The Poetical Works

Of frank and harmless mirth forbade to smile;

But sterner still, when high the iron rod

Of tyrant power she shook, and call'd that power of God. The Middle Ages.

Chap. XXXVII.

XI.

FROM THE MONASTERY.

'Ne sit ancillae, &c.'

TAKE thou no scorn
Of fiction born,

Fair fiction's muse to woo;

Old Homer's theme
Was but a dream,

Himself a fiction too.

Answer to the Introductory Epistle (of Captain Clutterbuck).

'MERRILY SWIM WE.

THE WHITE LADY sings:MERRILY Swim we, the moon shines bright,

Both current and ripple are dancing in light:

We have roused the night raven, I heard him croak

As we plashed along beneath the oak That flings its broad branches so far and so wide,

Their shadows are dancing in midst of the tide.

'Who wakens my nestlings?' the raven he said,

'My beak shall ere morn in his blood be red!

For a blue swollen corpse is a dainty meal,

And I'll have my share with the pike and the eel.'

Look, Father, look, and you'll laugh | Toconjure a book from a dead woman's

TO HALBERT.

THE WHITE LADY sings or speaks :— YOUTH of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me?

Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee?

He that seeks to deal with us must know no fear nor failing; To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing. The breeze that brought me hither now must sweep Egyptian ground, The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound;

The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my stay,

For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day.

WHAT I am I must not show-
What I am thou couldst not know-
Something betwixt heaven and hell-
Something that neither stood nor fell-
Something that through thy wit or will
May work thee good-may work
thee ill.

Neither substance quite, nor shadow,
Haunting lonely moor and meadow,
Dancing by the haunted spring,
Riding on the whirlwind's wing;
Aping in fantastic fashion

Every change of human passion,
While o'er our frozen minds they pass
Like shadows from the mirror'd glass.
Wayward, fickle, is our mood,
Hovering betwixt bad and good,
Happier than brief-dated man,
Living twenty times his span;
Far less happy, for we have
Help nor hope beyond the grave!
Man awakes to joy or sorrow;
Ours the sleep that knows no morrow.
This is all that I can show-

This is all that thou may'st know.

Ay! and I taught thee the word and
the spell,

To waken me here by the Fairies'
Well :

But thou hast loved the heron and
hawk,

More than to seek my haunted walk;
And thou hast loved the lance and the
sword,

More than good text and holy word;
And thou hast loved the deer to track,
More than the lines and the letters
black;

And thou art a ranger of moss and

of wood,

Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy
Things ne'er seen by mortal eye.

FEAR'ST thou to go with me?
Still it is free to thee

A peasant to dwell;
Thou may'st drive the dull steer,
And chase the king's deer,
But never more come near
This haunted well.

HERE lies the volume thou boldly hast sought;

And scornest the nurture of gentle Touch it, and take it,-'twill dearly be

blood.

bought.

THY craven fear my truth accused;
Thine idlehood my trust abused;
He that draws to harbour late,

RASH thy deed,
Mortal weed

To immortal flames applying;
Rasher trust

Has thing of dust,

Must sleep without, or burst the gate.
There is a star for thee which burn'd,
Its influence wanes, its course is turn'd;
On his own weak worth relying:
Valour and constancy alone
Strip thee of such fences vain,
Can bring thee back the chance that's Strip, and prove thy luck again.

flown.

WITHIN that awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries!
Happiest they of human race,
To whom God has granted grace
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, and force the way;
And better had they ne'er been born,
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.

MANY a fathom dark and deep
I have laid the book to sleep;
Ethereal fires around it glowing-
Ethereal music ever flowing-
The sacred pledge of Heav'n

All things revere,
Each in his sphere,

Save man for whom 'twas giv'n :

MORTAL warp and mortal woof
Cannot brook this charmed roof;
All that mortal art hath wrought
In our cell returns to nought.
The molten gold returns to clay,
The polish'd diamond melts away;
All is altered, all is flown,

Nought stands fast but truth alone.
Not for that thy quest give o'er:
Courage! prove thy chance once more.

ALAS! alas!

Not ours the grace

These holy characters to trace:
Idle forms of painted air,

Not to us is given to share

The boon bestow'd on Adam's race.

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