The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd Its gathering waves-ye felt it not. The blue Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew
Of summer nights collected still to make The morning precious: beauty was awake! Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead To things ye knew not of,-were closely wed To musty laws lined out with wretched rule And compass vile: so that ye taught a school Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit, Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, Their verses tallied. Easy was the task: A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race! That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face, And did not know it,-no, they went about, Holding a poor, decrepid standard out
Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large The name of one Boileau !
It is to hover round our pleasant hills!
Whose congregated majesty so fills
My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,
So near those common folk; did not their shames
Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames Delight you? Did ye never cluster round Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound, And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu To regions where no more the laurel grew? Or did ye stay to give a welcoming To some lone spirits who could proudly sing Their youth away, and die? "Twas even so: But let me think away those times of woe: Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathed Rich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathed Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard In many places ;-some has been upstirr'd From out its crystal dwelling in a lake, By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake, Nested and quiet in a valley mild,
Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild About the earth: happy are ye and glad.
These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've had Strange thunders from the potency of song; Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong, From majesty: but in clear truth the themes Are ugly cubs, the Poets Polyphemes
Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower Of light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power; "Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm. The very archings of her eye-lids charm
A thousand willing agents to obey,
And still she governs with the mildest sway: 240 But strength alone though of the Muses born Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,
Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,
And thorns of life; forgetting the great end
Of poesy, that it should be a friend
To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.
Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than
E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds A silent space with ever sprouting green. All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen, Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. Then let us clear away the choking thorns From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns, Yeaned in after times, when we are flown, Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown With simple flowers: let there nothing be More boisterous than a lover's bended knee; Nought more ungentle than the placid look Of one who leans upon a closed book; Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes! As she was wont, th' imagination
Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, And they shall be accounted poet kings
Who simply tell the most heart-easing things. O may these joys be ripe before I die.
Will not some say that I presumptuously Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace "Twere better far to hide my foolish face? That whining boyhood should with reverence bow Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach?
If I do hide myself, it sure shall be In the very fane, the light of Poesy:
If I do fall, at least I will be laid Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;
And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven ; And there shall be a kind memorial graven. But off Despondence! miserable bane!
They should not know thee, who athirst to gain A noble end, are thirsty every hour. What though I am not wealthy in the dower Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow Hither and thither all the changing thoughts Of man: though no great minist'ring reason sorts Out the dark mysteries of human souls To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls A vast idea before me, and I glean Therefrom my liberty; thence too I've seen The end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clear As anything most true; as that the year Is made of the four seasons-manifest As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest, Lifted to the white clouds.
Be but the essence of deformity,
A coward, did my very eye-lids wink
At speaking out what I have dared to think. Ah! rather let me like a madman run
Over some precipice; let the hot sun Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile. An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle, Spreads awfully before me. How much toil! How many days! what desperate turmoil!
Ere I can have explored its widenesses.
Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees, I could unsay those-no, impossible!
For sweet relief I'll dwell
On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay Begun in gentleness die so away.
E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades: I turn full hearted to the friendly aids That smooth the path of honour; brotherhood, And friendliness the nurse of mutual good. The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet Into the brain ere one can think upon it; The silence when some rhymes are coming out; And when they're come, the very pleasant rout: The message certain to be done to-morrow. "Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow Some precious book from out its snug retreat, To cluster round it when we next shall meet. Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs; Many delights of that glad day recalling, When first my senses caught their tender falling. And with these airs come forms of elegance Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance, Careless, and grand-fingers soft and round Parting luxuriant curls ;-and the swift bound Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. Thus I remember all the pleasant flow Of words at opening a portfolio.
Things such as these are ever harbingers To trains of peaceful images: the stirs Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:
A linnet starting all about the bushes: A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted, Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted With over pleasure-many, many more, Might I indulge at large in all my store Of luxuries: yet I must not forget
Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:
For what there may be worthy in these rhymes I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes Of friendly voices had just given place
To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. It was a poet's house who keeps the keys Of pleasure's temple. Round about were hung The glorious features of the bards who sung In other ages-cold and sacred busts Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts To clear Futurity his darling fame! Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim At swelling apples with a frisky leap And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap
Of vine-leaves. Then there rose to view a fane Of liny marble, and thereto a train
Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward: One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet Bending their graceful figures till they meet Over the trippings of a little child: And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.
See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs ;- A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims
At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er Its rocky marge, and balances once more The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam Feel all about their undulating home.
Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down At nothing; just as though the earnest frown Of over thinking had that moment gone From off her brow, and left her all alone.
Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,
As if he always listened to the sighs Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko's worn By horrid suffrance-mightily forlorn.
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