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BOOK Idedicated to H. E. W.
1ELEGYClear and gentle stream!Known and loved so long,That hast heard the songAnd the idle dreamOf my boyish day;While I once againDown thy margin stray,In the selfsame strainStill my voice is spent,With my old lamentAnd my idle dream,Clear and gentle stream!Where my old seat wasHere again I sit,Where the long boughs knitOver stream and grassA translucent eaves:{226}Where back eddies playShipwreck with the leaves,And the proud swans stray,Sailing one by oneOut of stream and sun,And the fish lie coolIn their chosen pool.Many an afternoonOf the summer dayDreaming here I lay;And I know how soon,Idly at its hour,First the deep bell humsFrom the minster tower,And then evening comes,Creeping up the glade,With her lengthening shade,And the tardy boonOf her brightening moon.Clear and gentle stream!Ere again I goWhere thou dost not flow,Well does it beseemThee to hear againOnce my youthful song,That familiar strainSilent now so long:Be as I contentWith my old lamentAnd my idle dream,Clear and gentle stream.
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2ELEGYThe wood is bare: a river-mist is steepingThe trees that winter's chill of life bereaves:Only their stiffened boughs break silence, weepingOver their fallen leaves;That lie upon the dank earth brown and rotten,Miry and matted in the soaking wet:Forgotten with the spring, that is forgottenBy them that can forget.Yet it was here we walked when ferns were springing,And through the mossy bank shot bud and blade:-Here found in summer, when the birds were singing,A green and pleasant shade.'Twas here we loved in sunnier days and greener;And now, in this disconsolate decay,I come to see her where I most have seen her,And touch the happier day.For on this path, at every turn and corner,The fancy of her figure on me falls;Yet walks she with the slow step of a mourner,Nor hears my voice that calls.So through my heart there winds a track of feeling,A path of memory, that is all her own:Whereto her phantom beauty ever stealingHaunts the sad spot alone.About her steps the trunks are bare, the branchesDrip heavy tears upon her downcast head;And bleed from unseen wounds that no sun stanches,For the year's sun is dead.{228}And dead leaves wrap the fruits that summer planted:And birds that love the South have taken wing.The wanderer, loitering o'er the scene enchanted,Weeps, and despairs of spring.
3Poor withered rose and dry,Skeleton of a rose,Risen to testifyTo love's sad close:Treasured for love's sweet sake,That of joy pastThou might'st again awakeMemory at last.Yet is thy perfume sweet;Thy petals redYet tell of summer heat,And the gay bed:Yet, yet recall the glowOf the gazing sun,When at thy bush we twoJoined hands in one.But, rose, thou hast not seen,Thou hast not weptThe change that passed between,Whilst thou hast slept.To me thou seemest yetThe dead dream's thrall:While I live and forgetDream, truth and all.Thou art more fresh than I,Rose, sweet and red:Salt on my pale cheeks lieThe tears I shed.
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4THE CLIFF-TOPThe cliff-top has a carpetOf lilac, gold and green:The blue sky bounds the ocean,The white clouds scud between.A flock of gulls are wheelingAnd wailing round my seat;Above my head the heaven,The sea beneath my feet.THE OCEAN.Were I a cloud I'd gatherMy skirts up in the air,And fly I well know whither,And rest I well know where.As pointed the star surely,The legend tells of old,Where the wise kings might offerMyrrh, frankincense, and gold;Above the house I'd hoverWhere dwells my love, and waitTill haply I might spy herThrow back the garden-gate.There in the summer eveningI would bedeck the moon;I would float down and screen herFrom the sun's rays at noon;And if her flowers should languish,Or wither in the droughtUpon her tall white liliesI'd pour my heart's blood out:{230}So if she wore one only,And shook not out the rain,Were I a cloud, O cloudlet,I had not lived in vain.
[A cloud speaks.
A CLOUD.But were I thou, O ocean,I would not chafe and fretAs thou, because a limitTo thy desires is set.I would be blue, and gentle,Patient, and calm, and seeIf my smiles might not tempt her,My love, to come to me.I'd make my depths transparent,And still, that she should leanO'er the boat's edge to ponderThe sights that swam between.I would command strange creatures,Of bright hue and quick fin,To stir the water near her,And tempt her bare arm in.I'd teach her spend the summerWith me: and I can tell,That, were I thou, O ocean,My love should love me well.***But on the mad cloud scudded,The breeze it blew so stiff;And the sad ocean bellowed,And pounded at the cliff.
