TO POESY.

ADDRESSED TO capel lofft, ESQ., SEPT. 10, 1805.
YES, my stray steps have wander'd, wandered far
From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy!
And many a flower, which in the passing time
My heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chill
Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died.
Heart-soothing Poesy!-though thou hast ceased
To hover o'er the many-voiced strings
Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still
Call the warm tear from its thrice-hallow'd cell,
And with recalled images of bliss

Warm my reluctant heart.-Yes, I would throw,
Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand
O'er the responding chords.-It hath not ceased:
It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth
Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek;
Still, though unbidden, plays.-Fair Poesy!
The summer and the spring, the wind and rain,
Sunshine and storm, with various interchange,
Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month,
Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired,
Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd.-Sorceress !
I cannot burst thy bonds!-It is but lift
Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault,
Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm,
And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme,
And I could follow thee, on thy night's work,
Up to the regions of thrice-chasten'd fire,
Or in the caverns of the ocean-flood,
Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot.
Yet other duties call me, and mine ear
Must turn away from the high minstrelsy
Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly
Must turn away; there are severer strains
(And surely they are sweet as ever smote
The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil
Released and disembodied), there are strains,
Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought,
Through the probation of revolving years,
And mighty converse with the spirit of truth,
Have purged and purified.-To these my soul
Aspireth; and to this sublimer end

I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep
With patient expectation.-Yea, sometimes
Foretaste of bliss rewards me; and sometimes
Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait,

And minister strange music, which doth seem
Now near, now distant, now on high, now low,
Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete
And full fruition filling all the soul.
Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe
The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude

Of toil; and but that my fond heart
Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone;

When by clear fountain, or embower'd brake,
I lay a listless muser, prizing, far
Above all other lore, the poet's theme;
But for such recollections, I could brace
My stubborn spirit for the arduous path
Of science unregretting; eye afar
Philosophy upon her steepest height,
And with bold step, and resolute attempt,
Pursue her to the innermost recess,

Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth

ODE

ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A.

On seeing Engravings from his Designs.

MIGHTY magician! who on Torneo's brow,
When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night,
Art wont to sit, and catch the gleam of light
That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below;
And listen to the distant death-shriek long

From lonely mariner foundering in the deep,
Which rises slowly up the rocky steep,
While the weird sisters weave the horrid song:
Or when along the liquid sky
Serenely chaunt the orbs on high,
Dost love to sit in musing trance,
And mark the northern meteor's dance,
(While far below the fitful oar
Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore)
And list the music of the breeze,
That sweeps by fits the bending seas;
And often bears with sudden swell
The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell,
By the spirits sung, who keep

Their night-watch on the treacherous deep,
And guide the wakeful helmsman's eye
To Helice in northern sky:

And there, upon the rock inclined
With mighty visions fill'st the mind,
Such as bound in magic spell

Him' who grasp'd the gates of Hell,
And, bursting Pluto's dark domain,
Held to the day the terrors of his reign.

Genius of Horror and romantic awe!

Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, Can force the inmost soul to own its law;

Who shall now, sublimest spirit,
Who shall now thy wand inherit,
From him thy darling child who best
Thy shuddering images exprest?
Sullen of soul, and stern and proud,
His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd,
And now he lays his aching head
In the dark mansion of the silent dead.
Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain

Buried beneath the unfathomable deep;
And oh! for ever must its efforts sleep!
May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain?
Oh yes, 'tis his!-thy other son;
He throws the dark-wrought tunic on,

Fuesslin waves thy wand,-again they rise, Again thy 'wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes; Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep

Where round his head the volley'd lightnings flung, And the loud winds that round his pillow rung, Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of sleep.

Or on the highest top of Teneriffe Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look

Where far below the weather-beaten skiff
On the gulf-bottom of the ocean strook.
Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear
The death-sob, and, disdaining rest,
Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast,

And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear.
Then, Superstition, at thy call,
She bore the boy to Odin's Hall,
And set before his awe-struck sight,
The savage feast, and spectred fight;
And summon'd from his mountain-tomb
The ghastly warrior son of gloom,
His fabled Runic rhymes to sing,
While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing;
Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees,
Laid on the stormy Hebrides,

Which on the mists of evening gleam
Or crowd the foaming desert stream:
Lastly her storied hand she waves,
And lays him in Florentian caves;
There milder fables, lovelier themes,
Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams,
There Pity's lute arrests his ear,
And draws the half-reluctant tear;
And now at noon of night he roves
Along the embowering moonlight groves,
And as from many a cavern'd dell
The hollow wind is heard to swell,
He thinks some troubled spirit sighs;
And as upon the turf he lies,
Where sleeps the silent beam of night,
He sees below the gliding sprite,
And hears in Fancy's organs sound
Aerial music warbling round.

Taste lastly comes and smoothes the whole,
And breathes her polish o'er his soul;
Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat,
The wondrous work is now complete.
The Poet dreams :-The shadow flies,
And fainting fast its image dies.
But, lo! the Painter's magic force
Arrests the phantom's fleeting course;
It lives it lives-the canvas glows,
And tenfold vigor o'er it flows.

