238. THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET.Where art thou, my beloved Son,Where art thou, worse to me than dead!Oh find me, prosperous or undone!Or if the grave be now thy bed,Why am I ignorant of the sameThat I may rest; and neither blameNor sorrow may attend thy name?Seven years, alas! to have receivedNo tidings of an only child—To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,And be for evermore beguiled,—Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!I catch at them, and then I miss;Was ever darkness like to this?He was among the prime in worth,An object beauteous to behold;Well born, well bred; I sent him forthIngenuous, innocent, and bold:If things ensued that wanted grace,As hath been said, they were not base;And never blush was on my face.Ah! little doth the young-one dream,When full of play and childish cares,What power is in his wildest scream,Heard by his mother unawares!He knows it not, he cannot guess:Years to a mother bring distress;But do not make her love the less.Neglect me! no, I suffer'd longFrom that ill thought; and being blindSaid, "Pride shall help me in my wrong:Kind mother have I been, as kindAs ever breathed": and that is true;I've wet my path with tears like dew,Weeping for him when no one knew.My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,Hopeless of honour and of gain,O! do not dread thy mother's door,Think not of me with grief and pain:I now can see with better eyes;And worldly grandeur I despiseAnd fortune with her gifts and lies.Alas! the fowls of heaven have wingsAnd blasts of heaven will aid their flight;They mount—how short a voyage bringsThe wanderers back to their delight!Chains tie us down by land and sea;And wishes, vain as mine, may beAll that is left to comfort thee.Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groanMaim'd, mangled by inhuman men;Or thou upon a desert thrownInheritest the lion's den;Or hast been summoned to the deep,Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keepAn incommunicable sleep.I look for ghosts: but none will forceTheir way to me; 'tis falsely saidThat there was ever intercourseBetween the living and the dead;For surely then I should have sightOf him I wait for day and nightWith love and longings infinite.My apprehensions come in crowds;I dread the rustling of the grass;The very shadows of the cloudsHave power to shake me as they pass;I question things, and do not findOne that will answer to my mind;And all the world appears unkind.Beyond participation lieMy troubles, and beyond relief:If any chance to heave a sighThey pity me, and not my grief.Then come to me, my Son, or sendSome tidings that my woes may end!I have no other earthly friend.W. WORDSWORTH.
239. HUNTING SONG.Waken, lords and ladies gay,On the mountain dawns the day;All the jolly chase is hereWith hawk and horse and hunting-spear;Hounds are in their couples yelling,Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,Merrily merrily mingle they,"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Waken, lords and ladies gay,The mist has left the mountains gray,Springlets in the dawn are streaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green;Now we come to chant our lay"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Waken, lords and ladies gay,To the greenwood haste away;We can show you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can show the marks he madeWhen 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;You shall see him brought to bay;"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Louder, louder chant the layWaken, lords and ladies gay!Tell them youth and mirth and gleeRun a course as well as we;Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,Staunch as hound and fleet as hawk;Think of this, and rise with dayGentle lords and ladies gay!SIR W. SCOTT.
240. TO THE SKYLARK.Ethereal Minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eyeBoth with thy nest upon the dewy ground?Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,Those quivering wings composed, that music still!To the last point of vision, and beyond,Mount, daring warbler!—that love-prompted strain—'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond—Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to singAll independent of the leafy Spring.Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;A privacy of glorious light is thine;Whence thou dost pour upon the world a floodOf harmony, with instinct more divine;Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam—True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!W. WORDSWORTH.
241. TO A SKYLARK.Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire;The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.In the golden lightningOf the sunken sunO'er which clouds are brightening,Thou dost float and run,Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heavenIn the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clearUntil we hardly see, we feel that it is there.All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to seeAs from thy presence showers a rain of melody.Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbiddenTill the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:Like a glow-worm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aerial hueAmong the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:Like a rose embower'dIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflower'd,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet those heavy-wingéd thieves.Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awaken'd flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chauntMatch'd with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.Waking or asleepThou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet if we could scornHate, and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flowThe world should listen then, as I am listening now!P.B. SHELLEY.
242. THE GREEN LINNET.Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shedTheir snow white blossoms on my head,With brightest sunshine round me spreadOf Spring's unclouded weather,In this sequester'd nook how sweetTo sit upon my orchard-seat!And birds and flowers once more to greet,My last year's friends together.One have I mark'd, the happiest guestIn all this covert of the blest:Hail to Thee, far above the restIn joy of voice and pinion!Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,Presiding Spirit here to-dayDost lead the revels of the May,And this is thy dominion.While birds, and butterflies, and flowersMake all one band of paramours,Thou, ranging up and down the bowersArt sole in thy employment;A Life, a Presence like the air,Scattering thy gladness without care,Too blest with any one to pair;Thyself thy own enjoyment.Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,That twinkle to the gusty breeze,Behold him perch'd in ecstasies,Yet seeming still to hover;There, where the flutter of his wingsUpon his back and body flingsShadows and sunny glimmerings,That cover him all over.My dazzled sight he oft deceives—A brother of the dancing leaves;Then flits, and from the cottage-eavesPours forth his song in gushes,As if by that exulting strainHe mock'd and treated with disdainThe voiceless Form he chose to feignWhile fluttering in the bushes.W. WORDSWORTH.
