Poems 1817

John Keats

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  • DEDICATION.
  • POEMS.
  • EPISTLES
  • SONNETS
  • E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Thierry A, David King, Charles Franks,
    and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team



    “What more felicity can fall to creature,
    Than to enjoy delight with liberty.”


    Fate of the Butterfly.—SPENSER.






    DEDICATION.




    TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.


    Glory and loveliness have passed away;
      For if we wander out in early morn,
      No wreathed incense do we see upborne
    Into the east, to meet the smiling day:
    No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and young, and gay,
      In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,
      Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn
    The shrine of Flora in her early May.
    But there are left delights as high as these,
      And I shall ever bless my destiny,
    That in a time, when under pleasant trees
      Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free
    A leafy luxury, seeing I could please
      With these poor offerings, a man like thee.





    [The Short Pieces in the middle of the Book, as well
    as some of the Sonnets, were written at an earlier
    period than the rest of the Poems.]






    POEMS.





    “Places of nestling green for Poets made.”
                         STORY OF RIMINI.





    I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,
    The air was cooling, and so very still.
    That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
    Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
    Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,
    Had not yet lost those starry diadems
    Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
    The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,
    And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept
    On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept
    A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
    Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:
    For not the faintest motion could be seen
    Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.
    There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye,
    To peer about upon variety;
    Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim,
    And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;
    To picture out the quaint, and curious bending
    Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;
    Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,
    Guess were the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
    I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free
    As though the fanning wings of Mercury
    Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,
    And many pleasures to my vision started;
    So I straightway began to pluck a posey
    Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.


    A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;
    Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;
    And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
    And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them
    Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,
    That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.


    A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,
    And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind
    Upon their summer thrones; there too should be
    The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,
    That with a score of light green brethen shoots
    From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:
    Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters
    Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters
    The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn
    That such fair clusters should be rudely torn
    From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly
    By infant hands, left on the path to die.


    Open afresh your round of starry folds,
    Ye ardent marigolds!
    Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,
    For great Apollo bids
    That in these days your praises should be sung
    On many harps, which he has lately strung;
    And when again your dewiness he kisses,
    Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:
    So haply when I rove in some far vale,
    His mighty voice may come upon the gale.


    Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:
    With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,
    And taper fulgent catching at all things,
    To bind them all about with tiny rings.


    Linger awhile upon some bending planks
    That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,
    And watch intently Nature's gentle doings:
    They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings.
    How silent comes the water round that bend;
    Not the minutest whisper does it send
    To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass
    Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass.
    Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach
    To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach
    A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds;
    Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,
    Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams,
    To taste the luxury of sunny beams
    Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle
    With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
    Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.
    If you but scantily hold out the hand,
    That very instant not one will remain;
    But turn your eye, and they are there again.
    The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,
    And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses;
    The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,
    And moisture, that the bowery green may live:
    So keeping up an interchange of favours,
    Like good men in the truth of their behaviours
    Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
    From low hung branches; little space they stop;
    But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
    Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:
    Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,
    Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
    Were I in such a place, I sure should pray
    That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away,
    Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown
    Fanning away the dandelion's down;
    Than the light music of her nimble toes
    Patting against the sorrel as she goes.
    How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught
    Playing in all her innocence of thought.
    O let me lead her gently o'er the brook,
    Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;
    O let me for one moment touch her wrist;
    Let me one moment to her breathing list;
    And as she leaves me may she often turn
    Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
    What next? A tuft of evening primroses,
    O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
    O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
    But that 'tis ever startled by the leap
    Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting
    Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;
    Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
    Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
    Coming into the blue with all her light.
    O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight
    Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;
    Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
    Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
    Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
    Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
    Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
    Thee must I praise above all other glories
    That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
    For what has made the sage or poet write
    But the fair paradise of Nature's light?
    In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
    We see the waving of the mountain pine;
    And when a tale is beautifully staid,
    We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:
    When it is moving on luxurious wings,
    The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:
    Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
    And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;
    O'er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar,
    And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;
    While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles
    Charms us at once away from all our troubles:
    So that we feel uplifted from the world,
    Walking upon the white clouds wreath'd and curl'd.
    So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went
    On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;
    What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips
    First touch'd; what amorous, and fondling nips
    They gave each other's cheeks; with all their sighs,
    And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes:
    The silver lamp,—the ravishment,—the wonder—
    The darkness,—loneliness,—the fearful thunder;
    Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,
    To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
    So did he feel, who pull'd the boughs aside,
    That we might look into a forest wide,
    To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades
    Coming with softest rustle through the trees;
    And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,
    Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:
    Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled
    Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
    Poor nymph,—poor Pan,—how he did weep to find,
    Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
    Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain,
    Full of sweet desolation—balmy pain.


    What first inspired a bard of old to sing
    Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring?
    In some delicious ramble, he had found
    A little space, with boughs all woven round;
    And in the midst of all, a clearer pool
    Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool,
    The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping
    Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.
    And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,
    A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,
    Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness,
    To woo its own sad image into nearness:
    Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;
    But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
    So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot,
    Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot;
    Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
    Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale.


    Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew
    That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,
    That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,
    Coming ever to bless
    The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing
    Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing
    From out the middle air, from flowery nests,
    And from the pillowy silkiness that rests
    Full in the speculation of the stars.
    Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;
    Into some wond'rous region he had gone,
    To search for thee, divine Endymion!


    He was a Poet, sure a lover too,
    Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew
    Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;
    And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow
    A hymn from Dian's temple; while upswelling,
    The incense went to her own starry dwelling.
    But though her face was clear as infant's eyes,
    Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice,
    The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,
    Wept that such beauty should be desolate:
    So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,
    And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.


    Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen
    Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!
    As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,
    So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.
    O for three words of honey, that I might
    Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!


    Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,
    Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels,
    And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes,
    Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.
    The evening weather was so bright, and clear,
    That men of health were of unusual cheer;
    Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call,
    Or young Apollo on the pedestal:
    And lovely women were as fair and warm,
    As Venus looking sideways in alarm.
    The breezes were ethereal, and pure,
    And crept through half closed lattices to cure
    The languid sick; it cool'd their fever'd sleep,
    And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.
    Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting,
    Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:
    And springing up, they met the wond'ring sight
    Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;
    Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,
    And on their placid foreheads part the hair.
    Young men, and maidens at each other gaz'd
    With hands held back, and motionless, amaz'd
    To see the brightness in each others' eyes;
    And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise,
    Until their tongues were loos'd in poesy.
    Therefore no lover did of anguish die:
    But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
    Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
    Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses,
    That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses:
    Was there a Poet born?—but now no more,
    My wand'ring spirit must no further soar.—






    SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A POEM.





    Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
    For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye.
    Not like the formal crest of latter days:
    But bending in a thousand graceful ways;
    So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand,
    Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand,
    Could charm them into such an attitude.
    We must think rather, that in playful mood,
    Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight,
    To show this wonder of its gentle might.
    Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
    For while I muse, the lance points slantingly
    Athwart the morning air: some lady sweet,
    Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,
    From the worn top of some old battlement
    Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent:
    And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,
    Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.
    Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would take,
    It is reflected, clearly, in a lake,
    With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests,
    And th' half seen mossiness of linnets' nests.
    Ah! shall I ever tell its cruelty,
    When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye,
    And his tremendous hand is grasping it,
    And his dark brow for very wrath is knit?
    Or when his spirit, with more calm intent,
    Leaps to the honors of a tournament,
    And makes the gazers round about the ring
    Stare at the grandeur of the balancing?
    No, no! this is far off:—then how shall I
    Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy,
    Which linger yet about lone gothic arches,
    In dark green ivy, and among wild larches?
    How sing the splendour of the revelries,
    When buts of wine are drunk off to the lees?
    And that bright lance, against the fretted wall,
    Beneath the shade of stately banneral,
    Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield?
    Where ye may see a spur in bloody field.
    Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces
    Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces;
    Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens:
    Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens.
    Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry:
    Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by?
    Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight,
    Rein in the swelling of his ample might?


    Spenser! thy brows are arched, open, kind,
    And come like a clear sun-rise to my mind;
    And always does my heart with pleasure dance,
    When I think on thy noble countenance:
    Where never yet was ought more earthly seen
    Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green.
    Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully
    Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh
    My daring steps: or if thy tender care,
    Thus startled unaware,
    Be jealous that the foot of other wight
    Should madly follow that bright path of light
    Trac'd by thy lov'd Libertas; he will speak,
    And tell thee that my prayer is very meek;
    That I will follow with due reverence,
    And start with awe at mine own strange pretence.
    Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope
    To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope:
    The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers:
    Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers.






    CALIDORE.




    A fragment.



    Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake;
    His healthful spirit eager and awake
    To feel the beauty of a silent eve,
    Which seem'd full loath this happy world to leave;
    The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly.
    He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky,
    And smiles at the far clearness all around,
    Until his heart is well nigh over wound,
    And turns for calmness to the pleasant green
    Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean
    So elegantly o'er the waters' brim
    And show their blossoms trim.
    Scarce can his clear and nimble eye-sight follow
    The freaks, and dartings of the black-wing'd swallow,
    Delighting much, to see it half at rest,
    Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast
    'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon,
    The widening circles into nothing gone.


    And now the sharp keel of his little boat
    Comes up with ripple, and with easy float,
    And glides into a bed of water lillies:
    Broad leav'd are they and their white canopies
    Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' dew.
    Near to a little island's point they grew;
    Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view
    Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore
    Went off in gentle windings to the hoar
    And light blue mountains: but no breathing man
    With a warm heart, and eye prepared to scan
    Nature's clear beauty, could pass lightly by
    Objects that look'd out so invitingly
    On either side. These, gentle Calidore
    Greeted, as he had known them long before.


    The sidelong view of swelling leafiness,
    Which the glad setting sun, in gold doth dress;
    Whence ever, and anon the jay outsprings,
    And scales upon the beauty of its wings.


    The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn,
    Stands venerably proud; too proud to mourn
    Its long lost grandeur: fir trees grow around,
    Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground.


    The little chapel with the cross above
    Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove,
    That on the windows spreads his feathers light,
    And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight.


    Green tufted islands casting their soft shades
    Across the lake; sequester'd leafy glades,
    That through the dimness of their twilight show
    Large dock leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow
    Of the wild cat's eyes, or the silvery stems
    Of delicate birch trees, or long grass which hems
    A little brook. The youth had long been viewing
    These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing
    The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught
    A trumpet's silver voice. Ah! it was fraught
    With many joys for him: the warder's ken
    Had found white coursers prancing in the glen:
    Friends very dear to him he soon will see;
    So pushes off his boat most eagerly,
    And soon upon the lake he skims along,
    Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song;
    Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly:
    His spirit flies before him so completely.


    And now he turns a jutting point of land,
    Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand:
    Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches,
    Before the point of his light shallop reaches
    Those marble steps that through the water dip:
    Now over them he goes with hasty trip,
    And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors:
    Anon he leaps along the oaken floors
    Of halls and corridors.


    Delicious sounds! those little bright-eyed things
    That float about the air on azure wings,
    Had been less heartfelt by him than the clang
    Of clattering hoofs; into the court he sprang,
    Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain,
    Were slanting out their necks with loosened rein;
    While from beneath the threat'ning portcullis
    They brought their happy burthens. What a kiss,
    What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand!
    How tremblingly their delicate ancles spann'd!
    Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone,
    While whisperings of affection
    Made him delay to let their tender feet
    Come to the earth; with an incline so sweet
    From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent:
    And whether there were tears of languishment,
    Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their tresses,
    He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses
    With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye
    All the soft luxury
    That nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand,
    Fair as some wonder out of fairy land,
    Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers
    Of whitest Cassia, fresh from summer showers:
    And this he fondled with his happy cheek
    As if for joy he would no further seek;
    When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond
    Came to his ear, like something from beyond
    His present being: so he gently drew
    His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new,
    From their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending,
    Thank'd heaven that his joy was never ending;
    While 'gainst his forehead he devoutly press'd
    A hand heaven made to succour the distress'd;
    A hand that from the world's bleak promontory
    Had lifted Calidore for deeds of glory.


