V. The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! O Liberty! with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves ! And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff's verge, Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, Had made one murmur with the distant surge! Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea and air, Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there. February, 1797. DEJECTION: AN ODE. Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! BALLAD OF SIR PATRICK SPENS. I. ELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! The coming on of rain and squally blast. And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and 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 : My genial spirits fail; III. And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: The passion and the life, whose fountains are IV. O Lady! we receive but what we give, Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth, 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, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud— And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All colours a suffusion from that light. VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough, Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness : Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, For not to think of what I needs must feel, VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest without, Bare craig, or mountain-tairn,' or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, 1 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. |