balances once moreThe patient weeds; that now unshent by foamFeel all about their undulating home.Sappho's meek head was there half smiling downAt nothing; just as though the earnest frownOf over thinking had that moment goneFrom off her brow, and left her all alone.Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,As if he always listened to the sighsOf the goaded world; and Kosciusko's wornBy horrid suffrance—mightily forlorn.Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can weanHis eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!For over them was seen a free displayOf out-spread wings, and from between them shoneThe face of Poesy: from off her throneShe overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.The very sense of where I was might wellKeep Sleep aloof: but more than that there cameThought after thought to nourish up the flameWithin my breast; so that the morning lightSurprised me even from a sleepless night;And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,Resolving to begin that very dayThese lines; and howsoever they be done,I leave them as a father does his son.Finis.
What is more gentle than a wind in summer?What is more soothing than the pretty hummerThat stays one moment in an open flower,And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowingIn a green island, far from all men's knowing?More healthful than the leafiness of dales?More secret than a nest of nightingales?More serene than Cordelia's countenance?More full of visions than a high romance?What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!Low murmurer of tender lullabies!Light hoverer around our happy pillows!Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!Most happy listener! when the morning blessesThee for enlivening all the cheerful eyesThat glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.
But what is higher beyond thought than thee?Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?What is it? And to what shall I compare it?It has a glory, and nought else can share it:The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,Chacing away all worldliness and folly;Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;And sometimes like a gentle whisperingOf all the secrets of some wond'rous thingThat breathes about us in the vacant air;So that we look around with prying stare,Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning,And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,That is to crown our name when life is ended.Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,And die away in ardent mutterings.
No one who once the glorious sun has seen,And all the clouds, and felt his bosom cleanFor his great Maker's presence, but must knowWhat 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow:Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,By telling what he sees from native merit.
O Poesy! for thee I hold my penThat am not yet a glorious denizenOf thy wide heaven—Should I rather kneelUpon some mountain-top until I feelA glowing splendour round about me hung,And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?O Poesy! for thee I grasp my penThat am not yet a glorious denizenOf thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,Smoothed for intoxication by the breathOf flowering bays, that I may die a deathOf luxury, and my young spirit followThe morning sun-beams to the great ApolloLike a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bearThe o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fairVisions of all places: a bowery nookWill be elysium—an eternal bookWhence I may copy many a lovely sayingAbout the leaves, and flowers—about the playingOf nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shadeKeeping a silence round a sleeping maid;And many a verse from so strange influenceThat we must ever wonder how, and whenceIt came. Also imaginings will hoverRound my fire-side, and haply there discoverVistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wanderIn happy silence, like the clear meanderThrough its lone vales; and where I found a spotOf awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dressOf flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,Write on my tablets all that was permitted,All that was for our human senses fitted.Then the events of this wide world I'd seizeLike a strong giant, and my spirit teazeTill at its shoulders it should proudly seeWings to find out an immortality.
Stop and consider! life is but a day;A fragile dew-drop on its perilous wayFrom a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleepWhile his boat hastens to the monstrous steepOf Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;The reading of an ever-changing tale;The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,Riding the springy branches of an elm.
O for ten years, that I may overwhelmMyself in poesy; so I may do the deedThat my own soul has to itself decreed.Then will I pass the countries that I seeIn long perspective, and continuallyTaste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll passOf Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,—Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders whiteInto a pretty shrinking with a biteAs hard as lips can make it: till agreed,A lovely tale of human life we'll read.And one will teach a tame dove how it bestMay fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,Will set a green robe floating round her head,And still will dance with ever varied case,Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:Another will entice me on, and onThrough almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;Till in the bosom of a leafy worldWe rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'dIn the recesses of a pearly shell.
