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Such a green mountain 't were most sweet to climb,
LINES TO W. L ESQ.
WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC, bless
WHILE my young check retains its healthful hues, The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime And I have many friends who hold me dear; Now lead, now follow : the glad landscape round, L! methinks, I would not often hear Wide and more wide, increasing without bound! Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress, O then 't were loveliest sympathy, to mark
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness ;
And if at death's dread moment I should lie Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark,
With no beloved face at my bod-side,
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,
Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-guido
Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, Save if the one, his muse's witching charın
Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died ! Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag;
Till high o'erhead his beckoning friend appears,
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs,
WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND Which latest shall detain the enamour'd sight
HENCE that fantastic wantonness of woe,
O Youth to partial Forinne vaiuly dear!
To plunder'd Want's bralf-shelter'd hovel go, Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale!
Go, and some hunger-bitien lusant hear Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left,
Moan haply in a dying Mother's ear: Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine,
Or when the cold and dismal tog-damps brood And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, O’er the rank church-yard with sere elm-leaves Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine
sirew'd, To cheat our noons in moralizing mood,
Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd :
Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncollin'd limbs Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the The flocking flesh-birds scream'd! Then, while thy
Groans, and thine oye a fiercer sorrow dims, To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss
Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss !
What Nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal!
O abject! if, to sickly dreains resign'd,
All efforiless thou leave life's commonweal
A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind.
SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER.
How many various-lated years have past, W'here Inspiration, his diviner strains
What happy, and whai mournful hours, since last Low murmuring, tay; and starting from the rocks I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, Sit evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes All Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage!
never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tinis thy waters rise, Oiseek re!iring spirit! we will climh,
Thy crossing plank, ihy marge with willows gray, Ch e ing and cheerd, this lovely hill sublime;
And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes
Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my And from the stirring world uplified high
way, (Wose noises, faintly wasted on the mind,
Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled To quiet musings shall attune the mind,
Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs : And of the melancholy theme supply),
Ah! that once more I were a careless child ! There, while the prospect through the gazing eye
Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul,
COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR
HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH Rekindling sober Joy's domestic llame.
OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796. They whom I love shall love thee. Honor'd youth: Oft o'er my brain does that sirange fancy roll Now may Heaven realize this vision bright! Which makes the present (while the flash doth last)
While others wish thee wise and fair,
A maid of spotless fame,
Mayst thou deserve thy name!
Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past,
We lived, ere yet this robe of Flesh we wore.
O my sweet baby! when I reach my door,
Thou wert a spirit, to this nęther sphere
reprieve, While we wept idly o'er thy little bier !
TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE
NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME.
So when, her tale of days all flown,
Thy Mother shall be miss'd here;
And Angels snatch their Sister;
CHARLES ! my slow heart was only sad, when first
I scann'd that face of feeble infancy: For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst
All I had been, and all my child might be ! But when I saw it on its Mother's arm,
And hanging at her bosom (she the while
Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) Then I was thrilld and melted, and most warm Impress'd a Father's kiss : and all beguiled
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,
I seem'd to see an angel-form appear "T was even thine, beloved woman mild !
So for the Mother's sake the Child was dear, And dearer was the Mother for the Child.
Some hoary-headed Friend, perchance,
May gaze with 'stifled breath ;
Forget the waste of death.
Ev'n thus a lovely rose I view'd
In summer-swelling pride ;
Peep'd át the Rose's side.
It chanced, I pass'd again that way
In Autumn's latest hour,
Rich with the self-sarne flower.
THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE-HYMN.
COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A CATHOLIC
VILLAGE IN GERMANY.
Ah fond deceit! the rude green bad
Alike in shape, place, name,
Another and the same!
DORMI, Jesu! Mater ridet,
Dormi, Jesu! blandule!
Blande, veni, somnule.
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.
Its balmy lips the Infant blest
Sleep, sweet babe ! my cares beguiling
Sleep, my darling, tenderly !
Come, soft slumber, balmily!
And such my Infant's latest sigh!
ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD.
STRETCH'D on a moulder'd Abbey's broadest Bow Ην που ημων η ψυχη πριν εν τωδε τω, ανθρωπινω Where ruining ivies propp'd the ruins steep ειδει γενεσθαι.
Her folded arms wrapping her tatter'd pall, Plat. in Phædon Had Melancholy mused herself to sleep.
The fern was press'd beneath her hair,
She listen'd to the tale divine,
And while she cried, the Babe is mine!, l'he long lank leaf bow'd Auttering o'er her cheek. The milk rush'd faster to her breast :
Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn; That pallid cheek was flush'd : her eager look Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born Beam'd eloquent in slumber! Inly wrought, Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook,
Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, And her bent forehead work'd with troubled
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That Strife should vanish, Battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate ?