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5I heard a linnet courtingHis lady in the spring:His mates were idly sporting,Nor stayed to hear him singHis song of love.—I fear my speech distortingHis tender love.The phrases of his pleadingWere full of young delight;And she that gave him heedingInterpreted arightHis gay, sweet notes,—So sadly marred in the reading,—His tender notes.And when he ceased, the hearerAwaited the refrain,Till swiftly perching nearerHe sang his song again,His pretty song:—Would that my verse spake clearerHis tender song!Ye happy, airy creatures!That in the merry springThink not of what misfeaturesOr cares the year may bring;But unto loveResign your simple natures,To tender love.
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6Dear lady, when thou frownest,And my true love despisest,And all thy vows disownestThat sealed my venture wisest;I think thy pride's displeasureNeglects a matchless treasureExceeding price and measure.But when again thou smilest,And love for love returnest,And fear with joy beguilest,And takest truth in earnest;Then, though I sheer adore thee,The sum of my love for theeSeems poor, scant, and unworthy.
7I will not let thee go.Ends all our month-long love in this?Can it be summed up so,Quit in a single kiss?I will not let thee go.I will not let thee go.If thy words' breath could scare thy deeds,As the soft south can blowAnd toss the feathered seeds,Then might I let thee go.I will not let thee go.Had not the great sun seen, I might;Or were he reckoned slowTo bring the false to light,Then might I let thee go.{233}I will not let thee go.The stars that crowd the summer skiesHave watched us so belowWith all their million eyes,I dare not let thee go.I will not let thee go.Have we not chid the changeful moon,Now rising late, and nowBecause she set too soon,And shall I let thee go?I will not let thee go.Have not the young flowers been content,Plucked ere their buds could blow,To seal our sacrament?I cannot let thee go.I will not let thee go.I hold thee by too many bands:Thou sayest farewell, and lo!I have thee by the hands,And will not let thee go.
8I found to-day out walkingThe flower my love loves best.What, when I stooped to pluck it,Could dare my hand arrest?Was it a snake lay curlingAbout the root's thick crown?Or did some hidden brambleTear my hand reaching down?There was no snake uncurling,And no thorn wounded me;'Twas my heart checked me, sighingShe is beyond the sea.
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9A poppy grows upon the shore,Bursts her twin cup in summer late:Her leaves are glaucous-green and hoar,Her petals yellow, delicate.Oft to her cousins turns her thought,In wonder if they care that sheIs fed with spray for dew, and caughtBy every gale that sweeps the sea.She has no lovers like the red,That dances with the noble corn:Her blossoms on the waves are shed,Where she stands shivering and forlorn.
10Sometimes when my lady sits by meMy rapture's so great, that I tearMy mind from the thought that she's nigh me,And strive to forget that she's there.And sometimes when she is awayHer absence so sorely does try me,That I shut to my eyes, and assayTo think she is there sitting by me.
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11Long are the hours the sun is above,But when evening comes I go home to my love.I'm away the daylight hours and more,Yet she comes not down to open the door.She does not meet me upon the stair,—She sits in my chamber and waits for me there.As I enter the room she does not move:I always walk straight up to my love;And she lets me take my wonted placeAt her side, and gaze in her dear dear face.There as I sit, from her head thrown backHer hair falls straight in a shadow black.Aching and hot as my tired eyes be,She is all that I wish to see.And in my wearied and toil-dinned ear,She says all things that I wish to hear.Dusky and duskier grows the room,Yet I see her best in the darker gloom.When the winter eves are early and cold,The firelight hours are a dream of gold.And so I sit here night by night,In rest and enjoyment of love's delight.But a knock at the door, a step on the stairWill startle, alas, my love from her chair.If a stranger comes she will not stay:At the first alarm she is off and away.And he wonders, my guest, usurping her throne,That I sit so much by myself alone.
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12Who has not walked upon the shore,And who does not the morning know,The day the angry gale is o'er,The hour the wind has ceased to blow?The horses of the strong south-westAre pastured round his tropic tent,Careless how long the ocean's breastSob on and sigh for passion spent.The frightened birds, that fled inlandTo house in rock and tower and tree,Are gathering on the peaceful strand,To tempt again the sunny sea;Whereon the timid ships steal outAnd laugh to find their foe asleep,That lately scattered them about,And drave them to the fold like sheep.The snow-white clouds he northward chasedBreak into phalanx, line, and band:All one way to the south they haste,The south, their pleasant fatherland.From distant hills their shadows creep,Arrive in turn and mount the lea,And flit across the downs, and leapSheer off the cliff upon the sea;And sail and sail far out of sight.But still I watch their fleecy trains,That piling all the south with light,Dapple in France the fertile plains.
