How many bards gild the lapses of time! A few of them have ever been the food Of my delighted fancy,-I could brood Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime: And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, These will in throngs before my mind intrude: But no confusion, no disturbance rude
Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime. So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store; The songs of birds-the whispering of the leaves-
The voice of waters-the great bell that heaves With solemn sound, and thousand others
That distance of recognizance bereaves,
Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.
NYMPH of the downward smile and sidelong
In what diviner moments of the day Art thou most lovely? when gone Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance? Or when serenely wandering in a trance Of sober thought? Or when starting away, With careless robe to meet the morning ray, Thou sparest the flowers in thy mazy dance? Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,
And so remain, because thou listenest: But thou to please wert nurtured so completely That I can never tell what mood is best, I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more
Trips it before Apollo than the rest.
WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON.
WHAT though, for showing truth to flatter'd state, Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he, In his immortal spirit, been as free As the sky-searching lark, and as elate. Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait? Think you he nought but prison-walls did see, Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key? Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate! In Spenser's halls he stray'd, and bowers fair, Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew With daring Milton through the fields of air: To regions of his own his genius true
Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?
SMALL, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,
And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep Like whispers of the household gods that keep A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.
And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep, Upon the lore so voluble and deep, That aye at fall of night our care condoles. This is your birth-day, Tom, and I rejoice That thus it passes smoothly, quietly: Many such eves of gently whispering noise May we together pass, and calmly try What are this world's true joys,-ere the great Voice
From its fair face shall bid our spirits fly.
HIGH-MINDEDNESS, a jealousy for good,
A loving-kindness for the great man's fame, Dwells here and there with people of no name, In noisome alley, and in pathless wood: And where we think the truth least understood, Oft may be found a "singleness of aim," That ought to frighten into hooded shame A money-mongering, pitiable brood. How glorious this affection for the cause
Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly! What when a stout unbending champion awes Envy, and malice to their native sty? Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause, Proud to behold him in his country's eye.
« 前へ次へ » |