243. TO THE CUCKOO.O blithe new-comer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice:O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,Or but a wandering Voice?While I am lying on the grassThy twofold shout I hear;From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off and near.Though babbling only to the valeOf sunshine and of flowers,Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery;The same whom in my school-boy daysI listen'd to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love;Still long'd for, never seen!And I can listen to thee yet;Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.O blesséd bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial, fairy place;That is fit home for Thee!W. WORDSWORTH.
244. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness painsMy sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drainsOne minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,But being too happy in thine happiness,—That thou, light-wingéd Dryad of the trees,In some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of summer in full-throated ease.O for a draught of vintage, that hath beenCool'd a long age in the deep-delvéd earth,Tasting of Flora and the country-green,Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South,Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,With beaded bubbles winking at the brimAnd purple-stainéd mouth;That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,And with thee fade away into the forest dim:Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forgetWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fretHere, where men sit and hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;Where but to think is to be full of sorrowAnd leaden-eyed despairs;Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.Away! away! for I will fly to thee,Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy,Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;But here there is no lightSave what from heaven is with the breezes blownThrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalméd darkness, guess each sweetWherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;And mid-May's eldest child,The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.Darkling I listen; and for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death,Call'd him soft names in many a muséd rhyme,To take into the air my quiet breath;Now more than ever seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroadIn such an ecstasy!Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—To thy high requiem become a sod.Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that oft-times hathCharm'd magic casements, opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is famed to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fadesPast the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deepIn the next valley-glades:Was it a vision, or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?J. KEATS.
245. UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.Sept.3, 1802.Earth has not anything to show more fair:Dull would he be of soul who could pass byA sight so touching in its majesty:This City now doth like a garment wearThe beauty of the morning; silent, bare,Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lieOpen unto the fields, and to the sky;All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.Never did sun more beautifully steepIn his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!The river glideth at his own sweet will:Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;And all that mighty heart is lying still!W. WORDSWORTH.
246. OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT.I met a traveller from an antique landWho said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. Near them on the sandHalf sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frownAnd wrinkled lip and sneer of cold commandTell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;And on the pedestal these words appear:"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.P.B. SHELLEY.
247. COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY,1803.Degenerate Douglas! O the unworthy lord!Whom mere despite of heart could so far pleaseAnd love of havoc (for with such diseaseFame taxes him) that he could send forth wordTo level with the dust a noble horde,A brotherhood of venerable trees,Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like theseBeggar'd and outraged!—Many hearts deploredThe fate of those old trees; and oft with painThe traveller at this day will stop and gazeOn wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,And the green silent pastures, yet remain.W. WORDSWORTH.
248. ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER.Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!—The lovely cottage in the guardian nookHath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!But covet not the abode—O do not sighAs many do, repining while they look;Intruders who would tear from Nature's bookThis precious leaf with harsh impiety:—Think what the home would be if it were thine,Even thine, though few thy wants!—Roof, window, door,The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,The roses to the porch which they entwine:Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the dayOn which it should be touch'd would melt away!W. WORDSWORTH.
249. TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE.Sweet Highland Girl, a very showerOf beauty is thy earthly dower!Twice seven consenting years have shedTheir utmost bounty on thy head:And these grey rocks, this household lawn,These trees—a veil just half withdrawn,This fall of water that doth makeA murmur near the silent lake,This little bay, a quiet roadThat holds in shelter thy abode;In truth together ye do seemLike something fashion'd in a dream;Such forms as from their covert peepWhen earthly cares are laid asleep!But, O fair Creature! in the lightOf common day, so heavenly bright,I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,I bless thee with a human heart;God shield thee to thy latest years!I neither know thee nor thy peers:And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.With earnest feeling I shall prayFor thee when I am far away;For never saw I mien or faceIn which more plainly I could traceBenignity and home-bred senseRipening in perfect innocence.Here scatter'd like a random seed,Remote from men, Thou dost not needThe embarrass'd look of shy distress,And maidenly shamefacedness:Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clearThe freedom of a mountaineer:A face with gladness overspread,Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;And seemliness complete, that swaysThy courtesies, about thee plays;With no restraint, but such as springsFrom quick and eager visitingsOf thoughts that lie beyond the reachOf thy few words of English speech:A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strifeThat gives thy gestures grace and life!So have I, not unmoved in mind,Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,Thus beating up against the wind.What hand but would a garland cullFor thee who art so beautiful?O happy pleasure! here to dwellBeside thee in some heathy dell;Adopt your homely ways and dress,A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!But I could frame a wish for theeMore like a grave reality:Thou art to me but as a waveOf the wild sea: and I would haveSome claim upon thee, if I could,Though but of common neighbourhood.What joy to hear thee, and to see!Thy elder brother I would be,Thy father, anything to thee.Now thanks to Heaven! that of its graceHath led me to this lonely place.Joy have I had; and going henceI bear away my recompense.In spots like these it is we prizeOur memory, feel that she hath eyes:Then why should I be loth to stir?I feel this place was made for her;To give new pleasure like the past,Continued long as life shall last.Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;For I, methinks, till I grow oldAs fair before me shall beholdAs I do now, the cabin small,The lake, the bay, the waterfall;And Thee, the spirit of them all!W. WORDSWORTH.