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13I made another song,In likeness of my love:And sang it all day long,Around, beneath, above;I told my secret out,That none might be in doubt.I sang it to the sky,That veiled his face to hearHow far her azure eyeOutdoes his splendid sphere;But at her eyelids' nameHis white clouds fled for shame.I told it to the trees,And to the flowers confest,And said not one of theseIs like my lily drest;Nor spathe nor petal daredVie with her body bared.I shouted to the sea,That set his waves a-prance;Her floating hair is free,Free are her feet to dance;And for thy wrath, I swearHer frown is more to fear.And as in happy moodI walked and sang alone,At eve beside the woodI met my love, my own:And sang to her the songI had sung all day long.
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14ELEGYON A LADY WHOM GRIEF FOR THE DEATH OF HERBETROTHED KILLEDAssemble, all ye maidens, at the door,And all ye loves, assemble; far and wideProclaim the bridal, that proclaimed beforeHas been deferred to this late eventide:For on this night the bride,The days of her betrothal over,Leaves the parental hearth for evermore;To-night the bride goes forth to meet her lover.Reach down the wedding vesture, that has lainYet all unvisited, the silken gown:Bring out the bracelets, and the golden chainHer dearer friends provided: sere and brownBring out the festal crown,And set it on her forehead lightly:Though it be withered, twine no wreath again;This only is the crown she can wear rightly.Cloke her in ermine, for the night is cold,And wrap her warmly, for the night is long,In pious hands the flaming torches hold,While her attendants, chosen from amongHer faithful virgin throng,May lay her in her cedar litter,Decking her coverlet with sprigs of gold,Roses, and lilies white that best befit her.{239}Sound flute and tabor, that the bridal beNot without music, nor with these alone;But let the viol lead the melody,With lesser intervals, and plaintive moanOf sinking semitone;And, all in choir, the virgin voicesRest not from singing in skilled harmonyThe song that aye the bridegroom's ear rejoices.Let the priests go before, arrayed in white,And let the dark-stoled minstrels follow slow,Next they that bear her, honoured on this night,And then the maidens, in a double row,Each singing soft and low,And each on high a torch upstaying:Unto her lover lead her forth with light,With music, and with singing, and with praying.'Twas at this sheltering hour he nightly came,And found her trusty window open wide,And knew the signal of the timorous flame,That long the restless curtain would not hideHer form that stood beside;As scarce she dared to be delighted,Listening to that sweet tale, that is no shameTo faithful lovers, that their hearts have plighted.But now for many days the dewy grassHas shown no markings of his feet at morn:And watching she has seen no shadow passThe moonlit walk, and heard no music borneUpon her ear forlorn.In vain has she looked out to greet him;He has not come, he will not come, alas!So let us bear her out where she must meet him.{240}Now to the river bank the priests are come:The bark is ready to receive its freight:Let some prepare her place therein, and someEmbark the litter with its slender weight:The rest stand by in state,And sing her a safe passage over;While she is oared across to her new home,Into the arms of her expectant lover.And thou, O lover, that art on the watch,Where, on the banks of the forgetful streams,The pale indifferent ghosts wander, and snatchThe sweeter moments of their broken dreams,—Thou, when the torchlight gleams,When thou shalt see the slow procession,And when thine ears the fitful music catch,Rejoice, for thou art near to thy possession.
15RONDEAUHis poisoned shafts, that fresh he dipsIn juice of plants that no bee sips,He takes, and with his bow renown'dGoes out upon his hunting ground,Hanging his quiver at his hips.He draws them one by one, and clipsTheir heads between his finger-tips,And looses with a twanging soundHis poisoned shafts.But if a maiden with her lipsSuck from the wound the blood that drips,And drink the poison from the wound,The simple remedy is foundThat of their deadly terror stripsHis poisoned shafts.
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16TRIOLETWhen first we met we did not guessThat Love would prove so hard a master;Of more than common friendlinessWhen first we met we did not guess.Who could foretell this sore distress,This irretrievable disasterWhen first we met?—We did not guessThat Love would prove so hard a master.
17TRIOLETAll women born are so perverseNo man need boast their love possessing.If nought seem better, nothing's worse:All women born are so perverse.From Adam's wife, that proved a curseThough God had made her for a blessing,All women born are so perverseNo man need boast their love possessing.
