There crowd your finely-fibred frame, And Genius to your cradle came, His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, A heart as sensitive to joy and fear? And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife, Yet these delight to celebrate The doom of Ignorance and Penury! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! You were a Mother! That most holy name, I may not vilely prostitute to those Its gaudy Parent Fly. You were a Mother! at your bosom fed The Babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye, Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read, Which you yourself created. Oh! delight! A second time to be a Mother, Without the Mother's bitter groans: Another thought, and yet another, By touch, or taste, by looks or tones Oer the growing Sense to roll, The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides All trembling gazes on the Eye of God, A moment turn'd his awful face away; "Twas thence you hail'd 'he Platform wild, Where once the Austrian fell O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. TRANQUILLITY! thou better name To low intrigue, or factious rage; And left the bark, and blest the stedfast shore, Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, Thy spirit rests! Satiety And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: But me thy gentle hand will lead At morning through the accustom'd mead; Will build me up a mossy seat; And when the gust of Autumn crowds And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon The feeling heart, the searching soul, The present works of present man― A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile! TO A YOUNG. FRIEND, ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE AUTHOR. COMPOSED IN 1796. A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, Where cypress and the darker yew start wild Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb Such a green mountain 't were most sweet to climb, E'en while the bosom ached with lonelinessHow more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound! O then 't were loveliest sympathy, to mark The berries of the half-uprooted ash Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash, Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark, Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock; In social silence now, and now to unlock The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm, Save if the one, his muse's witching charm Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag; Till high o'erhead his beckoning friend appears, And from the forehead of the topmost crag Shouts eagerly: for haply there uprears That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs, Which latest shall detain the enamour'd sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims, Tinged yellow with the rich departing light; And haply, basin'd in some unsunn'd cleft, A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale! Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left, Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine, And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine To cheat our noons in moralizing mood, While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd: Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount, To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss! Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The Hill of Knowledge I essay'd to trace ; ́ That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour To glad and fertilize the subject plains; That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, And many a fancy-blest and holy sod, Where Inspiration, his diviner strains Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage! O meek retiring spirit! we will climb, And oft the melancholy theme supply), As neighboring fountains image, each the whole: Then, when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth, We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, Rekindling sober Joy's domestic flame. They whom I love shall love thee. Honor'd youth! Now may Heaven realize this vision bright! LINES TO W. L. ESQ. WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues, And I have many friends who hold me dear; L - methinks, I would not often hear Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose All memory of the wrongs and sore distress, For which my miserable brethren weep! But should uncomforted misfortunes steep And if at death's dread moment I should lie My daily bread in tears and bitterness; With no beloved face at my bed-side, To fix the last glance of my closing eye, Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-guide Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died! ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE HENCE that fantastic wantonness of woe, Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part heart Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) What Nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal! O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd, All effortless thou leave life's commonweal A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind. SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER. DEAR native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West! How many various-fated years have past, What happy, and what mournful hours, since last I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes I never shut amid the sunny ray, But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray, And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way, Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs: Ah! that once more I were a caroless child! SONNET. COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796. OFT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-question'd in her sleep; and some have said* We lived, ere yet this robe of Flesh we wore. O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear), I think that I should struggle to believe Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve; Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve, While we wept idly o'er thy little bier! SONNET. TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME. CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first All I had been, and all my child might be! And hanging at her bosom (she the while Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm Impress'd a Father's kiss: and all beguiled Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, I seem'd to see an angel-form appear"T was even thine, beloved woman mild! So for the Mother's sake the Child was dear, And dearer was the Mother for the Child. While others wish thee wise and fair, Thy Mother's name, a potent spell, Meek Quietness, without offence; Associates of thy name, sweet Child! So when, her tale of days all flown, Some hoary-headed Friend, perchance, Ev'n thus a lovely rose I view'd It chanced, I pass'd again that way And wond'ring saw the self-same spray Ah fond deceit! the rude green bud Had bloom'd, where bloom'd its parent stud EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. ITs balmy lips the Infant blest Relaxing from its Mother's breast, How sweet it heaves the happy sigh Of innocent Satiety! And such my Infant's latest sigh! O tell, rude stone! the passer-by, That here the pretty babe doth lie, Death sang to sleep with Lullaby. MELANCHOLY. A FRAGMENT. STRETCH'D on a moulder'd Abbey's broadest Where ruining ivies propp'd the ruins steep Her folded arms wrapping her tatter'd pall, Had Melancholy mused herself to sleep. A CHRISTMAS CAROL. And now they check'd their eager tread, They told her how a glorious light, Streaming from a heavenly throng, Around them shone, suspending night! While, sweeter than a Mother's song, Blest Angels heralded the Savior's birth, Glory to God on high! and peace on Earth. A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here describes is called the Hart's Tongue. HUMAN LIFE, ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY IF dead, we cease to be; if total gloom Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare She form'd with restless hands unconsciously! If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy Hopes, thy Fears, The counter-weights!-Thy Laughter and thy Tears Mean but themselves, each fittest to create, And to repay the other! Why rejoices Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good? Image of image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf, These costless shadows of thy shadowy self? THE VISIT OF THE GODS. IMITATED FROM SCHILLER. NEVER, believe me, Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler, Terrestrial Hall! How shall I yield you Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of up- Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance, O give me the Nectar! O fill me the Bowl! Pour out for the Poet, That Styx the detested no more he may view, Forbids me to die! ELEGY, IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANK VERSE NEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread, Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, Where "sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant O humbly press that consecrated ground! But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue! Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale. With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms, Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught KUBLA KHAN; OR, A VISION IN A DREAM. [The following fragment is here published at the request of a poet of great and deserved celebrity, and, as far as the Author's own opinions are concerned, rather as a psychological curiosity. than on the ground of any supposed poetic merits. In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In comsequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following sentence, of words of the same substance, in Purchas's "Pilgrimage:""Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden thereunto; and thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall." The author continued for abou three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines, if that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation, or conscious ness of effort. On awaking he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter. Then all the charm Is broken-all that phantom-world so fair Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Autho bed-has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been originally, as it were, given to him. Eaμepov adier aow but the to-morrow is yet to come. For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain! Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide, As a contrast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a very different character, describing with equal fidelity the dream of pain and disease.-Note to the first Edition, (916.] IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan |