Gaily from thy mother-stalk O give me, from this heartless scene released, Wert thou danced and wafted high To hear our old musician, blind and gray Soon on this unshelter'd walk (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kiss'd), Flung to fade, to rot and die. His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night, The while I dance amid the tedded hay With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light TE AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE Or lies the purple evening on the bay THEATRE. Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied, On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough, And while the lazy boat sways to and fro, Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. But 0, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, Fearful saw his pleading look, And the gust pelting on the out-house shed Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow, To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, Ballad of shipwreck'd sailor floating dead, Whom his own true love buried in the sands! But no sound like simple truth, Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures But no true love in his eye. Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures The things of Nature utter; birds or trees, Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves. Seek thy weeping Mother's cot, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. THE KEEPSAKE. The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil, The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, Firm thy steps, 0 Melancholy! Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark, Is the memory of past folly. Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose Mute the sky-lark and forlorn, (In vain the darling of successful love) While she moults the firstling plumes, Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, That had skimm'd the tender corn, The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. Or the bean-field's odorous blooms : Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, Soon with renovated wing That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Shall she dare a loftier flight, Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!* Upward to the day-star spring, So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk loved), LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. In the cool morning twilight, early waked By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, Nor cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast, Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, In intricacies of laborious song. Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung, Making a quiet image of disquiet These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint; There, in that bower where first she own'd her love But when the long-breathed singer's uptrill'd strain And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy Bursts in a squall—they gape for wonderment. From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd Hark the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate ! Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer * One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest, inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergist Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. mein nicht) and, we believe, in Denmark and Sweden The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name Believe me, while in bed you lay, You made us grow devouter! How can we do without her? Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew, They have no need of such as you In the place where you were going; This World has angels all too few, And Heaven is overflowing ! TO A LADY. SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL WITH FALCONER'S “SHIPWRECK.” a If I had but two little wings, To you I'd fly, my dear! And I stay here. The world is all one's own. All, all alone. For though my sleep be gone, Yet, while 't is dark, one shuts one's lids, And still dreams on. Au! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams, In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice ; Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams, To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ; Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell; Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'd, Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell; Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark! Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's wings, Now groans, and shivers, the replunging Bark! Cling to the shrouds !” In vain! The breakers roarDeath shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, No classic roamer, but a shipwreck'd man ! Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains, And lit his spirit to so bright a flame? The elevating thought of suffer'd pains, Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name Of Gratitude ! Remembrances of Friend, Or absent or no more! Shades of the Past, Which Love makes Substance! Hence to thee I send, O dear as long as life and memory last ! I send with deep regards of heart and head, Sweet maid, for friendship form'd' this work to thee : And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me. HOME-SICK. WRITTEN IN GERMANY. 'T is sweet to him, who all the week Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day Sincere, affectionate, and gay, To celebrate one's marriage-day. Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back, Before the door of his own home? Home-sickness is a wasting pang ; This feel I hourly more and more : There's Healing only in thy wings, Thou Breeze that playest on Albion's shore ! TO A YOUNG LADY. ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER Why need I say, Louisa dear! A lovely convalescent; And feverish heat incessant. l'he sunny Showers, the dappled Sky, The little Birds that warble high, Their vernal loves commencing, Will better welcome you than I With their sweet influencing. ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove, The Linnet and Thrush, say, “I love and I love !" In the winter they ’re silent—the wind is so strong , What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing, and loving--all come back together How warm this woodland wild Recess! Love surely hath been breathing here, And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells up, then sinks, with faint caress, As if to have you yet more near. Eight springs have flown, since last I lay On seaward Quantock's heathy hills, Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray, And high o'erhead the sky-lark shrills Sad lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, No voice as yet had made the air Be music with your name; yet why That asking look? that yearning sigh? That sense of promise every where? Beloved! flew your spirit by? As when a mother doth explore The rose-mark on her long-lost child I met, I loved you, maiden mild! As whom I long had loved before So deeply, had I been beguiled. You stood before me like a thought, A dream remember'd in a dream. But when those meek eyes first did see m To tell me, Love within you wroughin O Greta, dear domestic stream! Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep, Has not Love's whisper evermore, Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar? Sole voice, when other voices sleep, Dear under-song in Clamor's hour. THE HAPPY HUSBAND. A FRAGMENT. Of transient joys, that ask no sting, From jealous fears, or coy denying; But born beneath Love's brooding wing, And into tenderness soon dying, Wheel out their giddy moment, then Resign the soul to love again. À more precipitated vein Of notes, that eddy in the flow Of smoothest song, they come, they go, And leave the sweeter under-strain Fashion's pining sons and daughters, That seek the crowd they seem to fly, Trembling they approach thy waters; And what cares Nature, if they die? a Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, A thousand recollections bland, Thoughts sublime, and stately measures Revisit on thy echoing strand : Dreams (the soul herself forsaking), On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer Cupid, if storying legends* tell aright, I worshipp'd the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, With these the magic dews, which evening brings, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought, Brush'd from the Idalian star by faery wings: Yea with my Life and Life's own secret Joy : Each tender pledge of sacred faith he join'd, Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, Each gentler pleasure of the unspotted mind Into the mighty vision passing--there Day-dreains, whose tints with sportive brightness glow. As in her natural form, swell'd vast to lIcaven! And Hope, the blameless parasite of woe. The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise, The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs ; Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Sweet sounds transpired, as when th'enamour'd dove Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Pours the soft murm'ring of responsive love. Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, The finish'd work might Envy vainly blame, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! And “ Kisses” was the precious compound's name. Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Ilymn. Thou first and chief, sole Sovereign of the Vale! And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : Companion of the Morning-Star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald: wake, 0 wake, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams ? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who call'd you forth from night and utter death, Warmeth the inner frame. Schiller. From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, For ever shatter'd and the same for ever? Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy Besides the Rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents And who commanded (and the silence came), rush down its sides, and within a few paces of the Glaciers. Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its "dowers of loveliest blue." Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's browo Adown enormous ravines slope amainLast thou a charm to stay the Morning-Star Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge! Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven * Effinxit quondam blandum mcditata laborem Beneath the keen full Moon? Who bade the Sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?- God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! 46 a HARTZ FOREST. Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! My native land! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! Fill'd with the thought of thee this heart was proud Ye eagles, play-males of the mountain-storm! Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, l'e signs and wonders of the element! Floated away, like a departing dream, l'iter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane, Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, Oft from whose feet the Avalanche, unheard, That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene That God is everywhere! the God who framed Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast Mankind to be one mighty Family, Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou Himself our Father, and the World our Home. That as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST CF Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, FEBRUARY, 1796. To rise before me-Rise, O ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! SWEET Flower! that peeping from thy russet stem Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort Thou dread Ambassador from Earth to leaven, This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, month And tell the Stars, and tell yon rising sun Iath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. With blue voluptuous eye), alas, poor Flower! These are but flatteries of the faithless year. E'en now the keen North-East is on its way. To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth, Nipp'd by Consumption 'mid untimely charms ? WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE An Amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own, Or to Bristowa's Baru,* the wondrous boy! Beat it 10 earth? or with indignant grief Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's Hope, Bright flower of Hope kill'd in the opening bud ? A surging scene, and only limited By the blue distance. Heavily my way Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine, Downward I dragg'd through fir-groves evermore, And mock my boding! Dim similitudes Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms From anxious Self, Life's cruel Task-Master ! Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard, And the warm wooings of this sunny day Tremble along my frame, and harmonize The attemper'd organ, that even saddest thoughts Miix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument. THE EOLIAN HARP. COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE.. Their finer influence from the Life within : My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined Fair ciphers else : fair, but of import vague Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is Or unconcerning, where the Heart not finds To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown History or prophecy of Friend, or Child, With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leaved Or gentle Maid, our first and early love, Myrtle, Or Father, or the venerable name (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!) Of our adored Country! O thou Queen, And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light Thou delegated Deity of Earth, Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve O dear, dear England! how my longing eye Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) Turn'd westward, shaping in the steady clouds Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents Thy sands and high white cliffs ! Snatch'd from you bean-field! and the world so hush'd! The stilly murmur of the distant Sea And that simplest Lute, From some high eminence on goodly vales, Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark And cots and villages embower'd below, How by the desultory breeze caress'd, Like some coy maid half yielding to her lo.*f, • Chanerton. |
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