And can I ever bid these joys farewell?Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,Where I may find the agonies, the strifeOf human hearts: for lo! I see afar,O'er sailing the blue cragginess, a carAnd steeds with streamy manes—the charioteerLooks out upon the winds with glorious fear:And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightlyAlong a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightlyWheel downward come they into fresher skies,Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.Still downward with capacious whirl they glide,And now I see them on a green-hill's sideIn breezy rest among the nodding stalks.The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talksTo the trees and mountains; and there soon appearShapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,Passing along before a dusky spaceMade by some mighty oaks: as they would chaseSome ever-fleeting music on they sweep.Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;Some with their faces muffled to the earBetween their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,Go glad and smilingly, athwart the gloom;Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;Yes, thousands in a thousand different waysFlit onward—now a lovely wreath of girlsDancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;And now broad wings. Most awfully intentThe driver, of those steeds is forward bent,And seems to listen: O that I might knowAll that he writes with such a hurrying glow.
The visions all are fled—the car is fledInto the light of heaven, and in their steadA sense of real things comes doubly strong,And, like a muddy stream, would bear alongMy soul to nothingness: but I will striveAgainst all doublings, and will keep aliveThe thought of that same chariot, and the strangeJourney it went.
Is there so small a rangeIn the present strength of manhood, that the highImagination cannot freely flyAs she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,Paw up against the light, and do strange deedsUpon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all?From the clear space of ether, to the smallBreath of new buds unfolding? From the meaningOf Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greeningOf April meadows? Here her altar shone,E'en in this isle; and who could paragonThe fervid choir that lifted up a noiseOf harmony, to where it aye will poiseIts mighty self of convoluting sound,Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,Eternally around a dizzy void?Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'dWith honors; nor had any other careThan to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.
Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schismNurtured by foppery and barbarism,Made great Apollo blush for this his land.Men were thought wise who could not understandHis glories: with a puling infant's forceThey sway'd about upon a rocking horse,And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul'd!The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'dIts gathering waves—ye felt it not. The blueBared its eternal bosom, and the dewOf summer nights collected still to makeThe morning precious: beauty was awake!Why were ye not awake? But ye were deadTo things ye knew not of,—were closely wedTo musty laws lined out with wretched ruleAnd compass vile: so that ye taught a schoolOf dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:A thousand handicraftsmen wore the maskOf Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,And did not know it,—no, they went about,Holding a poor, decrepid standard outMark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in largeThe name of one Boileau!
O ye whose chargeIt is to hover round our pleasant hills!Whose congregated majesty so fillsMy boundly reverence, that I cannot traceYour hallowed names, in this unholy place,So near those common folk; did not their shamesAffright you? Did our old lamenting ThamesDelight you? Did ye never cluster roundDelicious Avon, with a mournful sound,And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieuTo regions where no more the laurel grew?Or did ye stay to give a welcomingTo some lone spirits who could proudly singTheir youth away, and die? 'Twas even so:But let me think away those times of woe:Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathedRich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathedFresh garlands: for sweet music has been heardIn many places;—some has been upstirr'dFrom out its crystal dwelling in a lake,By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,Nested and quiet in a valley mild,Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wildAbout the earth: happy are ye and glad.
These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've hadStrange thunders from the potency of song;Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,From majesty: but in clear truth the themesAre ugly clubs, the Poets PolyphemesDisturbing the grand sea. A drainless showerOf light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power;'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.The very archings of her eye-lids charmA thousand willing agents to obey,And still she governs with the mildest sway:But strength alone though of the Muses bornIs like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchresDelight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,And thorns of life; forgetting the great endOf poesy, that it should be a friendTo sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.
Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer thanE'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weedsLifts its sweet head into the air, and feedsA silent space with ever sprouting green.All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.Then let us clear away the choaking thornsFrom round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrownWith simple flowers: let there nothing beMore boisterous than a lover's bended knee;Nought more ungentle than the placid lookOf one who leans upon a closed book;Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopesBetween two hills. All hail delightful hopes!As she was wont, th' imaginationInto most lovely labyrinths will be gone,And they shall be accounted poet kingsWho simply tell the most heart-easing things.O may these joys be ripe before I die.
