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Loathing thy polluted lot,
The things of nature utter; birds or trees,
Or moan of ocean gale in weedy caves,
Or where the stiff grass ’mid the heath-plant waves, With a wiser innocence.
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. Thou hast known deceit and folly,
Thou hast felt that vice is wo:
The tedded hay, the first-fruits of the soil,
The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, Firm thy steps, O melancholy !
Show summer gone, ere come. The fox-glove tall The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, Is the memory of past folly.
Or when it bends beneath th' up-springing lark, Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,
Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose
(In vain the darling of successful love) While she moults the firstling plumes,
Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, That had skimm'd the tender corn,
The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. Or the bean-field's odorous blooms;
Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk
By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side,
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Upward to the day-star spring,
Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not !*
So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
loved,) LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. Nor cold nor stern my soul! yet I detest
In the cool morning twilight, early waked
Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, These feel not music's genuine power, nor deign Over their dim, fast-moving shadows hung,
To melt at nature's passion-warbled plaint; Making a quiet image of disquiet . But when the long-breathed singer's uptrillid strain In the smooth, scarcely-moving river-pool. Bursts in a squall-they gape for wonderment. There, in that bower where first she own'd her love,
And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy Hark the deep buzz of vanity and hate !
From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer
The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,
Between the moss-rose and forget-me-notWhile the pert captain, or the primmer priest,
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair! Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.
That forced to wander till sweet spring return, O give me, from this heartless scene released,
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look, To hear our old musician, blind and gray, (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kiss'd,) Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood
Has made me wish to steal away and weep,) His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play
Nor yet th' entrancement of that maiden kiss By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,
With which she promised, that when spring reThe while I dance amid the tedded hay
turn'd, With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light.
She would resign one-half of that dear name, Or lies the purple evening on the bay
Aud own thenceforth no other name but mine! Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide
Unheard, unseen, behind the alder trees,
TO A LADI.
WITH FALCONER'S “ SHIPWRECK.">
Au! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams, That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.
In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice; But 0, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers,
Nor while half-listening, ʼmid delicious dreams, And the gust pelting on the outhouse shed
To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ; Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow, To hear thee sing some ballad full of wo,
* One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) Ballad of shipwreck'd sailor floating dead,
of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six
to twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow Whom his own true-love buried in the sands!
eye. It has the same name over the whole empire of Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures
Germany, (Vergissmein nicht,) and, we believe, in DenWhatever tones and melancholy pleasures
mark and Sweden.
Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood
In the winter they're silent—the wind is so strong, On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell;
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud Nor in dim cave with bladdery sca-weed strew'd,
song. Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell; But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny, warm
weather, Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, And singing, and loving—all come back together. And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, hark !
The green fields below him, the blue sky above, Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings, That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings bem
Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark ! “I love my love, and my love loves me !"
'Tis sweet to him, who all the week
THE VISIONARY HOPE.
SAD lot, to have no hope ! Though lowly kneeling
He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, And sweet it is, in summer bower,
Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healSincere, affectionate, and gay,
ing, One's own dear children feasting round,
That his sick body might have ease and rest; To celebrate one's marriage-day.
He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest
Against his will the stifling load revealing, But what is all, to his delight,
Though nature forced; though like some captive Who having long been doom'd to roam,
guest, Throws off the bundle from his back
Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, Before the door of his own home?
An alien's restless mood but half-concealing, Home-sickness is a wasting pang ;
The sternness on his gentle brow confess'd,
Sickness within and miserable feeling:
Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams,
And dreaded sleep, each night repell’d in vain,
Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams,
One deep full wish to be no more in pain.
That hope, which was his inward bliss and boast,
Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the Though changed in nature, wander where be dove,
wouldThe linnet and thrush, say, “ I love and I love !" For love's despair is but hope's pining ghost !
For this one hope he makes his hourly moan,
bower! Or let it stay! yet this one hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.
Has not, since then, love's prompture deep,
Has not love's whisper evermore,
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ? Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
Dear under-song in clamour's hour.
THE HAPPY HUSBAND.
SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY
OFT, ost methinks, the while with thee
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear
And dedicated name, I hear
A pledge of more than passing life,
WRITTEN IN GERMANY.
If I had but two little wings,
To you I'd fly, my dear!
And I stay here.
The world is all one's own.
All, all alone.
For though my sleep be gone, Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on.
A pulse of love, that ne'er can slecp!
A feeling that upbraids the heart
With happiness beyond desert, That gladness half requests to weep!
Nor bless I not the keener sense
Of transient joys, that ask no sting
From jealous fears, or coy denying;
But born beneath love's brooding wing, And into tenderness soon dying,
Wheel out their giddy moment, then
A more precipitated vein
Of notes, that eddy in the flow
Of smoothest song, they come, they go, And leave the sweeter under-strain,
Its own sweet self-a love of thee
RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.
How warm this woodland wild recess!
Love surely hath been breathing here,
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells up, then sinks, with faint caress,
As if to have you yet more near.
ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE, AFTER
Eight springs have flown, since last I lay
On seaward Quantock's heathy hills,
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray,
And high o'erhead the sky-lark shrills.
UNDER STRONG MEDICAL RECOMMENDATION NOT
God be with thee, gladsome ocean!
How gladly greet I thce once more: Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion,
And men rejoicing on thy shore.
No voice as yet had made the air
Be music with your name; yet why
That asking look ? that yearning sigh? That sense of promise everywhere?
Beloved ! flew your spirit by?
Dissuading spake the mild physician,
“ Those briny waves for thee are death !" But my soul fullill’d her mission,
And lo! I breathe untroubled breath!
As when a mother doth explore
The rose mark on her long-lost child,
I met, I loved you, maiden mild! As whom I long had loved before
So deeply, had I been beguiled.
Fashion's pining sons and daughters,
That seek the crowd they seem to fly, Trembling they approach thy waters;
And what cares nature, if they die ?
You stood before me like a thought,
A dream remember'd in a dream.
But when those meek eyes first did seem To tell me, love within you wrought
O Greta, dear domestic stream!
Me a thousand hopes and pleasures,
A thousand recollections bland, Thoughts sublime, and stately measures
Revisit on thy echoing strand :
Dreams, (the soul herself forsaking,)
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc !
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above Oye hopes, that stir within me,
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
I worshipp'd the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my With these the magic dews, which evening brings, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:
thought, Brush'd from th’ Idalian star by faery wings: Each tender pledge of sacred faith he join'd,
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Each gentler pleasure of th’unspotted mind
Into the mighty vision passing—there Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness As in her natural form, swellid vast to beaten! glow,
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs; Sweet sounds transpired, as when th’ enamour'a Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn.
Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! dove Pours the soft murmuring of responsive love.
O struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink: With half the god his Cyprian mother blest,
Companion of the morning star at dawn,
Tlyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived,
For ever shatter'd and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Naught sinks into the bosom's silent depth.
Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure
And who commanded, and the silence came,) Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? Warmeth the inner frame.
Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow Schiller.
Adown enormous ravines slope amain-
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts !
sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous Beneath the kcen full moon? Who bade the sun
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? Ilist thou a charm to stay the morning star
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
IN BLANK VERSE.
* Ethnixt quondam blandum meditata laborem
Basia lascivà Cypria Diva manå. Ambrosia succos occulta temperat arte,
Fragransque infuso nectare tingit opus. Sufficit et partem mellis, quod subdolus ulim
Non impune savis surripuisset Amor,
Decussos violæ foliis ad iniscet odores
Et spolia estivis plurima rapta rosis.
Et quot Acidalius gaudia Cestus habet.
Carm. Quod. Vol. II.
God! sing, ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! Or father, or the venerable name
Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal frost! Turn'd westward, shaping in the steady clouds
My native land! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Filld with the thought of thee this heart was Ye signs and wonders of the element!
proud, Otter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view Thou, too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, peaks,
Floated away, like a departing dream, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane, Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast- With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, Thou too again, stupendous mountain! thou That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel That as I raised my head, a while bow'd low That God is everywhere! the God who framed In adoration, upward from thy base
Mankind to be one mighty family, Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Himself our Father, and the world our home. Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,
ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
OF FEBRUARY, 1796. And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Sweet flower! that peeping from thy russet stem Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort
This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, tecth-chattering
Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee LINES
With blue voluptuous eye,) alas, poor flower!
These are but flatteries of the faithless year. WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave,
E’en now the keen north-east is on its way. I stood on Brocken's* sovran height, and saw
Flower that must perish! shall I liken thee Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,' To some sweet girl of too, too rapid growth, A surging scene, and only limited
Nipp'd by consumption 'mid untiinely charms? By the blue distance. Heavily my way
Or to Bristowa's bard,* the wondrous boy! Downward I dragg'd through fir-groves evermore,
An amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own, Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong forms
Beat it to earth? or with indignant grief Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard, Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope, The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound; Bright flower of hope kill'd in the opening bud ? And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,
Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine, Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct And mock my boding! Dim similitudes From many a note of many a waterfall,
Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour And the brook's chatter: 'mid whose islet stones From anxious SELF, life's cruel task-master! The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
And the warm wooings of this sunny day Leap'd frolicsome, or old romantic goat
Tremble along my frame, and harmonize Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on Th’attemper'd organ, that even saddest thoughts In low and languid mood :t for I had found Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tones That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument. Their finer influence from the life within : Fair ciphers else: fair, but of import vague Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds History or prophecy of friend, or child,
THE EOLIAN HARP. Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE. • The highest mountain in the Hartz, and, indeed, in North Gerinany.
My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined t When I have gazed
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is From some high eminence on goodly vales,
To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown And cots and villages embower'd below,
With white-flower'd jasmin, and the broad-leaved The thought would rise that all to me was strange
THE HARTZ FOREST.