The Moon

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 light’ningOf the sunken sun,O’er which clouds are bright’ning,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 heaven,In the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight—Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphereWhose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until 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 see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:—Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till 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 aërial 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 these heavy-wingèd thievesSound 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 hymeneal,Or triumphal chant,Match’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 asleep,Thou 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 flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

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 light’ningOf the sunken sun,O’er which clouds are bright’ning,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 heaven,In the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight—

Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphereWhose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until 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 see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:—

Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till 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 aërial 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 these heavy-wingèd 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 hymeneal,Or triumphal chant,Match’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 asleep,Thou 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 flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

609.

AND, like a dying lady lean and pale,Who totters forth, wrapp’d in a gauzy veil,Out of her chamber, led by the insaneAnd feeble wanderings of her fading brain,The moon arose up in the murky eastA white and shapeless mass.

ART thou pale for wearinessOf climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,Wandering companionlessAmong the stars that have a different birth,And ever changing, like a joyless eyeThat finds no object worth its constancy?

610.

OWILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s beingThou from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thouWho chariotest to their dark wintry bedThe wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the Spring shall blowHer clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)With living hues and odours plain and hill;Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!

OWILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s beingThou from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thouWho chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)With living hues and odours plain and hill;

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!

THOU on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion,Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the ‘tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,Angels of rain and lightning! there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the headOf some fierce Mænad, even from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith’s height,The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,Vaulted with all thy congregated mightOf vapours, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!

THOU on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion,Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the ‘tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning! there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith’s height,The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!

THOU who didst waken from his summer dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,Lull’d by the coil of his crystàlline streams,Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave’s intenser day,All overgrown with azure moss, and flowersSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic’s level powersCleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, knowThy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

THOU who didst waken from his summer dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,Lull’d by the coil of his crystàlline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave’s intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowersSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic’s level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IF I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power, and shareThe impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan thou, O uncontrollable! if evenI were as in my boyhood, and could beThe comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speedScarce seem’d a vision—I would ne’er have strivenAs thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!A heavy weight of hours has chained and bow’dOne too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speedScarce seem’d a vision—I would ne’er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bow’dOne too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.

MAKE me thy lyre, even as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own?The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,Like wither’d leaves, to quicken a new birth;And, by the incantation of this verse,Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawaken’d earthThe trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

MAKE me thy lyre, even as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own?The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,Like wither’d leaves, to quicken a new birth;And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

611.

IARISE from dreams of theeIn the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright.I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHath led me—who knows how?To thy chamber window, Sweet!The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream—And the Champak’s odours [pine]Like sweet thoughts in a dream;The nightingale’s complaint,It dies upon her heart,As I must on thine,O belovèd as thou art!O lift me from the grass!I die! I faint! I fail!Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast:O press it to thine own again,Where it will break at last!

The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream—And the Champak’s odours [pine]Like sweet thoughts in a dream;The nightingale’s complaint,It dies upon her heart,As I must on thine,O belovèd as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!I die! I faint! I fail!Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast:O press it to thine own again,Where it will break at last!

612.

SWIFTLY walk over the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern cave,—Where, all the long and lone daylight,Thou wovest dreams of joy and fearWhich make thee terrible and dear,—Swift be thy flight!Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,Star-inwrought!Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;Kiss her until she be wearied out.Then wander o’er city and sea and land,Touching all with thine opiate wand—Come, long-sought!When I arose and saw the dawn,I sigh’d for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turn’d to her rest,Lingering like an unloved guest,I sigh’d for thee.Thy brother Death came, and cried,‘Wouldst thou me?’Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmur’d like a noontide bee,‘Shall I nestle near thy side?Wouldst thou me?’—And I replied,‘No, not thee!’Death will come when thou art dead,Soon, too soon—Sleep will come when thou art fled.Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, belovèd Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,Star-inwrought!Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;Kiss her until she be wearied out.Then wander o’er city and sea and land,Touching all with thine opiate wand—Come, long-sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn,I sigh’d for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turn’d to her rest,Lingering like an unloved guest,I sigh’d for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried,‘Wouldst thou me?’Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmur’d like a noontide bee,‘Shall I nestle near thy side?Wouldst thou me?’—And I replied,‘No, not thee!’

