The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow, Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells: And suddenly, as one that toys with time, Scatters them on the pool! Then all the charm Is broken-all that phantom-world so fair Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile, Poor youth, who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon The visions will return! And lo! he stays: And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms Come trembling back, unite, and now once more The pool becomes a mirror; and behold Each wild-flower on the marge inverted there, And there the half-uprooted tree-but where, O where the virgin's snowy arm, that leaned On its bare branch? He turns, and she is gone! Homeward she steals through many a woodland maze Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth!
Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime
In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook, Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou Behold'st her shadow still abiding there,
The Naiad of the mirror!
O wild and desert stream! belongs this tale: Gloomy and dark art thou-the crowded firs Spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed, Making thee doleful as a cavern-well:
Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream!
This be my chosen haunt-emancipate
From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone, I rise and trace its devious course. O lead, Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. Lo! stealing through the canopy of firs, How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock, Isle of the river, whose disparted waves Dart off asunder with an angry sound, How soon to re-unite! And see! they meet, Each in the other lost and found: and see Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun Throbbing within them, heart at once and eye! With its soft neighbourhood of filmy clouds, The stains and shadings of forgotten tears, Dimness o'erswum with lustre! Such the hour Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds ; And hark, the noise of a near waterfall! I pass forth into light-I find myself Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful Of forest-trees, the lady of the woods,) Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock That overbrows the cataract. How bursts The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills Fold in behind each other, and so make A circular vale, and land-locked, as might seem, With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages, Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet, The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray, Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall. How solemnly the pendent ivy-mass Swings in its winnow; all the air is calm.
The smoke from cottage chimneys, tinged with light, Rises in columns; from this house alone,
Close by the waterfall, the column slants,
And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this?
That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke, And close beside its porch a sleeping child, His dear head pillowed on a sleeping dog- One arm between its fore legs, and the hand Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers, Unfilletted, and of unequal lengths.
A curious picture, with a master's haste Sketched on a strip of pinky-silver skin, Peeled from the birchen bark! Divinest maid! Yon bark her canvass, and those purple berries Her pencil! See, the juice is scarcely dried On the fine skin! She has been newly here; And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couch— The pressure still remains! O blessed couch! For this mayst thou flower early, and the sun, Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long Upon thy purple bells! O Isabel!
Daughter of genius! stateliest of our maids! More beautiful than whom Alcæus wooed The Lesbian woman of immortal song! O child of genius! stately, beautiful, And full of love to all, save only me,
And not ungentle e'en to me! My heart,
Why beats it thus? Through yonder coppice-wood Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway On to her father's house. She is alone!
The night draws on-such ways are hard to hit- And fit it is I should restore this sketch, Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I yearn To keep the relique ? 'twill but idly feed The passion that consumes me. Let me haste! The picture in my hand which she has left; She cannot blame me that I followed her:
And I may be her guide the long wood through.
RANQUILLITY! thou better name Than all the family of Fame !
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age To low intrigue, or factious rage;
For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth, To thee I gave my early youth,
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, Mock the tired worldling. 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 in the sultry summer's heat Will build me up a mossy seat;
And when the gust of Autumn crowds, 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,
To thee I dedicate the whole ! And while within myself I trace The greatness of some future race,
Aloof with hermit-eye I scan
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!
FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER.
The Scene a desolated Tract in la Vendée; FAMINE is discovered lying on the ground; to her enter FIRE and SLAUGHTER.
ISTERS! sisters! who sent you here? Slau. [to Fire.] I will whisper it in her ear. Fire. No! no! no!
Spirits hear what spirits tell:
"Twill make a holiday in Hell. No! no! no!
Myself, I named him once below, And all the souls, that damned be, Leaped up at once in anarchy,
Clapped their hands and danced for glee. They no longer heeded me;
But laughed to hear Hell's burning rafters Unwillingly re-echo laughters! No! no! no!
Spirits hear what spirits tell : 'Twill make a holiday in Hell!
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