The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!
An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbors, and ground-flowers in
And wild-rose tiptoe upon hawthorn stocks,
Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks
At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mounte
When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and
Such place to me is sometimes like a dream
Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,
And leap at once from the delicious stream.
HIGH is our calling, Friend! - Creative Art,
(Whether the instrument of words she use,
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,)
Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part,
Demands the service of a mind and heart,
Heroically fashioned to infuse
Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse,
While the whole world seems adverse to desert.
And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may,
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress,
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward,
And in the soul admit of no decay,
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness,
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
FROM the dark chambers of dejection freed,
Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care,
Rise, GILLIES, rise: the gales of youth shall bear
Thy genius forward like a winged steed.
Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed
In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air,
Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that dare,
If aught be in them of immortal seed,
And reason govern that audacious flight
Which heavenward they direct. Then droop
not thou,
Erroneously renewing a sad vow
In the low dell 'mid Roslin's faded grove:
A cheerful life is what the Muses love,
A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
FAIR Prime of life! were it enough to gild With ready sunbeams every straggling shower; And, if an unexpected cloud should lower, Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build
For Fancy's errands, — then, from fields half-tilled Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy-flower, Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant thy
Unpitied by the wise, all censure stilled.
Ah! show that worthier honors are thy due;
Fair Prime of Life! arouse the deeper heart;
Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue
Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim;
And, if there be a joy that slights the claim
Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart.
I WATCH, and long have watched, with calm
Yon slowly sinking star, immortal Sire
(So might he seem) of all the glittering choir! Blue ether still surrounds him
But now the horizon's rocky parapet
Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire,
He burns, transmuted to a dusty fire,
Then pays submissively the appointed debt
To the flying moments, and is seen no more.
Angels and gods! We struggle with our fate, While health, power, glory, from their height
Depressed; and then extinguished: and our state,
In this, how different, lost Star, from thine,
That no to-morrow shall our beams restore!
I HEARD (alas! 't was only in a dream)
Strains, which, as sage Antiquity believed,
By waking ears have sometimes been received
Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream;
A most melodious requiem, a supreme
And perfect harmony of notes, achieved
By a fair Swan on drowsy billows heaved,
O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam.
For is she not the votary of Apollo?
And knows she not, singing as he inspires,
That bliss awaits her which the ungenial Hollow*
Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires?
Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal choirs!
She soared, and I awoke, struggling in vain to
follow.
* See the Phædon of Plato, by which this Sonnet was sug gested.
If the whole weight of what we think and feel,
Save only far as thought and feeling blend
With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend!
From thy remonstrance would be no appeal;
But to promote and fortify the weal
Of her own Being is her paramount end;
A truth which they alone shall comprehend
Who shun the mischief which they cannot heal.
Peace in these feverish times is sovereign bliss:
Here, with no thirst but what the stream can slake,
And startled only by the rustling brake,
Cool air I breathe; while the unencumbered Mind,
By some weak aims at services assigned
To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss.
Nor Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell
Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,
Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange,
Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;
But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,
There also is the Muse not loth to range,
Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange,
Skyward ascending from a woody dell.
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavor,
|