Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, 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; I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! III. My genial spirits fail, And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win What, and wherein it doth exist, This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, This beautiful, and beauty-making power. Joy, virtuous lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud; 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, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness: Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, From my own nature all the natural manThis was my sole resource, my only plan; Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. 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 raves. without, Bare crag, or mountain tairn,* or blasted tree, The passion and the life, whose fountains are Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, within. IV. O lady! we receive but what we give, And from the soul itself must there be sent V. O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be! Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, "Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smartin wounds At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! *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. 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice: To her may all things live, from pole to pole, ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUTCHESS OF ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER "PAS- And hail the chapel! hail the platform wild! SPLENDOUR'S fondly foster'd child! O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! Light as a dream your days their circlets ran, Enchanting music lull'd your infant ear, Detain'd your eye from nature: stately vests, Were yours unearn'd by toil; nor could you see The unenjoying toiler's misery. And yet, free nature's uncorrupted child, O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! All living faculties of bliss ; And genius to your cradle came, His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, But boasts not many a fair compeer A heart as sensitive to joy and fear; Yet these delight to celebrate The doom of ignorance and pentry! 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 Each twilight thought, each nascent feeling read, Which you yourself created. O! delight! A second time to be a mother, Without the mother's bitter groans: By touch or taste, by looks or tones O'er the growing sense to roll, A moment turn'd his awful face away; Blest intuitions and communions fleet O beautiful! O nature's child! 'Twas thence you hail'd the platform wild, Beneath the shaft of Tell! O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound! A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, Calm pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb. Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb, E'en while the bosom ached with loneliness- bless Th' adventurous toil, and up the path sublime O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, 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,) Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same, As neighbouring fountains image, each the whole : Then, when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth, Now may Heaven realize this vision bright! LINES TO W. L., ESQ., WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC. WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues, Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died! SONNET. COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796. Orr o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) 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 shall 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 ! And hanging at her bosom (she the while So for the mother's sake the child was dear, SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER. DEAR native brook! wild streamlet of the west! But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, 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! THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE HYMN. COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A DORMI, Jesu! Mater ridet, Si non dormis, Mater plorat, ENGLISH. Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling, Sleep, my darling, tenderly! * Ην που ημων η ψυχή πριν εν τωδε τω ανθρωπινω είδει γενέσθαι. PLAT. in Phadon. ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. THIS day among the faithful placed, And fed with fontal manna; O with maternal title graced Dear Anna's dearest Anna! While others wish thee wise and fair, A maid of spotless fame, I'll breathe this more compendious prayerMayst thou deserve thy name! Thy mother's name, a potent spell, That bids the virtues hie From mystic grove and living cell Confest to fancy's eye; Meek quietness, without offence; Content, in homespun kirtle; True love; and true love's innocence, White blossom of the myrtle! Associates of thy name, sweet child! So when, her tale of days all flown, Thy mother shall be miss'd here; When Heaven at length shall claim its own, And angels snatch their sister; Some hoary-headed friend, perchance, E'en thus a lovely rose I view'd In summer-swelling pride; Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude Peep'd at the rose's side. It chanced, I pass'd again that way And wondering saw the selfsame spray Ah fond deceit! the rude green bud Had bloom'd, where bloom'd its parent stud, EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. Irs 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. THE shepherds went their hasty way, And now they check'd their eager tread, They told her how a glorious light, While, sweeter than a mother's song, She listen'd to the tale divine, And closer still the babe she press'd; Thou mother of the Prince of peace, O why should this thy soul elate? Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story,- And is not war a youthful king, Him earth's majestic monarchs hail Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye "Tell this in some more courtly scene, And therefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, * A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet he describes is called the hart's tongue, 3 A |