Death will come when thou art dead,Soon, too soon—Sleep will come when thou art fled.Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, belovèd Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!

613.

AN IMITATION

MY faint spirit was sitting in the lightOf thy looks, my love;It panted for thee like the hind at noonFor the brooks, my love.Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest’s flight,Bore thee far from me;My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,Did companion thee.Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,Or the death they bear,The heart which tender thought clothes like a doveWith the wings of care;In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,Shall mine cling to thee,Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,It may bring to thee.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,Or the death they bear,The heart which tender thought clothes like a doveWith the wings of care;In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,Shall mine cling to thee,Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,It may bring to thee.

614.

WHEN the lamp is shatter’d,The light in the dust lies dead;When the cloud is scatter’d,The rainbow’s glory is shed:When the lute is broken,Sweet tones are remember’d notWhen the lips have spoken,Loved accents are soon forgot.As music and splendourSurvive not the lamp and the lute,The heart’s echoes renderNo song when the spirit is mute—No song but sad dirges,Like the wind through a ruin’d cell,Or the mournful surgesThat ring the dead seaman’s knell.When hearts have once mingled,Love first leaves the well-built nest;The weak one is singledTo endure what it once possest.O Love, who bewailestThe frailty of all things here,Why choose you the frailestFor your cradle, your home, and your bier?Its passions will rock thee,As the storms rock the ravens on high:Bright reason will mock thee,Like the sun from a wintry sky.From thy nest every rafterWill rot, and thine eagle homeLeave thee naked to laughter,When leaves fall and cold winds come.

As music and splendourSurvive not the lamp and the lute,The heart’s echoes renderNo song when the spirit is mute—No song but sad dirges,Like the wind through a ruin’d cell,Or the mournful surgesThat ring the dead seaman’s knell.

When hearts have once mingled,Love first leaves the well-built nest;The weak one is singledTo endure what it once possest.O Love, who bewailestThe frailty of all things here,Why choose you the frailestFor your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee,As the storms rock the ravens on high:Bright reason will mock thee,Like the sun from a wintry sky.From thy nest every rafterWill rot, and thine eagle homeLeave thee naked to laughter,When leaves fall and cold winds come.

615.

ONE word is too often profanedFor me to profane it;One feeling too falsely disdain’dFor thee to disdain it;One hope is too like despairFor prudence to smother;And pity from thee more dearThan that from another.I can give not what men call love:But wilt thou accept notThe worship the heart lifts aboveAnd the heavens reject not,The desire of the moth for the star,Of the night for the morrow,The devotion to something afarFrom the sphere of our sorrow?

I can give not what men call love:But wilt thou accept notThe worship the heart lifts aboveAnd the heavens reject not,The desire of the moth for the star,Of the night for the morrow,The devotion to something afarFrom the sphere of our sorrow?

616.

IDREAM’d that, as I wander’d by the way,Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring;And gentle odours led my steps astray,Mix’d with a sound of waters murmuringAlong a shelving bank of turf, which layUnder a copse, and hardly dared to flingIts green arms round the bosom of the stream,But kiss’d it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.There grew pied wind-flowers and violets;Daisies, those pearl’d Arcturi of the earth,The constellated flower that never sets;Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birthThe sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets—Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth—Its mother’s face with heaven-collected tearsWhen the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,Green cowbind and the moonlight-colour’d May,And cherry-blossoms, and white cups whose wineWas the bright dew yet drain’d not by the day;And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray;And flowers, azure, black, and streak’d with gold,Fairer than any waken’d eyes behold.And nearer to the river’s trembling edgeThere grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank’d with white,And starry river-buds among the sedge,And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,Which lit the oak that overhung the hedgeWith moonlight beams of their own watery light;And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep greenAs soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.Methought that of these visionary flowersI made a nosegay, bound in such a wayThat the same hues which in their natural bowersWere mingled or opposed, the like arrayKept these imprison’d children of the HoursWithin my hand;—and then, elate and gay,I hasten’d to the spot whence I had come,That I might there present it—O! to whom?

