wan 25 I will not go seen: 5 35 III 10 DEJECTION: AN ODE O Lady! in this and heartless (1802) mood, To other thoughts by yonder throstle Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, With the old Moon in her arms; wooed, And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! All this long eve, so balmy and serene, We shall have a deadly storm. Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. Have I been gazing on the western sky, And its peculiar tint of yellow green: And still I gaze and with how blank an eye! 30 Well! If the bard was weather-wise, who And those thin clouds above, in flakes and made bars, The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick That give away their motion to the stars; Spence, Those stars, that glide behind them or beThis night, so tranquil now, tween, hence Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always Unroused by winds that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it flakes, grew Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; rake's I see them all so excellently fair, Upon the strings of this Æolian lute, I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! Which better far were mute. For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! And overspread with phantom light, (With swimming phantom light o'er My genial spirits fail; spread, And what can these avail But rimmed and circled by a silver To lift the smothering weight from off my thread) breast? I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling It were a vain endeavor, The coming-on of rain and squally blast. Though I should gaze for ever And oh! that even now the gust were On that green light that lingers in the swelling, And the slant night-shower driving loud I may not hope from outward forms to and fast! win Those sounds which oft have raised me, The passion and the life whose fountains whilst they awed, are within. And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, O Lady! we receive but what we give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it And in our life alone does Nature live: move and live! 20 Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! And would we aught behold, of higher worth, A grief without a pang, void, dark, and Than that inanimate cold world allowed drear, To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud In word, or sigh, or tear Enveloping the Earth — 55 40 15 west: 45 IV II 50 And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element! V O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me 60 65 VII What this strong music in the soul may be! 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, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power Which, wedding Nature to us, gives in dower A new Earth and new Heaven, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud 70 Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colors a suffusion from that light. 75 100 VI Of agony by torture lengthened out rav'st without, Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Mak'st Devil's yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with dis tress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of hap piness: For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, 105 80 110 Their life the eddying of her living soul! O simple spirit, guided from above, Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. THE GOOD, GREAT MAN (1802) 115 Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold ! What tell'st thou now about? rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudder ings - all is over — It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! And tempered with delight, lay, Upon a lonesome wild, way: And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. “How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits Honor or wealth with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains.” 5 REPLY TO THE ABOVE 120 10 125 For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain! What would'st thou have a good great man obtain ? Place? titles? salary? a gilded chain? Or throne of corses which his sword had slain? Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends! Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? three treasures, LOVE, and LIGHT, And calm THOUGHTS, regular as infant's breath: And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the DEATH! VIII 15 ANGEL 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, And may this storm be but a mountain birth, May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, ing Earth! Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, voice; To her may all things live, from pole to pole, THE PAINS OF SLEEP (1803) 130 135 THE KNIGHT'S TOMB (1817 ?) 15 Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O’Kel lyn? Where may the grave of that good man be? By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, 5 And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone, - and the birch in its stead is grown. The Knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust; His soul is with the saints, I trust. But yester-night I prayed aloud Is gone, 10 30 YOUTH AND AGE (1823-32) 5 scream 10 40 Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, When I was young! weather When Youth and I lived in't together. Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree; O! the joys, that came down shower like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old! Had waked me from the fiendish dream, O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, I wept as I had been a child: And having thus by tears subdued My anguish to a milder mood, Such punishments, I said, were due To natures deepliest stained with sin, For aye entempesting anew The unfathomable hell within, The horror of their deeds to view, To know and loathe, yet wish and do! Such griefs with such men well agree, But wherefore, wherefore fall on me? 50 To be beloved is all I need, And whom I love, I love indeed. 15 45 20 many and me 25 10 Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere, sweet, Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, For ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll: And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live. 30 35 THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO (1828) Of late, in one of those most weary hours, When life seems emptied of all genial powers, A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known May bless his happy lot, I sate alone; And, from the numbing spell to win relief, 5 Called on the Past for thought of glee or grief. In vain! bereft alike of grief and glee, I sate and cow'red o'er my own vacancy! And as I watched the dull continuous ache, Which, all else slumb'ring, seemed alone to wake; O Friend! long wont to notice yet con ceal, And soothe by silence what words cannot heal, I but half saw that quiet hand of thine Place on my desk this exquisite design: Boccaccio's Garden and its faery, The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry! An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm, Framed in the silent poesy of form. 10 WORK WITHOUT HOPE (1825) 15 All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing – And Winter slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, 5 Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. Yet well I ken the banks where ama ranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. Of music soft, that not dispels the sleep, But casts in happier moulds the slum berer's dream; |