    Amid the pages, and the torches' glare,
    There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair
    Of his proud horse's mane: he was withal
    A man of elegance, and stature tall:
    So that the waving of his plumes would be
    High as the berries of a wild ash tree,
    Or as the winged cap of Mercury.
    His armour was so dexterously wrought
    In shape, that sure no living man had thought
    It hard, and heavy steel: but that indeed
    It was some glorious form, some splendid weed,
    In which a spirit new come from the skies
    Might live, and show itself to human eyes.
    'Tis the far-fam'd, the brave Sir Gondibert,
    Said the good man to Calidore alert;
    While the young warrior with a step of grace
    Came up,—a courtly smile upon his face,
    And mailed hand held out, ready to greet
    The large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heat
    Of the aspiring boy; who as he led
    Those smiling ladies, often turned his head
    To admire the visor arched so gracefully
    Over a knightly brow; while they went by
    The lamps that from the high-roof'd hall were pendent,
    And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent.


    Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated;
    The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greeted
    All the green leaves that round the window clamber,
    To show their purple stars, and bells of amber.
    Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel,
    Gladdening in the free, and airy feel
    Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond
    Is looking round about him with a fond,
    And placid eye, young Calidore is burning
    To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning
    Of all unworthiness; and how the strong of arm
    Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm
    From lovely woman: while brimful of this,
    He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss,
    And had such manly ardour in his eye,
    That each at other look'd half staringly;
    And then their features started into smiles
    Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles.


    Softly the breezes from the forest came,
    Softly they blew aside the taper's flame;
    Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower;
    Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower;
    Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpet's tone;
    Lovely the moon in ether, all alone:
    Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals,
    As that of busy spirits when the portals
    Are closing in the west; or that soft humming
    We hear around when Hesperus is coming.
    Sweet be their sleep. * * * * * * * * *






    TO SOME LADIES.





    What though while the wonders of nature exploring,
      I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;
    Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,
      Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend:


    Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes,
      With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove;
    Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,
      Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.


    Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?
      Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?
    Ah! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling,
      Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air.


    'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,
      I see you are treading the verge of the sea:
    And now! ah, I see it—you just now are stooping
      To pick up the keep-sake intended for me.


    If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,
      Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven;
    And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,
      The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;


    It had not created a warmer emotion
      Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you,
    Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean
      Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.


    For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,
      (And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)
    To possess but a span of the hour of leisure,
      In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.






    ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL, AND A COPY OF VERSES, FROM

    THE SAME LADIES.



    Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem
      Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain?
    Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem,
      When it flutters in sun-beams that shine through a fountain?


    Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?
      That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?
    And splendidly mark'd with the story divine
      Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold?


    Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?
      Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is?
    Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing?
      And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd Britomartis?


    What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave,
      Embroidered with many a spring peering flower?
    Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave?
      And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower?


    Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd;
      Full many the glories that brighten thy youth!
    I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound
      In magical powers to bless, and to sooth.


    On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair
      A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain;
    And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare
      Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain.


    This canopy mark: 'tis the work of a fay;
      Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish,
    When lovely Titania was far, far away,
      And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish.


    There, oft would he bring from his soft sighing lute
      Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listened;
    The wondering spirits of heaven were mute,
      And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened.


    In this little dome, all those melodies strange,
      Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh;
    Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change;
      Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die.


    So, when I am in a voluptuous vein,
      I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose,
    And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain,
      Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.


    Adieu, valiant Eric! with joy thou art crown'd;
      Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,
    I too have my blisses, which richly abound
      In magical powers, to bless and to sooth.






    TO * * * *





    Hadst thou liv'd in days of old,
    O what wonders had been told
    Of thy lively countenance,
    And thy humid eyes that dance
    In the midst of their own brightness;
    In the very fane of lightness.
    Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,
    Picture out each lovely meaning:
    In a dainty bend they lie,
    Like two streaks across the sky,
    Or the feathers from a crow,
    Fallen on a bed of snow.
    Of thy dark hair that extends
    Into many graceful bends:
    As the leaves of Hellebore
    Turn to whence they sprung before.
    And behind each ample curl
    Peeps the richness of a pearl.
    Downward too flows many a tress
    With a glossy waviness;
    Full, and round like globes that rise
    From the censer to the skies
    Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness
    Of thy honied voice; the neatness
    Of thine ankle lightly turn'd:
    With those beauties, scarce discrn'd,
    Kept with such sweet privacy,
    That they seldom meet the eye
    Of the little loves that fly
    Round about with eager pry.
    Saving when, with freshening lave,
    Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave;
    Like twin water lillies, born
    In the coolness of the morn.
    O, if thou hadst breathed then,
    Now the Muses had been ten.
    Couldst thou wish for lineage higher
    Than twin sister of Thalia?
    At least for ever, evermore,
    Will I call the Graces four.


    Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry
    Lifted up her lance on high,
    Tell me what thou wouldst have been?
    Ah! I see the silver sheen
    Of thy broidered, floating vest
    Cov'ring half thine ivory breast;
    Which, O heavens! I should see,
    But that cruel destiny
    Has placed a golden cuirass there;
    Keeping secret what is fair.
    Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested
    Thy locks in knightly casque are rested:
    O'er which bend four milky plumes
    Like the gentle lilly's blooms
    Springing from a costly vase.
    See with what a stately pace
    Comes thine alabaster steed;
    Servant of heroic deed!
    O'er his loins, his trappings glow
    Like the northern lights on snow.
    Mount his back! thy sword unsheath!
    Sign of the enchanter's death;
    Bane of every wicked spell;
    Silencer of dragon's yell.
    Alas! thou this wilt never do:
    Thou art an enchantress too,
    And wilt surely never spill
    Blood of those whose eyes can kill.






    TO HOPE.





    When by my solitary hearth I sit,
      And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;
    When no fair dreams before my “mind's eye” flit,
      And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
        Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
        And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.


    Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night,
      Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray,
    Should sad Despondency my musings fright,
      And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,
        Peep with the moon-beams through the leafy roof,
        And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof.


    Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
      Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;
    When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,
      Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
        Chace him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,
        And fright him as the morning frightens night!


    Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear
      Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,
    O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer;
      Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:
        Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,
        And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!


    Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,
      From cruel parents, or relentless fair;
    O let me think it is not quite in vain
      To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!
        Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed.
        And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!


    In the long vista of the years to roll,
      Let me not see our country's honour fade:
    O let me see our land retain her soul,
      Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade.
        From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed—
        Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!


    Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
      Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!
    With the base purple of a court oppress'd,
      Bowing her head, and ready to expire:
        But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
        That fill the skies with silver glitterings!


    And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
      Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
    Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar:
      So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
        Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
        Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.


    February, 1815.






    IMITATION OF SPENSER.





      Now Morning from her orient chamber came,
      And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill;
      Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,
      Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill;
      Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill,
      And after parting beds of simple flowers,
      By many streams a little lake did fill,
      Which round its marge reflected woven bowers,
    And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.


      There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright
      Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below;
      Whose silken fins, and golden scales' light
      Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow:
      There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,
      And oar'd himself along with majesty;
      Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show
      Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony,
    And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.


      Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle
      That in that fairest lake had placed been,
      I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile;
      Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen:
      For sure so fair a place was never seen,
      Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye:
      It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen
      Of the bright waters; or as when on high,
    Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the coerulean sky.


      And all around it dipp'd luxuriously
      Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,
      Which, as it were in gentle amity,
      Rippled delighted up the flowery side;
      As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,
      Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!
      Haply it was the workings of its pride,
      In strife to throw upon the shore a gem
    Outvieing all the buds in Flora's diadem.





    Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
      Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;
      Without that modest softening that enhances
    The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
    That its mild light creates to heal again:
      E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,
      E'en then my soul with exultation dances
    For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain:
    But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,
      Heavens! how desperately do I adore
    Thy winning graces;—to be thy defender
      I hotly burn—to be a Calidore—
    A very Red Cross Knight—a stout Leander—
      Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.


    Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;
      Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,
      Are things on which the dazzled senses rest
    Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare.
    From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare
      To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd
      They be of what is worthy,—though not drest
    In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.
    Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark;
      These lures I straight forget,—e'en ere I dine,
    Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark
      Such charms with mild intelligences shine,
    My ear is open like a greedy shark,
      To catch the tunings of a voice divine.


    Ah! who can e'er forget so fair a being?
      Who can forget her half retiring sweets?
      God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats
    For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing,
    Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,
      Will never give him pinions, who intreats
      Such innocence to ruin,—who vilely cheats
    A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing
    One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear
      A lay that once I saw her hand awake,
    Her form seems floating palpable, and near;
      Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take
    A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,
      And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.








    EPISTLES



    “Among the rest a shepheard (though but young
     Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill
     His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill.”


    Britannia's Pastorals.—BROWNE.






    TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW.





    Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,
    And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song;
    Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view
    A fate more pleasing, a delight more true
    Than that in which the brother Poets joy'd,
    Who with combined powers, their wit employ'd
    To raise a trophy to the drama's muses.
    The thought of this great partnership diffuses
    Over the genius loving heart, a feeling
    Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing.


    Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee
    Past each horizon of fine poesy;
    Fain would I echo back each pleasant note
    As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float
    'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted,
    Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted:
    But 'tis impossible; far different cares
    Beckon me sternly from soft “Lydian airs,”
    And hold my faculties so long in thrall,
    That I am oft in doubt whether at all
    I shall again see Phoebus in the morning:
    Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning!
    Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream;
    Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam;
    Or again witness what with thee I've seen,
    The dew by fairy feet swept from the green,
    After a night of some quaint jubilee
    Which every elf and fay had come to see:
    When bright processions took their airy march
    Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch.


    But might I now each passing moment give
    To the coy muse, with me she would not live
    In this dark city, nor would condescend
    'Mid contradictions her delights to lend.
    Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind,
    Ah! surely it must be whene'er I find
    Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic,
    That often must have seen a poet frantic;
    Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing,
    And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing;
    Where the dark-leav'd laburnum's drooping clusters
    Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres,
    And intertwined the cassia's arms unite,
    With its own drooping buds, but very white.
    Where on one side are covert branches hung,
    'Mong which the nightingales have always sung
    In leafy quiet; where to pry, aloof,
    Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof,
    Would be to find where violet beds were nestling,
    And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling.
    There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy,
    To say “joy not too much in all that's bloomy.”


    Yet this is vain—O Mathew lend thy aid
    To find a place where I may greet the maid—
    Where we may soft humanity put on,
    And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton;
    And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him
    Four laurell'd spirits, heaven-ward to intreat him.
    With reverence would we speak of all the sages
    Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages:
    And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness,
    And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness
    To those who strove with the bright golden wing
    Of genius, to flap away each sting
    Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell
    Of those who in the cause of freedom fell:
    Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell;
    Of him whose name to ev'ry heart's a solace,
    High-minded and unbending William Wallace.
    While to the rugged north our musing turns
    We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns.


    Felton! without incitements such as these,
    How vain for me the niggard Muse to tease:
    For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace,
    And make “a sun-shine in a shady place:"
    For thou wast once a flowret blooming wild,
    Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefil'd,
    Whence gush the streams of song: in happy hour
    Came chaste Diana from her shady bower,
    Just as the sun was from the east uprising;
    And, as for him some gift she was devising,
    Beheld thee, pluck'd thee, cast thee in the stream
    To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam.
    I marvel much that thou hast never told
    How, from a flower, into a fish of gold
    Apollo chang'd thee; how thou next didst seem
    A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream;
    And when thou first didst in that mirror trace
    The placid features of a human face:
    That thou hast never told thy travels strange.
    And all the wonders of the mazy range
    O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands;
    Kissing thy daily food from Naiad's pearly hands.


    November, 1815.






    TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.




    Full many a dreary hour have I past,
    My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast
    With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
    No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught
    From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
    On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;
    Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely,
    Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:
    That I should never hear Apollo's song,
    Though feathery clouds were floating all along
    The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,
    The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:
    That the still murmur of the honey bee
    Would never teach a rural song to me:
    That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting
    Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,
    Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold
    Some tale of love and arms in time of old.