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets;Daisies, those pearl’d Arcturi of the earth,The constellated flower that never sets;Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birthThe sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets—Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth—Its mother’s face with heaven-collected tearsWhen the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,Green cowbind and the moonlight-colour’d May,And cherry-blossoms, and white cups whose wineWas the bright dew yet drain’d not by the day;And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray;And flowers, azure, black, and streak’d with gold,Fairer than any waken’d eyes behold.

And nearer to the river’s trembling edgeThere grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank’d with white,And starry river-buds among the sedge,And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,Which lit the oak that overhung the hedgeWith moonlight beams of their own watery light;And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep greenAs soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowersI made a nosegay, bound in such a wayThat the same hues which in their natural bowersWere mingled or opposed, the like arrayKept these imprison’d children of the HoursWithin my hand;—and then, elate and gay,I hasten’d to the spot whence I had come,That I might there present it—O! to whom?

617.

AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon,Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even:Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.Pause not! the time is past! Every voice cries ‘Away!’Tempt not with one last tear thy friend’s ungentle mood:Thy lover’s eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay:Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth;Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head,The blooms of dewy Spring shall gleam beneath thy feet:But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead,Ere midnight’s frown and morning’s smile, ere thou and peace, may meet.The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep;Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;Whatever moves or toils or grieves hath its appointed sleep.Thou in the grave shalt rest:—yet, till the phantoms flee,Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,Thy remembrance and repentance and deep musings are not freeFrom the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.

Pause not! the time is past! Every voice cries ‘Away!’Tempt not with one last tear thy friend’s ungentle mood:Thy lover’s eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay:Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth;Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head,The blooms of dewy Spring shall gleam beneath thy feet:But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead,Ere midnight’s frown and morning’s smile, ere thou and peace, may meet.

The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep;Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;Whatever moves or toils or grieves hath its appointed sleep.Thou in the grave shalt rest:—yet, till the phantoms flee,Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,Thy remembrance and repentance and deep musings are not freeFrom the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.

618.

MUSIC, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory;Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heap’d for the belovèd’s bed;And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on.

MUSIC, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory;Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heap’d for the belovèd’s bed;And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on.

1792-1878

619.

‘WHAREFORE sou’d ye talk o’ love,Unless it be to pain us?Wharefore sou’d ye talk o’ loveWhan ye say the sea maun twain us?’‘It’s no because my love is light,Nor for your angry deddy;It’s a’ to buy ye pearlins bright,An’ to busk ye like a leddy.’‘O Willy, I can caird an’ spin,Se ne’er can want for cleedin’;An’ gin I hae my Willy’s heart,I hae a’ the pearls I’m heedin’.‘Will it be time to praise this cheekWhan years an’ tears has blench’d it?Will it be time to talk o’ loveWhan cauld an’ care has quench’d it?’He’s laid ae han’ about her waist—The ither’s held to heaven;An’ his luik was like the luik o’ manWha’s heart in twa is riven.

‘WHAREFORE sou’d ye talk o’ love,Unless it be to pain us?Wharefore sou’d ye talk o’ loveWhan ye say the sea maun twain us?’

‘It’s no because my love is light,Nor for your angry deddy;It’s a’ to buy ye pearlins bright,An’ to busk ye like a leddy.’

‘O Willy, I can caird an’ spin,Se ne’er can want for cleedin’;An’ gin I hae my Willy’s heart,I hae a’ the pearls I’m heedin’.

‘Will it be time to praise this cheekWhan years an’ tears has blench’d it?Will it be time to talk o’ loveWhan cauld an’ care has quench’d it?’

He’s laid ae han’ about her waist—The ither’s held to heaven;An’ his luik was like the luik o’ manWha’s heart in twa is riven.

619.cleedin’] clothing.

1792-1866

620.

