And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore, Ere yet the tempest rose, and scared me with its roar. Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, On him but seldom, Power divine, Thy spirit rests! Satiety And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, Idle hope And dire remembrance interlope, To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. But me thy gentle hand will lead At morning through the accustomed mead : And when the gust of Autumn crowds, And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, The feeling heart, the searching soul, To thee I dedicate the whole ! And while within myself I trace The present works of present man A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, 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; Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds beguiled, Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, That rustling on the bushy cliff above, With melancholy bleat of anxious love, Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb: Such a green mountain 'twere 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 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,— Shouts eagerly for haply there uprears To cheat our noons in moralizing mood, While west-winds fanned our temples toil-bedewed: Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount, To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The Hill of Knowledge I essayed 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 O meek retiring spirit! we will climb, There, while the prospect through the gazing eye They whom I love shall love thee, honored youth! Now may Heaven realize this vision bright! LINES TO W. L. WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC. WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues, All memory of the wrongs and sore distress, Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-guide, Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died! ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND CAUSELES HENCE that fantastic wantonness of woe, 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 1 skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast, Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray, Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs SONNET. COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH OF A SON, SEPT. 20, 1796. OFT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) We lived, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore. Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Did'st 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 scanned that face of feeble infancy : For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst All I had been, and all my child might be ! * Ην που ἡμῶν ἡ ψύχη πρὶν ἐν τῷδε τῷ ἀνθρωπίνῳ εἶδει γενέσθαι.-Plat in Phadon. |