The Bard beholds the work achieved,

And as he sees the shadow rise,

Sublime before his wandering eyes,

Starts at the image his own mind conceived.

ODE

ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G.

I.

RETIRED, remote from human noise,

An humble Poet dwelt serene;

His lot was lowly, yet his joys

Were manifold, I ween.

"Yet was the Muse not always seen

In Poverty's dejected mien,

Not always did repining rue,

And misery her steps pursue.

Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced By the sweet honors of poetic bays,

When Sidney sung his melting song, When Sheffield join'd the harmonious throng, And Lyttleton attuned to love his lays.

Those days are gone-alas, for ever gone! No more our nobles love to grace Their brows with anadems, by genius won, But arrogantly deem the Muse as base; How different thought the sires of this degenerate race!"

I. 2.

Thus sang the minstrel :-still at eve
The upland's woody shades among
In broken measures did he grieve,
With solitary song.

And still his theme was aye the same,
Neglect had stung him to the core;
And he with pensive joy did love
To seek the still congenial grove,

And muse on all his sorrows o'er,
And vow that he would join the abjured world no

more.

II. 2.

But human vows, how frail they be!
Fame brought Carlisle into his view,
And all amazed, he thought to see

The Augustan age anew.
Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose,
No more he ponders on the woes,
Which erst he felt that forward goes,
Regrets he'd sunk in impotence,

And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence.

III. 2.

Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore,

With ills which in the world he bore,
Again on futile hope to rest,

An unsubstantial prop at best,

And not to know one swallow makes no summer!

Ah! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam,
Which flash'd across the hemisphere,
Illumining the darkness there,

Was but a single solitary beam,

While all around remain'd in 'customed night.

Still leaden Ignorance reigns serene,

In the false court's delusive height,
And only one Carlisle is seen,

To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light.

DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE.

Down the sultry are of day

The burning wheels have urged their way,
And eve along the western skies
Spreads her intermingling dyes.
Down the deep, the miry lane,
Creaking comes the empty wain,
And driver on the shaft-horse sits,
Whistling now and then by fits;
And oft, with his accustom'd call,
Urging on the sluggish Ball.

The barn is still, the master's gone,
And thresher puts his jacket on,
While Dick, upon the ladder tall,
Nails the dead kite to the wall.
Here comes shepherd Jack at last,
He has penn'd the sheep-cote fast,
For 't was but two nights before,
A lamb was eaten on the moor:
His empty wallet Rover carries,

Now for Jack, when near home, tarries.
With lolling tongue he runs to try
If the horse-trough be not dry.
The milk is settled in the pans,
And supper messes in the cans;
In the hovel carts are wheel'd,
And both the colts are drove a-field;
The horses are all bedded up,
And the ewe is with the tup,
The snare for Mister Fox is set,
The leaven laid, the thatching wet,
And Bess has slink'd away to talk
With Roger in the holly-walk.

Now, on the settle all, but Bess,
Are set to eat their supper mess;
And little Tom, and roguish Kate,
Are swinging on the meadow gate.
Now they chat of various things,
Of taxes, ministers, and kings,
Or else tell all the village news,
How madam did the squire refuse;
How parson on his tithes was bent,
And landlord oft distrain'd for rent.
Thus do they, till in the sky

The pale-eyed moon is mounted high,
And from the alehouse drunken Ned
Had reel'd-then hasten all to bed.
The mistress sees that lazy Kate
The happing coal on kitchen grate
Has laid-while master goes throughout,
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out,
The candles safe, the hearths all clear,
And nought from thieves or fire to fear:

Then both to bed together creep,

And join the general troop of sleep.

TO CONTEMPLATION.

COME, pensive sage, who lov'st to dwell
In some retired Lapponian cell,
Where, far from noise and riot rude,
Resides sequester'd Solitude,
Come, and o'er my longing soul
Throw thy dark and russet stole,
And open to my duteous eyes
The volume of thy mysteries.

I will meet thee on the hill,
Where, with printless footsteps, still
The morning, in her buskin grey,
Springs upon her eastern way;
While the frolic zephyrs stir,
Playing with the gossamer,
And, on ruder pinions borne,
Shake the dew-drops from the thorn.
There, as o'er the fields we pass,
Brushing with hasty feet the grass,
We will startle from her nest

The lively lark with speckled breast,
And hear the floating clouds among,
Her gale-transported matin song,
Or on the upland stile embower'd,
With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd,
Will sauntering sit, and listen still
To the herdsman's oaten quill,
Wafted from the plain below;
Or the heifer's frequent low;
Or the milkmaid in the grove,
Singing of one that died for love:
Or when the noontide heats oppress,
We will seek the dark recess,

Where, in the embower'd translucent stream,
The cattle shun the sultry beam,

And o'er us, on the marge reclined,

The drowsy fly her horn shall wind,
While Echo, from her ancient oak,
Shall answer to the woodman's stroke;
Or the little peasant's song,
Wandering lone the glens among,
His artless lip with berries dyed.
And feet through ragged shoes descried.