ITHOUGHT to meet no more, so dreary seem’dDeath’s interposing veil, and thou so pure,Thy place in ParadiseBeyond where I could soar:Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughtsSpring like unbidden violets from the sod,Where patiently thou tak’stThy sweet and sure repose.The shadows fall more soothing: the soft airIs full of cheering whispers like thine own;While Memory, by thy grave,Lives o’er thy funeral day;The deep knell dying down, the mourners’ pause,Waiting their Saviour’s welcome at the gate.—Sure with the words of HeavenThy spirit met us there,And sought with us along th’ accustom’d wayThe hallow’d porch, and entering in, beheldThe pageant of sad joySo dear to Faith and Hope.O! hadst thou brought a strain from ParadiseTo cheer us, happy soul, thou hadst not touch’dThe sacred springs of griefMore tenderly and true,Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low,Low as the grave, high as th’ Eternal Throne,Guiding through light and gloomOur mourning fancies wild,Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eveAround the western twilight, all subsideInto a placid faith,That even with beaming eyeCounts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall;So many relics of a frail love lost,So many tokens dearOf endless love begun.Listen! it is no dream: th’ Apostles’ trumpGives earnest of th’ Archangel’s;—calmly now,Our hearts yet beating highTo that victorious lay(Most like a warrior’s, to the martial dirgeOf a true comrade), in the grave we trustOur treasure for awhile:And if a tear steal down,If human anguish o’er the shaded browPass shuddering, when the handful of pure earthTouches the coffin-lid;If at our brother’s name,Once and again the thought, ‘for ever gone,’Come o’er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright,Thou turnest not away,Thou know’st us calm at heart.One look, and we have seen our last of thee,Till we too sleep and our long sleep be o’er.O cleanse us, ere we viewThat countenance pure again,Thou, who canst change the heart, and raise the dead!As Thou art by to soothe our parting hour,Be ready when we meet,With Thy dear pardoning words.

ITHOUGHT to meet no more, so dreary seem’dDeath’s interposing veil, and thou so pure,Thy place in ParadiseBeyond where I could soar:

Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughtsSpring like unbidden violets from the sod,Where patiently thou tak’stThy sweet and sure repose.

The shadows fall more soothing: the soft airIs full of cheering whispers like thine own;While Memory, by thy grave,Lives o’er thy funeral day;

The deep knell dying down, the mourners’ pause,Waiting their Saviour’s welcome at the gate.—Sure with the words of HeavenThy spirit met us there,

And sought with us along th’ accustom’d wayThe hallow’d porch, and entering in, beheldThe pageant of sad joySo dear to Faith and Hope.

O! hadst thou brought a strain from ParadiseTo cheer us, happy soul, thou hadst not touch’dThe sacred springs of griefMore tenderly and true,Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low,Low as the grave, high as th’ Eternal Throne,Guiding through light and gloomOur mourning fancies wild,

Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eveAround the western twilight, all subsideInto a placid faith,That even with beaming eye

Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall;So many relics of a frail love lost,So many tokens dearOf endless love begun.

Listen! it is no dream: th’ Apostles’ trumpGives earnest of th’ Archangel’s;—calmly now,Our hearts yet beating highTo that victorious lay

(Most like a warrior’s, to the martial dirgeOf a true comrade), in the grave we trustOur treasure for awhile:And if a tear steal down,

If human anguish o’er the shaded browPass shuddering, when the handful of pure earthTouches the coffin-lid;If at our brother’s name,

Once and again the thought, ‘for ever gone,’Come o’er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright,Thou turnest not away,Thou know’st us calm at heart.

One look, and we have seen our last of thee,Till we too sleep and our long sleep be o’er.O cleanse us, ere we viewThat countenance pure again,

Thou, who canst change the heart, and raise the dead!As Thou art by to soothe our parting hour,Be ready when we meet,With Thy dear pardoning words.

1793-1864

621.

IAM! yet what I am who cares, or knows?My friends forsake me like a memory lost.I am the self-consumer of my woes;They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.And yet I am—I live—though I am toss’dInto the nothingness of scorn and noise,Into the living sea of waking dream,Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys,But the huge shipwreck of my own esteemAnd all that’s dear. Even those I loved the bestAre strange—nay, they are stranger than the rest.I long for scenes where man has never trod—For scenes where woman never smiled or wept—There to abide with my Creator, God,And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,—The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,Into the living sea of waking dream,Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys,But the huge shipwreck of my own esteemAnd all that’s dear. Even those I loved the bestAre strange—nay, they are stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod—For scenes where woman never smiled or wept—There to abide with my Creator, God,And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,—The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.