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TOTHE MEMORY OFG. M. H.
1MUSE.Will Love again awake,That lies asleep so long?POET.O hush! ye tongues that shakeThe drowsy night with song.MUSE.It is a lady fairWhom once he deigned to praise,That at the door doth dareHer sad complaint to raise.POET.She must be fair of face,As bold of heart she seems,If she would match her graceWith the delight of dreams.{243}MUSE.Her beauty would surpriseGazers on Autumn eves,Who watched the broad moon riseUpon the scattered sheaves.POET.O sweet must be the voiceHe shall descend to hear,Who doth in Heaven rejoiceHis most enchanted ear.MUSE.The smile, that rests to playUpon her lip, foretellsWhat musical arrayTricks her sweet syllablesPOET.And yet her smiles have dancedIn vain, if her discourseWin not the soul entrancedIn divine intercourse.MUSE.She will encounter allThis trial without shame,Her eyes men Beauty call,And Wisdom is her name.POET.Throw back the portals then,Ye guards, your watch that keep,Love will awake againThat lay so long asleep.
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2A PASSER-BYWhither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest,When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling,Wilt thóu glíde on the blue Pacific, or restIn a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest,Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air:I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest,And anchor queen of the strange shipping there,Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare;Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped, grandestPeak, that is over the feathery palms more fairThan thou, so upright, so stately, and still thou standest.And yet, O splendid ship, unhailed and nameless,I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divineThat thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine,As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,From the proud nostril curve of a prow's lineIn the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.
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3LATE SPRING EVENINGI saw the Virgin-mother clad in green,Walking the sprinkled meadows at sundown;While yet the moon's cold flame was hung betweenThe day and night, above the dusky town:I saw her brighter than the Western gold,Whereto she faced in splendour to behold.Her dress was greener than the tenderest leafThat trembled in the sunset glare aglow:Herself more delicate than is the brief,Pink apple-blossom, that May showers lay low,And more delicious than 's the earliest streakThe blushing rose shows of her crimson cheek.As if to match the sight that so did please,A music entered, making passion fain:Three nightingales sat singing in the trees,And praised the Goddess for the fallen rain;Which yet their unseen motions did arouse,Or parting Zephyrs shook out from the boughs.And o'er the treetops, scattered in mid air,The exhausted clouds laden with crimson lightFloated, or seemed to sleep; and, highest there,One planet broke the lingering ranks of night;Daring day's company, so he might spyThe Virgin-queen once with his watchful eye.{246}And when I saw her, then I worshipped her,And said,—O bounteous Spring, O beauteous Spring,Mother of all my years, thou who dost stirMy heart to adore thee and my tongue to sing,Flower of my fruit, of my heart's blood the fire,Of all my satisfaction the desire!How art thou every year more beautiful,Younger for all the winters thou hast cast:And I, for all my love grows, grow more dull,Decaying with each season overpast!In vain to teach him love must man employ thee,The more he learns the less he can enjoy thee.
4WOOINGI know not how I came,New on my knightly journey,To win the fairest dameThat graced my maiden tourney.Chivalry's lovely prizeWith all men's gaze upon her,Why did she free her eyesOn me, to do me honour?Ah! ne'er had I my mindWith such high hope delighted,Had she not first inclined,And with her eyes invited.But never doubt I knew,Having their glance to cheer me,Until the day joy grewToo great, too sure, too near me.{247}When hope a fear became,And passion, grown too tender,Now trembled at the shameOf a despised surrender;And where my love at firstSaw kindness in her smiling,I read her pride, and cursedThe arts of her beguiling.Till winning less than won,And liker wooed than wooing,Too late I turned undoneAway from my undoing;And stood beside the door,Whereto she followed, makingMy hard leave-taking moreHard by her sweet leave-taking.Her speech would have betrayedHer thought, had mine been colder:Her eyes' distress had madeA lesser lover bolder.But no! Fond heart, distrust,Cried Wisdom, and consider:Go free, since go thou must:—And so farewell I bid her.And brisk upon my wayI smote the stroke to sever,And should have lost that dayMy life's delight for ever:But when I saw her startAnd turn aside and tremble;—Ah! she was true, her heartI knew did not dissemble.