    But there are times, when those that love the bay,
    Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;
    A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see
    In water, earth, or air, but poesy.
    It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,
    (For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,)
    That when a Poet is in such a trance,
    In air he sees white coursers paw, and prance,
    Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,
    Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel,
    And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,
    Is the swift opening of their wide portal,
    When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,
    Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear.
    When these enchanted portals open wide,
    And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,
    The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,
    And view the glory of their festivals:
    Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem
    Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream;
    Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run
    Like the bright spots that move about the sun;
    And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar
    Pours with the lustre of a falling star.
    Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers,
    Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers;
    And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows
    'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.
    All that's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses,
    Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses.
    As gracefully descending, light and thin,
    Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,
    When he upswimmeth from the coral caves.
    And sports with half his tail above the waves.


    These wonders strange be sees, and many more,
    Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.
    Should he upon an evening ramble fare
    With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,
    Would he naught see but the dark, silent blue
    With all its diamonds trembling through and through:
    Or the coy moon, when in the waviness
    Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,
    And staidly paces higher up, and higher,
    Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?
    Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight—
    The revelries, and mysteries of night:
    And should I ever see them, I will tell you
    Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.


    These are the living pleasures of the bard:
    But richer far posterity's award.
    What does he murmur with his latest breath,
    While his proud eye looks through the film of death?
    “What though I leave this dull, and earthly mould,
    Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold
    With after times.—The patriot shall feel
    My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;
    Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers
    To startle princes from their easy slumbers.
    The sage will mingle with each moral theme
    My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem
    With lofty periods when my verses fire him,
    And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.
    Lays have I left of such a dear delight
    That maids will sing them on their bridal night.
    Gay villagers, upon a morn of May
    When they have tired their gentle limbs, with play,
    And form'd a snowy circle on the grass,
    And plac'd in midst of all that lovely lass
    Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head
    Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red:
    For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,
    Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:
    Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,
    A bunch of violets full blown, and double,
    Serenely sleep:—she from a casket takes
    A little book,—and then a joy awakes
    About each youthful heart,—with stifled cries,
    And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes:
    For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears;
    One that I foster'd in my youthful years:
    The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep,
    Gush ever and anon with silent creep,
    Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest
    Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,
    Be lull'd with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!
    Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view:
    Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions,
    Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions.
    Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,
    That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,
    And warm thy sons!” Ah, my dear friend and brother,
    Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother,
    For tasting joys like these, sure I should be
    Happier, and dearer to society.
    At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain
    When some bright thought has darted through my brain:
    Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure
    Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.
    As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them,
    I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.
    Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment,
    Stretch'd on the grass at my best lov'd employment
    Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought
    While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.
    E'en now I'm pillow'd on a bed of flowers
    That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers
    Above the ocean-waves. The stalks, and blades,
    Chequer my tablet with their, quivering shades.
    On one side is a field of drooping oats,
    Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats
    So pert and useless, that they bring to mind
    The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.
    And on the other side, outspread, is seen
    Ocean's blue mantle streak'd with purple, and green.
    Now 'tis I see a canvass'd ship, and now
    Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.
    I see the lark down-dropping to his nest.
    And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest;
    For when no more he spreads his feathers free,
    His breast is dancing on the restless sea.
    Now I direct my eyes into the west,
    Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest:
    Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu!
    'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!


    August, 1816.






    TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE.





    Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,
    And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;
    He slants his neck beneath the waters bright
    So silently, it seems a beam of light
    Come from the galaxy: anon he sports,—
    With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,
    Or ruffles all the surface of the lake
    In striving from its crystal face to take
    Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure
    In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.
    But not a moment can he there insure them,
    Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;
    For down they rush as though they would be free,
    And drop like hours into eternity.
    Just like that bird am I in loss of time,
    Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme;
    With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent,
    I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;
    Still scooping up the water with my fingers,
    In which a trembling diamond never lingers.


    By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see
    Why I have never penn'd a line to thee:
    Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,
    And little fit to please a classic ear;
    Because my wine was of too poor a savour
    For one whose palate gladdens in the flavour
    Of sparkling Helicon:—small good it were
    To take him to a desert rude, and bare.
    Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease,
    While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze
    That gave soft music from Armida's bowers,
    Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:
    Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream
    Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;
    Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,
    And lovely Una in a leafy nook,
    And Archimago leaning o'er his book:
    Who had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen,
    From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen;
    From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania,
    To the blue dwelling of divine Urania:
    One, who, of late, had ta'en sweet forest walks
    With him who elegantly chats, and talks—
    The wrong'd Libert as,—who has told you stories
    Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories;
    Of troops chivalrous prancing; through a city,
    And tearful ladies made for love, and pity:
    With many else which I have never known.
    Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown
    Slowly, or rapidly—unwilling still
    For you to try my dull, unlearned quill.
    Nor should I now, but that I've known you long;
    That you first taught me all the sweets of song:
    The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine;
    What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine:
    Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,
    And float along like birds o'er summer seas;
    Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness;
    Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.
    Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly
    Up to its climax and then dying proudly?
    Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,
    Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?
    Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,
    The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?
    Shew'd me that epic was of all the king,
    Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?
    You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty,
    And pointed out the patriot's stern duty;
    The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;
    The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell
    Upon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen,
    Or known your kindness, what might I have been?
    What my enjoyments in my youthful years,
    Bereft of all that now my life endears?
    And can I e'er these benefits forget?
    And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?
    No, doubly no;—yet should these rhymings please,
    I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease:
    For I have long time been my fancy feeding
    With hopes that you would one day think the reading
    Of my rough verses not an hour misspent;
    Should it e'er be so, what a rich content!
    Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spires
    In lucent Thames reflected:—warm desires
    To see the sun o'er peep the eastern dimness,
    And morning shadows streaking into slimness
    Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water;
    To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter;
    To feel the air that plays about the hills,
    And sips its freshness from the little rills;
    To see high, golden corn wave in the light
    When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night,
    And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white,
    As though she were reclining in a bed
    Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed.
    No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures
    Than I began to think of rhymes and measures:
    The air that floated by me seem'd to say
    “Write! thou wilt never have a better day.”
    And so I did. When many lines I'd written,
    Though with their grace I was not oversmitten,
    Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd better
    Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter.
    Such an attempt required an inspiration
    Of a peculiar sort,—a consummation;—
    Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been
    Verses from which the soul would never wean:
    But many days have past since last my heart
    Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart;
    By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd;
    Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sadden'd:
    What time you were before the music sitting,
    And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.
    Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes
    That freshly terminate in open plains,
    And revel'd in a chat that ceased not
    When at night-fall among your books we got:
    No, nor when supper came, nor after that,—
    Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;
    No, nor till cordially you shook my hand
    Mid-way between our homes:—your accents bland
    Still sounded in my ears, when I no more
    Could hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor.
    Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;
    You chang'd the footpath for the grassy plain.
    In those still moments I have wish'd you joys
    That well you know to honour:—“Life's very toys
    With him,” said I, “will take a pleasant charm;
    It cannot be that ought will work him harm.”
    These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might:—
    Again I shake your hand,—friend Charles, good night.