1793-1835

622.

CALM on the bosom of thy God,Fair spirit, rest thee now!E’en while with ours thy footsteps trod,His seal was on thy brow.Dust, to its narrow house beneath!Soul, to its place on high!They that have seen thy look in deathNo more may fear to die.

CALM on the bosom of thy God,Fair spirit, rest thee now!E’en while with ours thy footsteps trod,His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath!Soul, to its place on high!They that have seen thy look in deathNo more may fear to die.

1795-1821

623.

FROM ‘ENDYMION’

OSORROW!Why dost borrowThe natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?—To give maiden blushesTo the white rose bushes?Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?O Sorrow!Why dost borrowThe lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?—To give the glow-worm light?Or, on a moonless night,To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?

OSORROW!Why dost borrowThe natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?—To give maiden blushesTo the white rose bushes?Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?

O Sorrow!Why dost borrowThe lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?—To give the glow-worm light?Or, on a moonless night,To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?

623.sea-spry] sea-spray.

O Sorrow!Why dost borrowThe mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?—To give at evening paleUnto the nightingale,That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?O Sorrow!Why dost borrowHeart’s lightness from the merriment of May?—A lover would not treadA cowslip on the head,Though he should dance from eve till peep of day—Nor any drooping flowerHeld sacred for thy bower,Wherever he may sport himself and play.To SorrowI bade good morrow,And thought to leave her far away behind;But cheerly, cheerly,She loves me dearly;She is so constant to me, and so kind:I would deceive her,And so leave her,But ah! she is so constant and so kind.Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,I sat a-weeping: in the whole world wideThere was no one to ask me why I wept,—And so I keptBrimming the water-lily cups with tearsCold as my fears.Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,I sat a-weeping: what enamour’d bride,Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds,But hides and shroudsBeneath dark palm-trees by a river side?And as I sat, over the light blue hillsThere came a noise of revellers: the rillsInto the wide stream came of purple hue—’Twas Bacchus and his crew!The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrillsFrom kissing cymbals made a merry din—’Twas Bacchus and his kin!Like to a moving vintage down they came,Crown’d with green leaves, and faces all on flame;All madly dancing through the pleasant valley,To scare thee, Melancholy!O then, O then, thou wast a simple name!And I forgot thee, as the berried hollyBy shepherds is forgotten, when in JuneTall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon:—I rush’d into the folly!Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood,Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood,With sidelong laughing;And little rills of crimson wine imbruedHis plump white arms and shoulders, enough whiteFor Venus’ pearly bite;And near him rode Silenus on his ass,Pelted with flowers as he on did passTipsily quaffing.‘Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye,So many, and so many, and such glee?Why have ye left your bowers desolate,Your lutes, and gentler fate?’—‘We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing,A-conquering!Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide,We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:—Come hither, lady fair, and joinèd beTo our wild minstrelsy!’‘Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye,So many, and so many, and such glee?Why have ye left your forest haunts, why leftYour nuts in oak-tree cleft?’—‘For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree;For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms,And cold mushrooms;For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth;Great god of breathless cups and chirping mirth!Come hither, lady fair, and joinèd beTo our mad minstrelsy!’Over wide streams and mountains great we went,And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent,Onward the tiger and the leopard pants,With Asian elephants:Onward these myriads—with song and dance,With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians’ prance,Web-footed alligators, crocodiles,Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files,Plump infant laughers mimicking the coilOf seamen, and stout galley-rowers’ toil:With toying oars and silken sails they glide,Nor care for wind and tide.Mounted on panthers’ furs and lions’ manes,From rear to van they scour about the plains;A three days’ journey in a moment done;And always, at the rising of the sun,About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn,On spleenful unicorn.I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adownBefore the vine-wreath crown!I saw parch’d Abyssinia rouse and singTo the silver cymbals’ ring!I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierceOld Tartary the fierce!The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail,And from their treasures scatter pearlèd hail;Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans,And all his priesthood moans,Before young Bacchus’ eye-wink turning pale.Into these regions came I, following him,Sick-hearted, weary—so I took a whimTo stray away into these forests drear,Alone, without a peer:And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.Young Stranger!I’ve been a rangerIn search of pleasure throughout every clime;Alas! ’tis not for me!Bewitch’d I sure must be,To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.Come then, Sorrow,Sweetest Sorrow!Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:I thought to leave thee,And deceive thee,But now of all the world I love thee best.There is not one,No, no, not oneBut thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;Thou art her mother,And her brother,Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.

