THOSE who have laid the harp aside And, catching back some favorite strain, But Memory is not a Muse, O Wordsworth! though 'tis said They all descend from her, and use To haunt her fountain-head: That other men should work for me In the rich mines of Poesie, Pleases me better than the toil Of smoothing under hardened hand, With attic emery and oil, The shining point for Wisdom's wand, Like those thou temperest 'mid the rills Descending from thy native hills. Without his governance, in vain, Manhood is strong, and Youth is bold. If oftentimes the o'er-piled strain, Clogs in the furnace and grows cold That is because the heat beneath Nor Muse nor Grace can raise the Unturn'd then let the mass remain, A marsh, where only flat leaves lie, He who would build his fame up high, Before he try if loam or sand We both have run o'er half the space I wish them every joy above TO JOSEPH ABLETT LORD of the Celtic dells, Where Clwyd listens as his minstrel tells Of Arthur, or Pendragon, or perchance The plumes of flashy France, Or, in dark region far across the main, Far as Grenada in the world of Spain, Warriors untold to Saxon ear, Until their steel-clad spirits reappear; How happy were the hours that held Thy friend (long absent from his native home) Amid thy scenes with thee! how wide afield From all past cares and all to come! What hath Ambition's feverish grasp, what hath Inconstant Fortune, panting Hope; What Genius, that should cope Take what hath been for years delay'd, And fear not that the leaves will fall One hour the earlier from thy coronal." Ablett! thou knowest with what even hand I waved away the offer'd seat Among the clambering, clattering, stilted great, The rulers of our land; Nor crowds nor kings can lift me up, Thou knowest how, and why, are dear to me My citron groves of Fiesole, My chirping Affrico, my beechwood nook, My Naiads, with feet only in the brook, Which runs away and giggles in their faces, Yet there they sit, nor sigh for other places. 'Tis not Pelasgian wall, By him made sacred whom alone "Twere not profane to call The bard divine, nor (thrown Far under me) Valdarno, nor the crest Of Vallombrosa in the crimson east. Here can I sit or roam at will: Few trouble me, few wish me ill, Few come across me, few too near; Here all my wishes make their stand; Here ask I no one's voice or hand; Scornful of favor, ignorant of fear. Yon vine upon the maple bough Flouts at the hearty wheat below; Away her venal wines the wise man sends, While those of lower stem he brings From inmost treasure vault, and sings Their worth and age among his chosen friends. Behold our Earth, most nigh the sun Her zone least opens to the genial heat, But farther off her veins more freely run: "Tis thus with those who whirl about the great; [mote The nearest shrink and shiver, we reMay open-breasted blow the pastoral oat. 1834. 1837.1 1 This poem had been printed in an earlier form, containing lines to Coleridge, in Leigh Hunt's London Journal, December 3, 1834. See Colvin's Life of Landor, note to p. 142. Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses To close in thy soft clime my quiet day And rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade. Hope! Hope! few ever cherished thee so little; Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised; [well. But thou didst promise this, and all was For we are fond of thinking where to lie When every pulse hath ceased, when the lone heart Can lift no aspiration-reasoning The smiles of nature shed a potent charm, And light us to our chamber at the grave. 1835. 1846. WHY, WHY REPINE WHY, why repine, my pensive friend, At pleasures slipped away? Some the stern Fates will never lend, And all refuse to stay. I see the rainbow in the sky, I see them, and I ask not why With folded arms I linger not 1846. MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel; 1846. TO A BRIDE FEBRUARY 17, 1846 1 A STILL, serene, soft day; enough of sun To wreathe the cottage sinoke like pinetree snow, Whiter than those white flowers the bride-maids wore; Upon the silent boughs the lissom air Rested; and, only when it went, they moved, Nor more than under linnet springing off. Such was the wedding morn: the joyous Year Leapt over March and April up to May. All earth below and watchful of thy Adding as true ones, not untold before, That incense must have fire for its ascent, Else 'tis inert and can not reach the idol. Youth is the sole equivalent of youth. Enjoy it while it lasts; and last it will; Love can prolong it in despite of Years. 1846. LYRICS "Do you remember me? or are you proud?" Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, Ianthe said, and looked into my eyes. “A yes, a yes, to both: for Memory Where you but once have been must ever be, And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise." No, my own love of other years! Much rests with you that yet endears, The pearl of life we would dissolve And each the cup might share. I, that the myrtle and the bay ONE year ago my path was green, There is a love that is to last I took a leaflet from her braid YES; I write verses now and then, But blunt and flaccid is my pen, No longer talked of by young men As rather clever : |