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5There is a hill beside the silver Thames,Shady with birch and beech and odorous pine:And brilliant underfoot with thousand gemsSteeply the thickets to his floods decline.Straight trees in every placeTheir thick tops interlace,And pendant branches trail their foliage fineUpon his watery face.Swift from the sweltering pasturage he flows:His stream, alert to seek the pleasant shade,Pictures his gentle purpose, as he goesStraight to the caverned pool his toil has made.His winter floods lay bareThe stout roots in the air:His summer streams are cool, when they have playedAmong their fibrous hair.A rushy island guards the sacred bower,And hides it from the meadow, where in peaceThe lazy cows wrench many a scented flower,Robbing the golden market of the bees:And laden barges floatBy banks of myosote;And scented flag and golden flower-de-lysDelay the loitering boat.And on this side the island, where the poolEddies away, are tangled mass on massThe water-weeds, that net the fishes cool,And scarce allow a narrow stream to pass;Where spreading crowfoot marsThe drowning nenuphars,Waving the tassels of her silken grassBelow her silver stars.{249}But in the purple pool there nothing grows,Not the white water-lily spoked with gold;Though best she loves the hollows, and well knowsOn quiet streams her broad shields to unfold:Yet should her roots but tryWithin these deeps to lie,Not her long reaching stalk could ever holdHer waxen head so high.Sometimes an angler comes, and drops his hookWithin its hidden depths, and 'gainst a treeLeaning his rod, reads in some pleasant book,Forgetting soon his pride of fishery;And dreams, or falls asleep,While curious fishes peepAbout his nibbled bait, or scornfullyDart off and rise and leap.And sometimes a slow figure 'neath the trees,In ancient-fashioned smock, with tottering careUpon a staff propping his weary knees,May by the pathway of the forest fare:As from a buried dayAcross the mind will straySome perishing mute shadow,—and unawareHe passeth on his way.Else, he that wishes solitude is safe,Whether he bathe at morning in the stream:Or lead his love there when the hot hours chafeThe meadows, busy with a blurring steam;Or watch, as fades the light,The gibbous moon grow bright,Until her magic rays dance in a dream,And glorify the night.{250}Where is this bower beside the silver Thames?O pool and flowery thickets, hear my vow!O trees of freshest foliage and straight stems,No sharer of my secret I allow:Lest ere I come the whileStrange feet your shades defile;Or lest the burly oarsman turn his prowWithin your guardian isle.
6A WATER-PARTYLet us, as by this verdant bank we float,Search down the marge to find some shady poolWhere we may rest awhile and moor our boat,And bathe our tired limbs in the waters cool.Beneath the noonday sun,Swiftly, O river, run!Here is a mirror for Narcissus, see!I cannot sound it, plumbing with my oar.Lay the stern in beneath this bowering tree!Now, stepping on this stump, we are ashore.Guard, Hamadryades,Our clothes laid by your trees!How the birds warble in the woods! I pickThe waxen lilies, diving to the root.But swim not far in the stream, the weeds grow thick,And hot on the bare head the sunbeams shoot.Until our sport be done,O merry birds, sing on!If but to-night the sky be clear, the moonWill serve us well, for she is near the full.We shall row safely home; only too soon,—So pleasant 'tis, whether we float or pull.To guide us through the night,O summer moon, shine bright!
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7THE DOWNSO bold majestic downs, smooth, fair and lonely;O still solitude, only matched in the skies:Perilous in steep places,Soft in the level races,Where sweeping in phantom silence the cloudland flies;With lovely undulation of fall and rise;Entrenched with thickets thorned,By delicate miniature dainty flowers adorned!I climb your crown, and lo! a sight surprisingOf sea in front uprising, steep and wide:And scattered ships ascendingTo heaven, lost in the blendingOf distant blues, where water and sky divide,Urging their engines against wind and tide,And all so small and slowThey seem to be wearily pointing the way they would go.The accumulated murmur of soft plashing,Of waves on rocks dashing and searching the sands,Takes my ear, in the veeringBaffled wind, as rearingUpright at the cliff, to the gullies and rifts he stands;And his conquering surges scour out over the lands;While again at the foot of the downsHe masses his strength to recover the topmost crowns.