250. THE REAPER.Behold her, single in the field,Yon solitary Highland Lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;O listen! for the vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.No nightingale did ever chauntMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travellers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian sands:No sweeter voice was ever heardIn spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.Will no one tell me what she sings?Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,That has been, and may be again?Whate'er the theme, the maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,And o'er the sickle bending;I listen'd till I had my fill;And, as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I boreLong after it was heard no more.W. WORDSWORTH.
251. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appearsHangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heardIn the silence of morning the song of the bird.'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She seesA mountain ascending, a vision of trees;Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.Green pastures she views in the midst of the daleDown which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fadeThe mist and the river, the hill and the shade;The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!W. WORDSWORTH.
252. TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR.Ariel to Miranda:—TakeThis slave of music, for the sakeOf him who is the slave of thee;And teach it all the harmonyIn which thou canst, and only thou,Make the delighted spirit glow,Till joy denies itself againAnd, too intense, is turn'd to pain;For by permission and commandOf thine own Prince Ferdinand,Poor Ariel sends this silent tokenOf more than ever can be spoken;Your guardian spirit, Ariel, whoFrom life to life, must still pursueYour happiness, for thus aloneCan Ariel ever find his own;From Prospero's enchanted cell,As the mighty verses tell,To the throne of Naples heLit you o'er the trackless sea,Flitting on, your prow before,Like a living meteor.When you die, the silent Moon,In her interlunar swoonIs not sadder in her cellThan deserted Ariel;When you live again on earth,Like an unseen Star of birthAriel guides you o'er the seaOf life from your nativity:—Many changes have been runSince Ferdinand and you begunYour course of love, and Ariel stillHas track'd your steps and served your will.Now in humbler, happier lot,This is all remember'd not;And now, alas! the poor sprite isImprison'd for some fault of hisIn a body like a grave—From you he only dares to craveFor his service and his sorrowA smile to-day, a song to-morrow.The artist who this viol wroughtTo echo all harmonious thought,Fell'd a tree, while on the steepThe woods were in their winter sleep,Rock'd in that repose divineOn the wind-swept Apennine;And dreaming, some of autumn past,And some of spring approaching fast,And some of April buds and showers,And some of songs in July bowers,And all of love; and so this tree,—O that such our death may be!—Died in sleep, and felt no pain,To live in happier form again:From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,The artist wrought this loved Guitar;And taught it justly to replyTo all who question skilfullyIn language gentle as thine own;Whispering in enamour'd toneSweet oracles of woods and dells,And summer winds in sylvan cells;—For it had learnt all harmoniesOf the plains and of the skies,Of the forests and the mountains,And the many-voicéd fountains;The clearest echoes of the hills,The softest notes of falling rills,The melodies of birds and bees,The murmuring of summer seas,And pattering rain, and breathing dew,And airs of evening; and it knewThat seldom-heard mysterious soundWhich, driven on its diurnal round,As it floats through boundless day,Our world enkindles on its way:—All this it knows, but will not tellTo those who cannot question wellThe spirit that inhabits it;It talks according to the witOf its companions; and no moreIs heard than has been felt beforeBy those who tempt it to betrayThese secrets of an elder day:But, sweetly as its answers willFlatter hands of perfect skill,It keeps its highest holiest toneFor one beloved Friend alone.P.B. SHELLEY.
253. THE DAFFODILS.I wander'd lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host of golden daffodils,Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretch'd in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glanceTossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced; but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:—A Poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company!I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought;For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.W. WORDSWORTH.