But, oh! when evening's virgin queen
Sits on her fringed throne serene,
And mingling whispers, rising near,
Steal on the still reposing ear:
While distant brooks decaying round,
Augment the mix'd dissolving sound,
And the zephyr, flitting by,
Whispers mystic harmony,
We will seek the woody lane,
By the hamlet, on the plain,
Where the weary rustic nigh
Shall whistle his wild melody,
And the creaking wicket oft
Shall echo from the neighboring croft;
And as we trace the green path lone,
With moss and rank weeds overgrown,

We will muse on pensive lore
Till the full soul, brimming o'er,
Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear,
Embodied in a quivering tear :
Or else, serenely silent, set
By the brawling rivulet,

Which on its calm unruffled breast,
Bears the old mossy arch impress'd,
That clasps its secret stream of glass
Half hid in shrubs and waving grass,
The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat,
Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet,
We'll watch, in eve's etherial braid,
The rich vermilion slowly fade;
Or catch, faint twinkling from afar,
The first glimpse of the eastern star,
Fair Vesper, mildest lamp of light,
That heralds in imperial night;
Meanwhile, upon our wandering ear,
Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear,
The distant sounds of pastoral lute,
Invoking soft the sober suit
Of dimmest darkness-fitting well
With love or sorrow's pensive spell
(So erst did music's silver tone
Wake slumbering Chaos on his throne).
And haply then, with sudden swell,
Shall roar the distant curfew-bell,
While in the castle's mouldering tower
The hooting owl is heard to pour
Her melancholy song, and scare
Dull Silence brooding in the air.
Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car
Black-suited Night drives on from far,
And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear,
Arrests the waxing darkness drear,
And summons to her silent call,
Sweeping in their airy pall,
The unshrived ghosts in fairy trance,
To join her moonshine morrice-dance:
While around the mystic ring
The shadowy shapes elastic spring,
Then with a passing shriek they fly,
Wrapt in mists, along the sky,
And oft are by the shepherd seen,
In his lone night-watch on the green.

Then, hermit, let us turn our feet
To the low abbey's still retreat,"
Embower'd in the distant glen,
Far from the haunts of busy men,
Where, as we sit upon the tomb,
The glow-worm's light may gild the gloom,
And show to Fancy's saddest eye,
Where some lost hero's ashes lie.
And oh! as through the mouldering arch,
With ivy fill'd and weeping larch,
The night-gale whispers sadly clear,
Speaking drear things to Fancy's ear,
We'll hold communion with the shade
Of some deep-wailing ruin'd maid-
Or call the ghost of Spenser down,
To tell of woe and Fortune's frown;
And bid us cast the eye of hope
Beyond this bad world's narrow scope.

Or if these joys, to us denied,
To linger by the forest's side;
Or in the meadow, or the wood,
Or by the lone romantic flood;
Let us in the busy town,

When sleep's dull streams the people drown,
Far from drowsy pillows flee,
And turn the church's massy key;
Then, as through the painted glass
The moon's faint beams obscurely pass;
And darkly on the trophied wall,
Her faint ambiguous shadows fall;
Let us, while the faint winds wail,
Through the long reluctant aisle,
As we pace with reverence meet,
Count the echoings of our feet:
While from the tombs, with confess'd breath,
Distinct responds the voice of death.
If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend
Thus on my footsteps to attend,
To thee my lonely lamp shall burn,
By fallen Genius' sainted urn,
As o'er the scroll of Time I pore,
And sagely spell of ancient lore,
Till I can rightly guess of all
That Plato could to memory call,
And scan the formless views of things,
Or with old Egypt's fetter'd kings,
Arrange the mystic trains that shine
In night's high philosophic mine;
And to thy name shall e'er belong
The honors of undying song.

ODE

TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE.

On! thou who, in my early youth,
When fancy wore the garb of truth,
Wert wont to win my infant feet,
To some retired, deep-fabled seat,
Where by the brooklet's secret tide,
The midnight ghost was known to glide.;
Or lay me in some lonely glade,
In native Sherwood's forest shade,
Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold,
Was wont his sylvan courts to hold;
And there, as musing deep I lay,
Would steal my little soul away,
And all thy pictures represent,
Of siege and solemn tournament;
Or bear me to the magic scene
Where, clad in greaves and gaberdine,
The warrior knight of chivalry
Made many a fierce enchanter flee,
And bore the high-born dame away,
Long held the fell magician's prey;
Or oft would tell the shuddering tale
Of murders, and of goblins pale
Haunting the guilty baron's side
(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed),
Which o'er the vaulted corridor
On stormy nights were heard to roar,
By old domestic, waken'd wide

By the angry winds that chide;

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