Will not some say that I presumptuouslyHave spoken? that from hastening disgrace'Twere better far to hide my foolish face?That whining boyhood should with reverence bowEre the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!If I do hide myself, it sure shall beIn the very fane, the light of Poesy:If I do fall, at least I will be laidBeneath the silence of a poplar shade;And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;And there shall be a kind memorial graven.But oft' Despondence! miserable bane!They should not know thee, who athirst to gainA noble end, are thirsty every hour.What though I am not wealthy in the dowerOf spanning wisdom; though I do not knowThe shiftings of the mighty winds, that blowHither and thither all the changing thoughtsOf man: though no great minist'ring reason sortsOut the dark mysteries of human soulsTo clear conceiving: yet there ever rollsA vast idea before me, and I gleanTherefrom my liberty; thence too I've seenThe end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clearAs any thing most true; as that the yearIs made of the four seasons—manifestAs a large cross, some old cathedral's crest,Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should IBe but the essence of deformity,A coward, did my very eye-lids winkAt speaking out what I have dared to think.Ah! rather let me like a madman runOver some precipice; let the hot sunMelt my Dedalian wings, and drive me downConvuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frownOf conscience bids me be more calm awhile.An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!How many days! what desperate turmoil!Ere I can have explored its widenesses.Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,I could unsay those—no, impossible!Impossible!
For sweet relief I'll dwellOn humbler thoughts, and let this strange assayBegun in gentleness die so away.E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades:I turn full hearted to the friendly aidsThat smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnetInto the brain ere one can think upon it;The silence when some rhymes are coming out;And when they're come, the very pleasant rout:The message certain to be done to-morrow.'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrowSome precious book from out its snug retreat,To cluster round it when we next shall meet.Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airsAre fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;Many delights of that glad day recalling,When first my senses caught their tender falling.And with these airs come forms of eleganceStooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance,Careless, and grand—fingers soft and roundParting luxuriant curls;—and the swift boundOf Bacchus from his chariot, when his eyeMade Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.Thus I remember all the pleasant flowOf words at opening a portfolio.
Things such as these are ever harbingersTo trains of peaceful images: the stirsOf a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:A linnet starting all about the bushes:A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smartedWith over pleasure—many, many more,Might I indulge at large in all my storeOf luxuries: yet I must not forgetSleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:For what there may be worthy in these rhymesI partly owe to him: and thus, the chimesOf friendly voices had just given placeTo as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retraceThe pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.It was a poet's house who keeps the keysOf pleasure's temple. Round about were hungThe glorious features of the bards who sungIn other ages—cold and sacred bustsSmiled at each other. Happy he who trustsTo clear Futurity his darling fame!Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aimAt swelling apples with a frisky leapAnd reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heapOf vine leaves. Then there rose to view a faneOf liny marble, and thereto a trainOf nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:One, loveliest, holding her white band towardThe dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweetBending their graceful figures till they meetOver the trippings of a little child:And some are hearing, eagerly, the wildThrilling liquidity of dewy piping.See, in another picture, nymphs are wipingCherishingly Diana's timorous limbs;—A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swimsAt the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motionWith the subsiding crystal: as when oceanHeaves calmly its broad swelling smoothiness o'erIts rocky marge, and balances once moreThe patient weeds; that now unshent by foamFeel all about their undulating home.
Sappho's meek head was there half smiling downAt nothing; just as though the earnest frownOf over thinking had that moment goneFrom off her brow, and left her all alone.
Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,As if he always listened to the sighsOf the goaded world; and Kosciusko's wornBy horrid suffrance—mightily forlorn.
Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can weanHis eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!For over them was seen a free displayOf out-spread wings, and from between them shoneThe face of Poesy: from off her throneShe overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.The very sense of where I was might wellKeep Sleep aloof: but more than that there cameThought after thought to nourish up the flameWithin my breast; so that the morning lightSurprised me even from a sleepless night;And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,Resolving to begin that very dayThese lines; and howsoever they be done,I leave them as a father does his son.
Finis.
Corrections:
Corrections:
Three spelling errors were corrected for the Project Gutenberg edition.The original lines appeared in the 1817 edition as follows :
Three spelling errors were corrected for the Project Gutenberg edition.The original lines appeared in the 1817 edition as follows :
To****Line 10: Like to streaks across the sky,To Charles Cowden ClarkeLine 82: Of my rough verses not an hour mispent;Sleep and PoetryLine 181: Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a scism
To****Line 10: Like to streaks across the sky,
To Charles Cowden ClarkeLine 82: Of my rough verses not an hour mispent;
Sleep and PoetryLine 181: Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a scism