Did'st thou ne'er love to hear of Fame and Glory?
And is not War a youthful King,
A stately Hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ;
Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail
Their Friend, their Play-mate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh
IF dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom
Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare
As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom,
Whose sound and motion not alone declare,
But are their whole of being! If the Breath
Be Life itself, and not its task and tent,
If even a soul like Milton's can know death,
O Man! thou vessel, purposeless, unmeant,
Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes !
Sarplus of Nature's dread activity,
Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finish'd vase,
Retreating slow, with meditative pause,
She formd with restless hands unconsciously! Blest Angels heralded the Savior's birth,
Blank accident! nothing's anomaly! Glory to God on high! and peace on Earth.
If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state,
Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy Hopes, thy Fears, • A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet bere de- The counter-weights !—Thy Laughter and thy Tears scribes is called the Hart's Tongue.
Mean but themselves, each fittest to create,
And to repay the other! Why rejoices
But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue! Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good ? Where'er with wilderd steps she wander'd pale,
Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood, Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,
Image of image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf,
These costless shadows of thy shadowy self? Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arins Be sad! be glad! be neither! seek, or shun!
Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind
Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught
Some tearful maid, perchance, or blooming youth
That Riches cannot pay for Love or Truin.
IMITATED FROM SCHILLER.
NEVER, believe me,
OR, A VISION IN A DREAM.
(The following fragment is here published at the request of a Lo! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his Throne! poet of great and deserved celebrity, and, as far as the Author's They advance, they float in, the Olympians all! own opinions are concerned, rather as a psychological curiosity, With Divinities fills my
than on the ground of any supposed poctic merits. Terrestrial Hall !
In the summer of the year 1797, the Autitor, then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm house between Porlock and Linton,
on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In conHow shall I yield you
sequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been preDue entertainment,
scribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in bis chair at Celestial Quire ?
the moment that he was reading the following sentence, or Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of up-*Ilere the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a
words of the same substance, in Purchas's “ Pilgrimage:"buoyance
stately garden thereunto ; and thus ten miles of fertile grouod Bear aloft to your homes, 10 your banquets of joyance, were inclosed with a wall." The author continued for abou That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre!
three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, Ila! we mount! on their pinions they wafi up my Soul! during which time he has the most vivid confidence tbat he could
not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines; if
that indeed can be called composition in which all the images O give me the Nectar!
rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the O fill me the Bowl!
correspondent expressions, without any sensation, or conscious Give him the Nectar!
ness of effort. On awaking he appeared to himself to bare a
distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and Pour out for the Poet,
paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here Hebe! pour free!
preserved. At this moment be was unfortunately called out by Quicken his eyes with celestial dew,
a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him aboro
an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small That Styx the detested no more he may view,
surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be!
vngue and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it! Io Paan, I cry!
yet, with the exception of some cight or len scattered lines and The Wine of the Immortals
images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the Forbids me to die!
surface of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas!
Then all the charm
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
And each misshapes the other. Stay awhile,
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon
The visions will return ! And lo, he stays,
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forns
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more Near the lone pile with ivy overspread,
The pool becomes a mirror. Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound,
Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Autho Where “sleeps the moonlight” on yon verdant bed— has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been O humbly press that consecrated ground! originally, as it were, given to him. Eaucpov adıcv arw
but the to-morrow is yet to come. For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain!
As a contrast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a
very different character, describing with equal fidelt the And there his spirit most delights to rove:
dream of pain and disease. Note to the first Edition, 1916.) Young Edmund! famed for each harmonious strain, And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide, A stately pleasure-dome decree;
And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume, Where Alph, the sacred river, ran His manhood blossom'd: till the faithless pride Through caverns measureless to man, of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.
Down to a sunless sea.
Since in me, round me, everywhere,
So twice five miles of fertile ground
But oh that deep romantic chasm which slanted
But yester-night I pray'd aloud
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
From the fountain and the caves.
A damsel with a dulcimer
To such a deep delight 't would win me,
So two rights pass’d: the night's dismay
THE PAINS OF SLEEP.
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
TO "FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER."
(See page 26) At the house of a gentleman, who by the principles
and corresponding virtues of a sincere Christian consecrates a cultivated genius and the favorable acci. dents of birth, opulence, and splendid connexions, it was my good fortune to meet, in a dinner-party, with more men of celebrity in science or polite literature, than are commonly found collected round the same table. In the course of conversation, one of the party reminded an illustrious Poet, then present, of somo
verses which he had reciled that morning, and which had appeared in a newspaper under the name of a War-Eclogue, in which Fire, Fanine, and Slaughter were introduced as the speakers. The gentleman so addressed replied, that he was rather surprised that