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8SPRINGODE IINVITATION TO THE COUNTRYAgain with pleasant greenHas Spring renewed the wood,And where the bare trunks stoodAre leafy arbours seen;And back on budding boughsCome birds, to court and pair,Whose rival amorous vowsAmaze the scented air.The freshets are unbound,And leaping from the hill,Their mossy banks refillWith streams of light and sound:And scattered down the meads,From hour to hour unfoldA thousand buds and beadsIn stars and cups of gold.Now hear, and see, and note,The farms are all astir,And every labourerHas doffed his winter coat;And how with specks of whiteThey dot the brown hillside,Or jaunt and sing outrightAs by their teams they stride.{253}They sing to feel the SunRegain his wanton strength;To know the year at lengthRewards their labour done;To see the rootless stakeThey set bare in the ground,Burst into leaf, and shakeIts grateful scent around.Ah now an evil lotIs his, who toils for gain,Where crowded chimneys stainThe heavens his choice forgot;'Tis on the blighted treesThat deck his garden dim,And in the tainted breeze,That sweet Spring comes to him.Far sooner I would chooseThe life of brutes that bask,Than set myself a task,Which inborn powers refuse:And rather far enjoyThe body, than inventA duty, to destroyThe ease which nature sent;And country life I praise,And lead, because I findThe philosophic mindCan take no middle ways;She will not leave her loveTo mix with men, her artIs all to strive aboveThe crowd, or stand apart.{254}Thrice happy he, the rarePrometheus, who can playWith hidden things, and layNew realms of nature bare;Whose venturous step has trodHell underfoot, and wonA crown from man and GodFor all that he has done.—That highest gift of all,Since crabbèd fate did floodMy heart with sluggish blood,I look not mine to call;But, like a truant freed,Fly to the woods, and claimA pleasure for the deedOf my inglorious name:And am content, deniedThe best, in choosing right;For Nature can delightFancies unoccupiedWith ecstasies so sweetAs none can even guess,Who walk not with the feetOf joy in idleness.Then leave your joyless ways,My friend, my joys to see.The day you come shall beThe choice of chosen days:You shall be lost, and learnNew being, and forgetThe world, till your returnShall bring your first regret.
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9SPRINGODE IIREPLYBehold! the radiant Spring,In splendour decked anew,Down from her heaven of blueReturns on sunlit wing:The zephyrs of her trainIn fleecy clouds disport,And birds to greet her reignSummon their silvan court.And here in street and squareThe prisoned trees contestHer favour with the best,To robe themselves full fair:And forth their buds provoke,Forgetting winter brown,And all the mire and smokeThat wrapped the dingy town.Now he that loves indeedHis pleasure must awake,Lest any pleasure takeIts flight, and he not heed;For of his few short yearsAnother now invitesHis hungry soul, and cheersHis life with new delights.{256}And who loves Nature moreThan he, whose painful artHas taught and skilled his heartTo read her skill and lore?Whose spirit leaps more high,Plucking the pale primrose,Than his whose feet must flyThe pasture where it grows?One long in city pentForgets, or must complain:But think not I can stainMy heaven with discontent;Nor wallow with that sad,Backsliding herd, who cryThat Truth must make man bad,And pleasure is a lie.Rather while Reason livesTo mark me from the beast,I'll teach her serve at leastTo heal the wound she gives:Nor need she strain her powersBeyond a common flight,To make the passing hoursHappy from morn till night.Since health our toil rewards,And strength is labour's prize,I hate not, nor despiseThe work my lot accords;Nor fret with fears unkindThe tender joys, that blessMy hard-won peace of mind,In hours of idleness.{257}Then what charm companyCan give, know I,—if wineGo round, or throats combineTo set dumb music free.Or deep in wintertideWhen winds without make moan,I love my own firesideNot least when most alone.Then oft I turn the pageIn which our country's name,Spoiling the Greek of fame,Shall sound in every age:Or some Terentian playRenew, whose excellentAdjusted folds betrayHow once Menander went.Or if grave study suitThe yet unwearied brain,Plato can teach again,And Socrates dispute;Till fancy in a dreamConfront their souls with mine,Crowning the mind supreme,And her delights divine.While pleasure yet can bePleasant, and fancy sweet,I bid all care retreatFrom my philosophy;Which, when I come to tryYour simpler life, will find,I doubt not, joys to vieWith those I leave behind.
