HOW MANY BARDS GILD THE LAPSES OF TIME 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 up?1816. 1817. roar. KEEN, FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHISPERING HERE AND THERE KEEN, fitful gusts are whispering here and there Among the bushes half leafless, and dry; Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair : For I am brimful of the friendliness TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT To one who has been long in city pent Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 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 sunrise. 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, Chasing 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 wondrous thing That breathes about us in the vacant air: So that we look around with prying stare, Perhaps to see shapes of light, aërial limning, And catch soft floatings from a faintheard 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 Upon some mountain-top until I feel And echo back the voice of thine own tongue? O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, 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 me to 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 fireside, and haply there dis Cover 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 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 |