O Sorrow!Why dost borrowThe mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?—To give at evening paleUnto the nightingale,That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?

O Sorrow!Why dost borrowHeart’s lightness from the merriment of May?—A lover would not treadA cowslip on the head,Though he should dance from eve till peep of day—Nor any drooping flowerHeld sacred for thy bower,Wherever he may sport himself and play.

To SorrowI bade good morrow,And thought to leave her far away behind;But cheerly, cheerly,She loves me dearly;She is so constant to me, and so kind:I would deceive her,And so leave her,But ah! she is so constant and so kind.

Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,I sat a-weeping: in the whole world wideThere was no one to ask me why I wept,—And so I keptBrimming the water-lily cups with tearsCold as my fears.Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,I sat a-weeping: what enamour’d bride,Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds,But hides and shroudsBeneath dark palm-trees by a river side?

And as I sat, over the light blue hillsThere came a noise of revellers: the rillsInto the wide stream came of purple hue—’Twas Bacchus and his crew!The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrillsFrom kissing cymbals made a merry din—’Twas Bacchus and his kin!Like to a moving vintage down they came,Crown’d with green leaves, and faces all on flame;All madly dancing through the pleasant valley,To scare thee, Melancholy!O then, O then, thou wast a simple name!And I forgot thee, as the berried hollyBy shepherds is forgotten, when in JuneTall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon:—I rush’d into the folly!

Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood,Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood,With sidelong laughing;And little rills of crimson wine imbruedHis plump white arms and shoulders, enough whiteFor Venus’ pearly bite;And near him rode Silenus on his ass,Pelted with flowers as he on did passTipsily quaffing.

‘Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye,So many, and so many, and such glee?Why have ye left your bowers desolate,Your lutes, and gentler fate?’—‘We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing,A-conquering!Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide,We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:—Come hither, lady fair, and joinèd beTo our wild minstrelsy!’

‘Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye,So many, and so many, and such glee?Why have ye left your forest haunts, why leftYour nuts in oak-tree cleft?’—‘For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree;For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms,And cold mushrooms;For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth;Great god of breathless cups and chirping mirth!Come hither, lady fair, and joinèd beTo our mad minstrelsy!’

Over wide streams and mountains great we went,And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent,Onward the tiger and the leopard pants,With Asian elephants:Onward these myriads—with song and dance,With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians’ prance,Web-footed alligators, crocodiles,Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files,Plump infant laughers mimicking the coilOf seamen, and stout galley-rowers’ toil:With toying oars and silken sails they glide,Nor care for wind and tide.

Mounted on panthers’ furs and lions’ manes,From rear to van they scour about the plains;A three days’ journey in a moment done;And always, at the rising of the sun,About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn,On spleenful unicorn.

I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adownBefore the vine-wreath crown!I saw parch’d Abyssinia rouse and singTo the silver cymbals’ ring!I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierceOld Tartary the fierce!The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail,And from their treasures scatter pearlèd hail;Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans,And all his priesthood moans,Before young Bacchus’ eye-wink turning pale.Into these regions came I, following him,Sick-hearted, weary—so I took a whimTo stray away into these forests drear,Alone, without a peer:And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.

Young Stranger!I’ve been a rangerIn search of pleasure throughout every clime;Alas! ’tis not for me!Bewitch’d I sure must be,To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.

Come then, Sorrow,Sweetest Sorrow!Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:I thought to leave thee,And deceive thee,But now of all the world I love thee best.

There is not one,No, no, not oneBut thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;Thou art her mother,And her brother,Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.

624.

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