So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts "A Mother too!" these self-same words His face was drawn back on itself, Both groan'd at once, for both knew well He sat upright; and ere the dream Then Ellen shriek'd, and forthwith burst And Mary shiver'd, where she sat, DEJECTION; AN ODE. Late, late yestreen, I saw the new Moon, Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens. I. WELL! if the Bard was weather-wise, who made For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! The coming on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, live! II. A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, And its peculiar tint of yellow green: I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! IV. Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! O Lady! we receive but what we give, and To-morrow! and To-morrow! And in our life alone does nature live: Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! And from the soul itself must there be sent V. O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Life, and Life's Effluence, Cloud at once and Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, But oh! each visitation From my own nature all the natural Man— VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, Reality's dark dream! I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthen'd out That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest without, Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country. Makest Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, What tell'st thou now about? "T is of the Rushing of an Host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! over It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and A tale of less affright, And temper'd with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, "T is of a little child Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost her way, VIII. "Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice: O simple spirit, guided from above, That veiling strove to deck your charms divine, And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child, Beneath the shaft of Tell! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! There crowd your finely-fibred frame, His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, A heart as sensitive to joy and fear? And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife, Yet these delight to celebrate The sordid vices and the abject pains, The doom of Ignorance and Penury! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! You were a Mother! That most holy name, I may not vilely prostitute to those Its gaudy Parent Fly. You were a Mother! at your bosom fed The Babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye, By touch, or taste, by looks or tones A moment turn'd his awful face away; "Twas thence you hail'd the Platform wild, Where once the Austrian fell O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. And left the bark, and blest the stedfast shore, Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, Thy spirit rests! Satiety And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: But me thy gentle hand will lead At morning through the accustom'd mead; And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon The feeling heart, the searching soul. The present works of present man A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile! TO A YOUNG FRIEND, ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE AUTHOR. COMPOSED IN 1796. A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb Such a green mountain 't were most sweet to climb, E'en while the bosom ached with lonelinessHow more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound! O then 't were loveliest sympathy, to mark The berries of the half-uprooted ash Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark, Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock; In social silence now, and now to unlock The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm, Save if the one, his muse's witching charm Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag; Till high o'erhead his beckoning friend appears, And from the forehead of the topmost crag Shouts eagerly for haply there uprears That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs, Which latest shall detain the enamour'd sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims, Tinged yellow with the rich departing light; And haply, basin'd in some unsunn'd cleft, A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale!] Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left, Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine, And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine To cheat our noons in moralizing mood, While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd: Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount, To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss! Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The Hill of Knowledge I essay'd to trace; That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour To glad and fertilize the subject plains; That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, And many a fancy-blest and holy sod, Where Inspiration, his diviner strains Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage! O meek retiring spirit! we will climb, And oft the melancholy theme supply), As neighboring fountains image, each the whole: Then, when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth, We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, Rekindling sober Joy's domestic flame. They whom I love shall love thee. Honor'd youth! Now may Heaven realize this vision bright! LINES TO W. L. ESQ. WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC: L WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues And if at death's dread moment I should lie Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died! ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE HENCE that fantastic wantonness of woe, Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part heart Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) What Nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal! O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd, All effortless thou leave life's commonweal A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind. SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER. DEAR native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West! How many various-fated years have past, What happy, and what mournful hours, since last I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes I never shut amid the sunny ray, But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray, And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes Gleam'd through thy bright transparence!' On my way, Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs; Ah! that once more I were a careless child! SONNET. COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHO OFT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-question'd in her sleep; and some have said* We lived, ere yet this robe of Flesh we wore. O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear), I think that I should struggle to believe Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve; Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve, While we wept idly o'er thy little bier! SONNET. TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME. 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 thrill'd 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. While others wish thee wise and fair, Thy Mother's name, a potent spell, Meek Quietness, without offence; Associates of thy name, sweet Child! These Virtues mayst thou win; With Face as eloquently mild To say, they lodge within. So when, her tale of days all flown, Some hoary-headed Friend, perchance, Ev'n thus a lovely rose I view'd It chanced, I pass'd again that way And wond'ring saw the self-same spray Ah fond deceit! the rude green bud Had bloom'd, where bloom'd its parent stud EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. ITs balmy lips the Infant blest Relaxing from its Mother's breast, How sweet it heaves the happy sigh Of innocent Satiety! And such my Infant's latest sigh! O tell, rude stone! the passer-by, That here the pretty babe doth lie, Death sang to sleep with Lullaby. MELANCHOLY. A FRAGMENT. STRETCH'D on a moulder'd Abbey's broadest wt |