254. TO THE DAISY.With little here to do or seeOf things that in the great world be,Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to theeFor thou art worthy,Thou unassuming commonplaceOf Nature, with that homely face,And yet with something of a grace,Which love makes for thee!Oft on the dappled turf at easeI sit and play with similes,Loose types of things through all degrees,Thoughts of thy raising;And many a fond and idle nameI give to thee, for praise or blame,As is the humour of the game,While I am gazing.A nun demure, of lowly port;Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,In thy simplicity the sportOf all temptations;A queen in crown of rubies drest;A starveling in a scanty vest;Are all, as seem to suit thee best,Thy appellations.A little Cyclops, with one eyeStaring to threaten and defy,That thought comes next—and instantlyThe freak is over,The shape will vanish, and behold!A silver shield with boss of goldThat spreads itself, some fairy boldIn fight to cover.I see thee glittering from afar—And then thou art a pretty star,Not quite so fair as many areIn heaven above thee!Yet like a star, with glittering crest,Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;—May peace come never to his nest,Who shall reprove thee!Sweet Flower! for by that name at lastWhen all my reveries are pastI call thee and to that cleave fast,Sweet silent Creature!That breath'st with me in sun and air,Do thou, as thou art wont, repairMy heart with gladness, and a shareOf thy meek nature!W. WORDSWORTH.
255. ODE TO AUTUMN.Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding moreAnd still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease;For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers;And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cider-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them,—thou hast thy music too,While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying dayAnd touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble softThe redbreast whistles from a garden croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.J. KEATS.
256. ODE TO WINTER.Germany,December, 1800.When first the fiery mantled SunHis heavenly race began to run,Round the earth and ocean blueHis children four the Seasons flew:—First, in green apparel dancing,The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;Rosy Summer next advancing,Rush'd into her sire's embrace—Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keepFor ever nearest to his smiles,On Calpe's olive-shaded steepOr India's citron-cover'd isles.More remote and buxom-brown,The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,A ripe sheaf bound her zone.But howling Winter fled afarTo hills that prop the polar star;And loves on deer-borne car to rideWith barren darkness at his sideRound the shore where loud LofodenWhirls to death the roaring whale,Round the hall where Runic OdinHowls his war-song to the gale—Save when adown the ravaged globeHe travels on his native storm,Deflowering Nature's grassy robeAnd trampling on her faded form;Till light's returning Lord assumeThe shaft that drives him to his northern fields,Of power to pierce his raven plumeAnd crystal-cover'd shield.O sire of storms! whose savage earThe Lapland drum delights to hear,When Frenzy with her bloodshot eyeImplores thy dreadful deity—Archangel! Power of desolation!Fast descending as thou art,Say, hath mortal invocationSpells to touch thy stony heart:Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,And gently rule the ruin'd year;Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bareNor freeze the wretch's falling tear:To shuddering Want's unmantled bedThy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,And gently on the orphan headOf Innocence descend.But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!The sailor on his airy shrouds,When wrecks and beacons strew the deepAnd spectres walk along the deep.Milder yet thy snowy breezesPour on yonder tented shores,Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,Or the dark-brown Danube roars.O winds of Winter! list ye thereTo many a deep and dying groan?Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?Alas! e'en your unhallow'd breathMay spare the victim fallen low;But Man will ask no truce to death,No bounds to human woe.T. CAMPBELL.
257. YARROW UNVISITED.1803.From Stirling castle we had seenThe mazy Forth unravell'd,Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,And with the Tweed had travell'd;And when we came to Clovenford,Then said my "winsome Marrow.""Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,And see the Braes of Yarrow.""Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,Who have been buying, selling,Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,Each maiden to her dwelling!On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,Hares couch, and rabbits burrow,But we will downward with the Tweed,Nor turn aside to Yarrow."There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,Both lying right before us;And Dryburgh, where with chiming TweedThe lintwhites sing in chorus;There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a landMade blythe with plough and harrow:Why throw away a needful dayTo go in search of Yarrow?"What's Yarrow but a river bareThat glides the dark hills under?There are a thousand such elsewhereAs worthy of your wonder."—Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;My true-love sighed for sorrow,And look'd me in the face, to thinkI thus could speak of Yarrow!"O green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,And sweet is Yarrow flowing!Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,But we will leave it growing.O'er hilly path, and open strath,We'll wander Scotland thorough;But, though so near, we will not turnInto the dale of Yarrow."Let beeves and home-bred kine partakeThe sweets of Burn-mill meadow;The swan on still Saint Mary's LakeFloat double, swan and shadow!We will not see them; will not goTo-day, nor yet to-morrow;Enough if in our hearts we knowThere's such a place as Yarrow."Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown;It must, or we shall rue it:We have a vision of our own;Ah! why should we undo it?The treasured dreams of times long past,We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!For when we're there, although 'tis fair,'Twill be another Yarrow."If care with freezing years should comeAnd wandering seem but folly,—Should we be loth to stir from home,And yet be melancholy;Should life be dull, and spirits low,'Twill soothe us in our sorrowThat earth has something yet to show,The bonny Holms of Yarrow!"W. WORDSWORTH.