    September, 1816.








    SONNETS






    I. TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.





    Many the wonders I this day have seen:
      The sun, when first he kist away the tears
      That fill'd the eyes of morn;—the laurel'd peers
    Who from the feathery gold of evening lean:—
    The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,
      Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,—
      Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears
    Must think on what will be, and what has been.
    E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,
      Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping
    So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,
      And she her half-discover'd revels keeping.
    But what, without the social thought of thee,
    Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?






    II. TO * * * * * *





    Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
      Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,
      Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
    Would passion arm me for the enterprize:
    But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;
      No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;
      I am no happy shepherd of the dell
    Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes;
    Yet must I dote upon thee,—call thee sweet.
      Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses
        When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.
    Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,
      And when the moon her pallid face discloses,
        I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.






    III. Written on the day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison.





    What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state
      Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,
      In his immortal spirit, been as free
    As the sky-searching lark, and as elate.
    Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?
      Think you he nought but prison walls did see,
      Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key?
    Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate!
    In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair,
      Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew
    With daring Milton through the fields of air:
      To regions of his own his genius true
    Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair
      When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?






    IV.





    How many bards gild the lapses of time!
      A few of them have ever been the food
      Of my delighted fancy,—I could brood
    Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime:
    And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,
      These will in throngs before my mind intrude:
      But no confusion, no disturbance rude
    Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.
    So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store;
      The songs of birds—the whisp'ring of the leaves—
    The voice of waters—the great bell that heaves
      With solemn sound,—and thousand others more,
    That distance of recognizance bereaves,
      Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.






    V. To a Friend who sent me some Roses.





    As late I rambled in the happy fields,
      What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew
      From his lush clover covert;—when anew
    Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields:
    I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
      A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw
      Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
    As is the wand that queen Titania wields.
    And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
      I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd:
    But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me
      My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd:
    Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
      Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.






    VI. To G. A. W.





    Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance,
      In what diviner moments of the day
      Art thou most lovely? When gone far astray
    Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance?
    Or when serenely wand'ring in a trance
      Of sober thought? Or when starting away,
      With careless robe, to meet the morning ray,
    Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance?
    Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,
      And so remain, because thou listenest:
    But thou to please wert nurtured so completely
      That I can never tell what mood is best.
    I shall as soon pronounce which grace more neatly
      Trips it before Apollo than the rest.






    VII.





    O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
      Let it not be among the jumbled heap
      Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,—
    Nature's observatory—whence the dell,
    Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,
      May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
      'Mongst boughs pavillion'd, where the deer's swift leap
    Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.
    But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
      Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
    Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd,
      Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be
    Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
      When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.






    VIII. TO MY BROTHERS.





    Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,
      And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep
      Like whispers of the household gods that keep
    A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.
    And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,
      Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep,
      Upon the lore so voluble and deep,
    That aye at fall of night our care condoles.
    This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice
      That thus it passes smoothly, quietly.
    Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise
      May we together pass, and calmly try
    What are this world's true joys,—ere the great voice,
      From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.


    November 18, 1816.






    IX.





    Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
      Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
      The stars look very cold about the sky,
    And I have many miles on foot to fare.
    Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
      Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
      Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
    Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:
    For I am brimfull of the friendliness
      That in a little cottage I have found;
    Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
      And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;
    Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
      And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.






    X.





    To one who has been long in city pent,
      'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
      And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer
    Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
    Who is more happy, when, with hearts content,
      Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
      Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
    And gentle tale of love and languishment?
    Returning home at evening, with an ear
      Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye
    Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
      He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
    E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
      That falls through the clear ether silently.






    XI. On first looking into Chapman's Homer.





    Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,
      And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
      Round many western islands have I been
    Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
    Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
      That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
      Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
    Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
    Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
      When a new planet swims into his ken;
    Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
      He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men
    Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—
      Silent, upon a peak in Darien.






    XII. On leaving some Friends at an early Hour.





    Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
      On heap'd up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
      Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
    Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen
    The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
      And let there glide by many a pearly car,
      Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
    And half discovered wings, and glances keen.
    The while let music wander round my ears.
      And as it reaches each delicious ending,
        Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
    And full of many wonders of the spheres:
      For what a height my spirit is contending!
        'Tis not content so soon to be alone.






    XIII. ADDRESSED TO HAYDON.





    Highmindedness, a jealousy for good,
      A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,
      Dwells here and there with people of no name,
    In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:
    And where we think the truth least understood,
      Oft may be found a “singleness of aim,”
      That ought to frighten into hooded shame
    A money mong'ring, pitiable brood.
    How glorious this affection for the cause
      Of stedfast genius, toiling gallantly!
    What when a stout unbending champion awes
      Envy, and Malice to their native sty?
    Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause,
      Proud to behold him in his country's eye.






    XIV. ADDRESSED TO THE SAME.





    Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;
      He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,
      Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake,
    Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing:
    He of the rose, the violet, the spring.
      The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake:
      And lo!—whose stedfastness would never take
    A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering.
    And other spirits there are standing apart
      Upon the forehead of the age to come;
    These, these will give the world another heart,
      And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum
    Of mighty workings?——————
      Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.






