Therefore no insult will I give his spirit, By telling what he sees from native merit.
O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen, That am not yet a glorious denizen Of thy wide heaven-should I rather kneel Upon some mountain-top until I feel
A glowing splendour round about me hung, And echo back the voice of thine own tongue? O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen,
That am not yet a glorious denizen
Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer, Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, Smooth'd for intoxication by the breath Of flowering bays, that I may die a death Of luxury, and my young spirit follow The morning sunbeams to the great Apollo, Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring me to the fair
Visions of all places: a bowery nook
Will be elysium-an eternal book
Whence I may copy many a lovely saying
About the leaves, and flowers-about the playing Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid ; And many a verse from so strange influence That we must ever wonder how, and whence It came. Also imaginings will hover
Round my fire-side, and haply there discover
Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander In happy silence, like the clear Meander Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,
Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness, Write on my tablets all that was permitted, All that was for our human senses fitted. Then the events of this wide world I'd seize Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease Till at its shoulders it should proudly see Wings to find out an immortality.
Stop and consider life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan ? Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown; The reading of an ever-changing tale ; The light uplifting of a maiden's veil; A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air; A laughing school-boy, without grief or care, Riding the springy branches of an elm.
O for ten years, that I may overwhelm Myself in poesy! so I may do the deed That my own soul has to itself decreed. Then I will pass the countries that I see In long perspective, and continually
Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll
Of Flora, and Old Pan: sleep in the grass, Feed upon apples red, and strawberries, And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees, Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,
To woo sweet kisses from averted faces- Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white
Into a pretty shrinking with a bite
As hard as lips can make it: till agreed, A lovely tale of human life we'll read. And one will teach a tame dove how it best May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest: Another, bending o'er her nimble tread, Will set a green robe floating round her head, And still will dance with ever-varied ease, Smiling upon the flowers and the trees: Another will entice me on, and on,
Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon ; Till in the bosom of a leafy world We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl❜d In the recesses of a pearly shell.
And can I ever bid these joys farewell? Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, Where I may find the agonies, the strife Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar, O'er-sailing the blue cragginess, a car
And steeds with streamy manes-the charioteer Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear: And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly
Wheel downward come they into fresher skies, Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes. Still downward with capacious whirl they glide; And now I see them on a green-hill side In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. The charioteer with wondrous gesture talks To the trees and mountains; and there soon
Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear, Passing along before a dusky space
Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase Some ever-fleeting music, on they sweep.
Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and
Some with upholden hand and mouth severe; Some with their faces muffled to the ear Between their arms; some clear in youthful
Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom; Some looking back, and some with upward gaze; Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways Flit onward-now a lovely wreath of girls Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls; And now broad wings. Most awfully intent The driver of those steeds is forward bent,
And seems to listen: O that I might know All that he writes with such a hurrying glow!
The visions all are fled-the car is fled Into the light of heaven, and in their stead A sense of real things comes doubly strong, And, like a muddy stream, would bear along My soul to nothingness: but I will strive Against all doubtings, and will keep alive The thought of that same chariot, and the strange Journey it went.
Is there so small a range
In the present strength of manhood, that the high Imagination cannot freely fly
As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds, Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds Upon the clouds? Has she not shown us all? From the clear space of ether, to the small Breath of new buds unfolding? From the
Of Jove's large eyebrow, to the tender greening Of April meadows? here her altar shone, E'en in this isle; and who could paragon The fervid choir that lifted up a noise Of harmony, to where it aye will poise Its mighty self of convoluting sound, Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, Eternally around a dizzy void?
Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd
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