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 stepped into these pleasures
Than I began to think of rhymes and measures:
The air that floated by me seemed 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 passed since last my heart
Was warmed luxuriously by divine Mozart;
By Arne delighted, or by Handel maddened;
Or by the song of Erin pierced and saddened :
What time you were before the music sitting,
And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.
Since I have walked with you through shady lanes
That freshly terminate in open plains,
And revelled in a chat that ceased not
When at nightfall 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
Midway 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 changed the footpath for the grassy plain.
In those still moments I have wished 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.
MANY the wonders I this day have seen :
The sun, when first he kist away the tears That filled the eyes of morn; the laurelled 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-discovered revels keeping.
But what, without the social thought of thee,
Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?
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 enterprise :
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 honeyed roses
When steeped 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.
WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON.*
WHAT though, for showing truth to flattered 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 naught 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?
*Leigh Hunt, born 1784, was editor of the Indicator, and author of "Rimini" and other poems. He died 1859. He had been imprisoned on a charge of libel against the Prince Regent, whom he had called in his paper, the Examiner, an Adonis of fifty."
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 intr.de:
But no confusion, no disturbance rude
Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.
So the unnumbered 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.
TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME SOME ROSES.
As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the skylark 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 excelled:
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me
My sense with their deliciousness was spelled:
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whispered of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquelled.
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