    XV. On the Grasshopper and Cricket.





    The poetry of earth is never dead:
      When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
      And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
    From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
    That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the lead
      In summer luxury,—he has never done
      With his delights; for when tired out with fun
    He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
    The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
      On a lone winter evening, when the frost
        Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
    The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
      And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
        The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.


    December 30, 1816.






    XVI. TO KOSCIUSKO.





    Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone
      Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;
      It comes upon us like the glorious pealing
    Of the wide spheres—an everlasting tone.
    And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,
      The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,
      And changed to harmonies, for ever stealing
    Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne.
    It tells me too, that on a happy day,
      When some good spirit walks upon the earth,
      Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore
    Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth
    To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away
      To where the great God lives for evermore.






    XVII.





    Happy is England! I could be content
      To see no other verdure than its own;
      To feel no other breezes than are blown
    Through its tall woods with high romances blent:
    Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment
      For skies Italian, and an inward groan
      To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
    And half forget what world or worldling meant.
    Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;
      Enough their simple loveliness for me,
        Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:
      Yet do I often warmly burn to see
        Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,
    And float with them about the summer waters.






    SLEEP AND POETRY





    “As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
    Was unto me, but why that I ne might
    Rest I ne wist, for there n'as erthly wight
    [As I suppose] had more of hertis ese
    Than I, for I n'ad sicknesse nor disese.”


    CHAUCER.



    What is more gentle than a wind in summer?
    What is more soothing than the pretty hummer
    That stays one moment in an open flower,
    And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?
    What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing
    In a green island, far from all men's knowing?
    More healthful than the leafiness of dales?
    More secret than a nest of nightingales?
    More serene than Cordelia's countenance?
    More full of visions than a high romance?
    What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!
    Low murmurer of tender lullabies!
    Light hoverer around our happy pillows!
    Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!
    Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!
    Most happy listener! when the morning blesses
    Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes
    That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.


    But what is higher beyond thought than thee?
    Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?
    More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,
    Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?
    What is it? And to what shall I compare it?
    It has a glory, and nought else can share it:
    The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,
    Chacing away all worldliness and folly;
    Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,
    Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;
    And sometimes like a gentle whispering
    Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing
    That breathes about us in the vacant air;
    So that we look around with prying stare,
    Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning,
    And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;
    To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,
    That is to crown our name when life is ended.
    Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,
    And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!
    Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,
    And die away in ardent mutterings.


    No one who once the glorious sun has seen,
    And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean
    For his great Maker's presence, but must know
    What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow:
    Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,
    By telling what he sees from native merit.


    O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen
    That am not yet a glorious denizen
    Of thy wide heaven—Should I rather kneel
    Upon some mountain-top until I feel
    A glowing splendour round about me hung,
    And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?
    O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen
    That am not yet a glorious denizen
    Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,
    Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,
    Smoothed for intoxication by the breath
    Of flowering bays, that I may die a death
    Of luxury, and my young spirit follow
    The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo
    Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear
    The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fair
    Visions of all places: a bowery nook
    Will be elysium—an eternal book
    Whence I may copy many a lovely saying
    About the leaves, and flowers—about the playing
    Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade
    Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;
    And many a verse from so strange influence
    That we must ever wonder how, and whence
    It came. Also imaginings will hover
    Round my fire-side, and haply there discover
    Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander
    In happy silence, like the clear meander
    Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot
    Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,
    Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dress
    Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,
    Write on my tablets all that was permitted,
    All that was for our human senses fitted.
    Then the events of this wide world I'd seize
    Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze
    Till at its shoulders it should proudly see
    Wings to find out an immortality.


    Stop and consider! life is but a day;
    A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way
    From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep
    While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep
    Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?
    Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;
    The reading of an ever-changing tale;
    The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;
    A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;
    A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,
    Riding the springy branches of an elm.


    O for ten years, that I may overwhelm
    Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed
    That my own soul has to itself decreed.
    Then will I pass the countries that I see
    In long perspective, and continually
    Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll pass
    Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,
    Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,
    And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;
    Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,
    To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,—
    Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white
    Into a pretty shrinking with a bite
    As hard as lips can make it: till agreed,
    A lovely tale of human life we'll read.
    And one will teach a tame dove how it best
    May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;
    Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,
    Will set a green robe floating round her head,
    And still will dance with ever varied case,
    Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:
    Another will entice me on, and on
    Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;
    Till in the bosom of a leafy world
    We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd
    In the recesses of a pearly shell.


    And can I ever bid these joys farewell?
    Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,
    Where I may find the agonies, the strife
    Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar,
    O'er sailing the blue cragginess, a car
    And steeds with streamy manes—the charioteer
    Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:
    And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly
    Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly
    Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,
    Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.
    Still downward with capacious whirl they glide,
    And now I see them on a green-hill's side
    In breezy rest among the nodding stalks.
    The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks
    To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear
    Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,
    Passing along before a dusky space
    Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase
    Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep.
    Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:
    Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;
    Some with their faces muffled to the ear
    Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,
    Go glad and smilingly, athwart the gloom;
    Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;
    Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways
    Flit onward—now a lovely wreath of girls
    Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;
    And now broad wings. Most awfully intent
    The driver, of those steeds is forward bent,
    And seems to listen: O that I might know
    All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.


    The visions all are fled—the car is fled
    Into the light of heaven, and in their stead
    A sense of real things comes doubly strong,
    And, like a muddy stream, would bear along
    My soul to nothingness: but I will strive
    Against all doublings, and will keep alive
    The thought of that same chariot, and the strange
    Journey it went.


                Is there so small a range
    In the present strength of manhood, that the high
    Imagination cannot freely fly
    As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,
    Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds
    Upon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all?
    From the clear space of ether, to the small
    Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning
    Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening
    Of April meadows? Here her altar shone,
    E'en in this isle; and who could paragon
    The fervid choir that lifted up a noise
    Of harmony, to where it aye will poise
    Its mighty self of convoluting sound,
    Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,
    Eternally around a dizzy void?
    Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd
    With honors; nor had any other care
    Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.


    Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism
    Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,
    Made great Apollo blush for this his land.
    Men were thought wise who could not understand
    His glories: with a puling infant's force
    They sway'd about upon a rocking horse,
    And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul'd!
    The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd
    Its gathering waves—ye felt it not. The blue
    Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew
    Of summer nights collected still to make
    The morning precious: beauty was awake!
    Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead
    To things ye knew not of,—were closely wed
    To musty laws lined out with wretched rule
    And compass vile: so that ye taught a school
    Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,
    Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,
    Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:
    A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask
    Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!
    That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,
    And did not know it,—no, they went about,
    Holding a poor, decrepid standard out
    Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large
    The name of one Boileau!


                         O ye whose charge
    It is to hover round our pleasant hills!
    Whose congregated majesty so fills
    My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace
    Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,
    So near those common folk; did not their shames
    Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames
    Delight you? Did ye never cluster round
    Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,
    And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu
    To regions where no more the laurel grew?
    Or did ye stay to give a welcoming
    To some lone spirits who could proudly sing
    Their youth away, and die? 'Twas even so:
    But let me think away those times of woe:
    Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathed
    Rich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathed
    Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard
    In many places;—some has been upstirr'd
    From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,
    By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,
    Nested and quiet in a valley mild,
    Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild
    About the earth: happy are ye and glad.


    These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've had
    Strange thunders from the potency of song;
    Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,
    From majesty: but in clear truth the themes
    Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes
    Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower
    Of light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power;
    'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.
    The very archings of her eye-lids charm
    A thousand willing agents to obey,
    And still she governs with the mildest sway:
    But strength alone though of the Muses born
    Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,
    Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres
    Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,
    And thorns of life; forgetting the great end
    Of poesy, that it should be a friend
    To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.


      Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than
    E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds
    Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds
    A silent space with ever sprouting green.
    All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,
    Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,
    Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.
    Then let us clear away the choaking thorns
    From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,
    Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,
    Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown
    With simple flowers: let there nothing be
    More boisterous than a lover's bended knee;
    Nought more ungentle than the placid look
    Of one who leans upon a closed book;
    Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes
    Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes!
    As she was wont, th' imagination
    Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone,
    And they shall be accounted poet kings
    Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.
    O may these joys be ripe before I die.


    Will not some say that I presumptuously
    Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace
    'Twere better far to hide my foolish face?
    That whining boyhood should with reverence bow
    Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!
    If I do hide myself, it sure shall be
    In the very fane, the light of Poesy:
    If I do fall, at least I will be laid
    Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;
    And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;
    And there shall be a kind memorial graven.
    But oft' Despondence! miserable bane!
    They should not know thee, who athirst to gain
    A noble end, are thirsty every hour.
    What though I am not wealthy in the dower
    Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know
    The shiftings of the mighty winds, that blow
    Hither and thither all the changing thoughts
    Of man: though no great minist'ring reason sorts
    Out the dark mysteries of human souls
    To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls
    A vast idea before me, and I glean
    Therefrom my liberty; thence too I've seen
    The end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clear
    As any thing most true; as that the year
    Is made of the four seasons—manifest
    As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest,
    Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I
    Be but the essence of deformity,
    A coward, did my very eye-lids wink
    At speaking out what I have dared to think.
    Ah! rather let me like a madman run
    Over some precipice; let the hot sun
    Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down
    Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown
    Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.
    An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,
    Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!
    How many days! what desperate turmoil!
    Ere I can have explored its widenesses.
    Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,
    I could unsay those—no, impossible!
    Impossible!


                     For sweet relief I'll dwell
    On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay
    Begun in gentleness die so away.
    E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades:
    I turn full hearted to the friendly aids
    That smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,
    And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.
    The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet
    Into the brain ere one can think upon it;
    The silence when some rhymes are coming out;
    And when they're come, the very pleasant rout:
    The message certain to be done to-morrow.
    'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow
    Some precious book from out its snug retreat,
    To cluster round it when we next shall meet.
    Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs
    Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;
    Many delights of that glad day recalling,
    When first my senses caught their tender falling.
    And with these airs come forms of elegance
    Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance,
    Careless, and grand—fingers soft and round
    Parting luxuriant curls;—and the swift bound
    Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye
    Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.
    Thus I remember all the pleasant flow
    Of words at opening a portfolio.


    Things such as these are ever harbingers
    To trains of peaceful images: the stirs
    Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:
    A linnet starting all about the bushes:
    A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,
    Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted
    With over pleasure—many, many more,
    Might I indulge at large in all my store
    Of luxuries: yet I must not forget
    Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:
    For what there may be worthy in these rhymes
    I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes
    Of friendly voices had just given place
    To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace
    The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.
    It was a poet's house who keeps the keys
    Of pleasure's temple. Round about were hung
    The glorious features of the bards who sung
    In other ages—cold and sacred busts
    Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts
    To clear Futurity his darling fame!
    Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim
    At swelling apples with a frisky leap
    And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap
    Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane
    Of liny marble, and thereto a train
    Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:
    One, loveliest, holding her white band toward
    The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet
    Bending their graceful figures till they meet
    Over the trippings of a little child:
    And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild
    Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.
    See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping
    Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs;—
    A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims
    At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion
    With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean
    Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothiness o'er
    Its rocky marge, and balances once more
    The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam
    Feel all about their undulating home.


    Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down
    At nothing; just as though the earnest frown
    Of over thinking had that moment gone
    From off her brow, and left her all alone.


    Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,
    As if he always listened to the sighs
    Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko's worn
    By horrid suffrance—mightily forlorn.


    Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,
    Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean
    His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!
    For over them was seen a free display
    Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone
    The face of Poesy: from off her throne
    She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.
    The very sense of where I was might well
    Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came
    Thought after thought to nourish up the flame
    Within my breast; so that the morning light
    Surprised me even from a sleepless night;
    And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,
    Resolving to begin that very day
    These lines; and howsoever they be done,
    I leave them as a father does his son.



    Finis.








    Corrections




    Three spelling errors were corrected for this etext edition.
    The original lines appeared in the 1817 edition as follows:



    To * * * *
    Line 10: Like to streaks across the sky,



    To Charles Cowden Clarke
    Line 82: Of my rough verses not an hour mispent;



    Sleep and Poetry
    Line 181: Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a scism