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10ELEGYAMONG THE TOMBSSad, sombre place, beneath whose antique yewsI come, unquiet sorrows to control;Amid thy silent mossgrown graves to museWith my neglected solitary soul;And to poetic sadness care confide,Trusting sweet Melancholy for my guide:They will not ask why in thy shades I stray,Among the tombs finding my rare delight,Beneath the sun at indolent noonday,Or in the windy moon-enchanted night,Who have once reined in their steeds at any shrine,And given them water from the well divine.—The orchards are all ripened, and the sunSpots the deserted gleanings with decay;The seeds are perfected: his work is done,And Autumn lingers but to outsmile the May;Bidding his tinted leaves glide, bidding clearUnto clear skies the birds applaud the year.Lo, here I sit, and to the world I call,The world my solemn fancy leaves behind,Come! pass within the inviolable wall,Come pride, come pleasure, come distracted mind;Within the fated refuge, hither, turn,And learn your wisdom ere 'tis late to learn.Come with me now, and taste the fount of tears;For many eyes have sanctified this spot,Where grief's unbroken lineage endearsThe charm untimely Folly injures not,And slays the intruding thoughts, that overleapThe simple fence its holiness doth keep.Read the worn names of the forgotten dead,Their pompous legends will no smile awake;Even the vainglorious title o'er the headWins its pride pardon for its sorrow's sake;And carven Loves scorn not their dusty prize,Though fallen so far from tender sympathies.Here where a mother laid her only son,Here where a lover left his bride, belowThe treasured names their own are added onTo those whom they have followed long ago:Sealing the record of the tears they shed,That 'where their treasure there their hearts are fled.'Grandfather, father, son, and then againChild, grandchild, and great-grandchild laid beneathNumbered in turn among the sons of men,And gathered each one in his turn to death:While he that occupies their house and nameTo-day,—to-morrow too their grave shall claim.And where are all the spirits? Ah! could we tellThe manner of our being when we die,And see beyond the scene we know so well,The country that so much obscured doth lie!With brightest visions our fond hopes repair,Or crown our melancholy with despair;From death, still death, still would a comfort come:Since of this world the essential joy must fallIn all distributed, in each thing some,In nothing all, and all complete in all;Till pleasure, ageing to her full increase,Puts on perfection, and is throned in peace.{259}Yea, sweetest peace, unsought-for, undesired,Loathed and misnamed, 'tis thee I worship here:Though in most black habiliments attired,Thou art sweet peace, and thee I cannot fear.Nay, were my last hope quenched, I here would sitAnd praise the annihilation of the pit.Nor quickly disenchanted will my feetBack to the busy town return, but yetLinger, ere I my loving friends would greet,Or touch their hands, or share without regretThe warmth of that kind hearth, whose sacred tiesOnly shall dim with tears my dying eyes.
11DEJECTIONWherefore to-night so full of care,My soul, revolving hopeless strife,Pointing at hindrance, and the barePainful escapes of fitful life?Shaping the doom that may befallBy precedent of terror past:By love dishonoured, and the callOf friendship slighted at the last?By treasured names, the little storeThat memory out of wreck could saveOf loving hearts, that gone beforeCall their old comrade to the grave?O soul, be patient: thou shall findA little matter mend all this;Some strain of music to thy mind,Some praise for skill not spent amiss.{260}Again shall pleasure overflowThy cup with sweetness, thou shalt tasteNothing but sweetness, and shalt growHalf sad for sweetness run to waste.O happy life! I hear thee sing,O rare delight of mortal stuff!I praise my days for all they bring,Yet are they only not enough.
12MORNING HYMNO golden Sun, whose rayMy path illumineth:Light of the circling day,Whose night is birth and death:That dost not stint the primeOf wise and strong, nor stayThe changeful ordering time,That brings their sure decay:Though thou, the central sphere,Dost seem to turn aroundThy creature world, and nearAs father fond art found;Thereon, as from aboveTo shine, and make rejoiceWith beauty, life, and love,The garden of thy choice,{261}To dress the jocund SpringWith bounteous promise gayOf hotter months, that bringThe full perfected day;To touch with richest goldThe ripe fruit, ere it fall;And smile through cloud and coldOn Winter's funeral.Now with resplendent floodGladden my waking eyes,And stir my slothful bloodTo joyous enterprise.Arise, arise, as whenAt first God saidLight be!That He might make us menWith eyes His light to see.Scatter the clouds that hideThe face of heaven, and showWhere sweet Peace doth abide,Where Truth and Beauty grow.Awaken, cheer, adorn,Invite, inspire, assureThe joys that praise thy morn,The toil thy noons mature:And soothe the eve of day,That darkens back to death;O golden Sun, whose rayOur path illumineth!
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13I have loved flowers that fade,Within whose magic tentsRich hues have marriage madeWith sweet unmemoried scents:A honeymoon delight,—A joy of love at sight,That ages in an hour:—My song be like a flower!I have loved airs, that dieBefore their charm is writAlong a liquid skyTrembling to welcome it.Notes, that with pulse of fireProclaim the spirit's desire,Then die, and are nowhere:—My song be like an air!Die, song, die like a breath,And wither as a bloom:Fear not a flowery death,Dread not an airy tomb!Fly with delight, fly hence!'Twas thine love's tender senseTo feast; now on thy bierBeauty shall shed a tear.
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TOR. W. D.1O my vague desires!Ye lambent flames of the soul, her offspring fires:That are my soul herself in pangs sublimeRising and flying to heaven before her time:What doth tempt you forthTo drown in the south or shiver in the frosty north?What seek ye or find ye in your random flying,Ever soaring aloft, soaring and dying?Joy, the joy of flight!They hide in the sun, they flare and dance in the night;Gone up, gone out of sight: and ever againFollow fresh tongues of fire, fresh pangs of pain.Ah! they burn my soul,The fires, devour my soul that once was whole:She is scattered in fiery phantoms day by day,But whither, whither? ay whither? away, away!Could I but controlThese vague desires, these leaping flames of the soul:Could I but quench the fire: ah! could I stayMy soul that flieth, alas, and dieth away!
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2LONDON SNOWWhen men were all asleep the snow came flying,In large white flakes falling on the city brown,Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;Hiding difference, making unevenness even,Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.All night it fell, and when full inches sevenIt lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightnessOf the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:The eye marvelled—marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,They gathered up the crystal manna to freezeTheir tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder,'O look at the trees!' they cried, 'O look at the trees!'With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,Following along the white deserted way,A country company long dispersed asunder:When now already the sun, in pale displayStanding by Paul's high dome, spread forth belowHis sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.{266}For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:But even for them awhile no cares encumberTheir minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumberAt the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.
3THE VOICE OF NATUREI stand on the cliff and watch the veiled sun palingA silver field afar in the mournful sea,The scourge of the surf, and plaintive gulls sailingAt ease on the gale that smites the shuddering lea:Whose smile severe and chasteJune never hath stirred to vanity, nor age defaced.In lofty thought strive, O spirit, for ever:In courage and strength pursue thine own endeavour.Ah! if it were only for thee, thou restless oceanOf waves that follow and roar, the sweep of the tides;Wer't only for thee, impetuous wind, whose motionPrecipitate all o'errides, and turns, nor abides:For you sad birds and fair,Or only for thee, bleak cliff, erect in the air;Then well could I read wisdom in every feature,O well should I understand the voice of Nature.But far away, I think, in the Thames valley,The silent river glides by flowery banks:And birds sing sweetly in branches that arch an alleyOf cloistered trees, moss-grown in their ancient ranks:Where if a light air stray,'Tis laden with hum of bees and scent of may.{267}Love and peace be thine, O spirit, for ever:Serve thy sweet desire: despise endeavour.And if it were only for thee, entrancèd river,That scarce dost rock the lily on her airy stem,Or stir a wave to murmur, or a rush to quiver;Wer't but for the woods, and summer asleep in them:For you my bowers green,My hedges of rose and woodbine, with walks between,Then well could I read wisdom in every feature,O well should I understand the voice of Nature.
4ON A DEAD CHILDPerfect little body, without fault or stain on thee,With promise of strength and manhood full and fair!Though cold and stark and bare,The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.Thy mother's treasure wert thou;—alas! no longerTo visit her heart with wondrous joy; to beThy father's pride;—ah, heMust gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.To me, as I move thee now in the last duty,Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond;Startling my fancy fondWith a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it:But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff;Yet feels to my hand as if'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.{268}So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,—Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!—Propping thy wise, sad head,Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee?To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this?The vision of which I miss,Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail usTo lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark,Unwilling, alone we embark,And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.
5THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS MISTRESSBecause thou canst not see,Because thou canst not knowThe black and hopeless woeThat hath encompassed me:Because, should I confessThe thought of my despair,My words would wound thee lessThan swords can hurt the air:Because with thee I seemAs one invited nearTo taste the faery cheerOf spirits in a dream;Of whom he knoweth noughtSave that they vie to makeAll motion, voice and thoughtA pleasure for his sake:{269}Therefore more sweet and strangeHas been the mysteryOf thy long love to me,That doth not quit, nor change,Nor tax my solemn heart,That kisseth in a gloom,Knowing not who thou artThat givest, nor to whom.Therefore the tender touchIs more; more dear the smile:And thy light words beguileMy wisdom overmuch:And O with swiftness flyThe fancies of my songTo happy worlds, where IStill in thy love belong.