Upon the clouds? Has she not shown us
all?

From the clear space of ether, to the small 210
Breath of new buds unfolding? From the
meaning

170 Of Jove's large eye-brow,1 to the tender
greening

Of April meadows? Here her altar shone,
E'en in this isle; and who could paragon
The fervid choir2 that lifted up a noise
Of harmony, to where it aye will poise
175 Its mighty self of convoluting sound,
Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,
Eternally around a dizzy void?

Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh
cloy'd

With honors; nor had any other care
180 Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.

Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism
Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,
Made great Apollo blush for this his land.3
Men were thought wise who could not
understand

185 His glories: with a puling infant's force
They sway'd about upon a rocking horse,
And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal soul'd!
The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd
Its gathering waves-ye felt it not. The
blue

1 A reference to Jove's irrevocable nod, in con-
nection with which the eye-brow is promi-
nently mentioned. See the Iliad, 1, 528.
The Elizabethan poets.

3 A reference to eighteenth century poets.

Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew
Of summer nights collected still to make
The morning precious: beauty was awake!
Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead
To things ye knew not of,-were closely
wed

To musty laws lined out with wretched rule And compass vile: so that ye taught a school

Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit, Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,1

Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask
Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!
That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his
face,

And did not know it,-no, they went about,
Mark'd with most flimsy mottoes, and in
Holding a poor, decrepid standard out,
large

The name of one Boileau!

So:

woe:

Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathed Rich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathed Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been

heard

Ere I can have explored its widenesses. 310 Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees, I could unsay those-no, impossible! Impossible!

For sweet relief I'll dwell

On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay

Begun in gentleness die so away. 315 E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades: I turn full-hearted to the friendly aids That smooth the path of honor; brotherhood,

And friendliness, the nurse of mutual good.
The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant 360
sonnet1

320 Into the brain ere one can think upon it;
The silence when some rhymes are coming
out;

And when they're come, the very pleasant

rout:

The message certain to be done tomorrow. 365 'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow

325 Some precious book from out its snug re-
treat,

To cluster round it when we next shall
meet.

Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs
Are fluttering round the room like doves 370
in pairs;

Many delights of that glad day recalling, 330 When first my senses caught their tender

falling.

And with these airs come forms of elegance 375 Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's

prance,

Careless, and grand - fingers soft and round

Parting luxuriant curls;-and the swift
bound

335 Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye
Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.
Thus I remember all the pleasant flow
Of words at opening a portfolio.

The glorious features of the bards who

sung

In other ages-cold and sacred busts
Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts
To clear Futurity his darling fame!
Then there were fauns and satyrs taking
aim

At swelling apples with a frisky leap
And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap
Of vine-leaves. Then there rose to view a
fane

Of liny2 marble, and thereto a train
Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the
sward:

One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward

The dazzling sunrise; two sisters sweet Bending their graceful figures till they meet

Over the trippings of a little child;
And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild
Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.
See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping
Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs;-
A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims
At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle

motion

Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down

At nothing; just as though the earnest frown

Of over-thinking had that moment gone From off her brow, and left her all alone.

Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pity-
ing eyes,

As if he always listened to the sighs
Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko's

worn

By horrid sufferance-mightily forlorn.

1 Leigh Hunt's. The lines following describe the room in which the poem was written. 2 marked with lines

Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,

390 Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!

For over them was seen a free display
Of outspread wings, and from between
them shone

The face of Poesy: from off her throne 395 She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.

The very sense of where I was might well Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came

Thought after thought to nourish up the flame

Within my breast; so that the morning

light

Of sober thought?-or when starting away With careless robe to meet the morning ray Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance?

Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly, 10 And so remain, because thou listenest:

5

10

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 neatly

Trips it before Apollo than the rest.

STANZAS 1829

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,

Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:

The north cannot undo them,

With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting1

About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy!

But were there ever any

Writh'd not at passed joy? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steel it, Was never said in rhyme.

HAPPY IS ENGLAND
1817

Happy is England! I could be content
To see no other verdure than its own;
To feel no other breezes than are blown
Through its tall woods with high romances
blent:

5 Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment
For skies Italian, and an inward groan
To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
And half forget what world or worldling

meant.

Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;

10 Enough their simple loveliness for me,

1 complaining

For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle South, and clears away From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. 5 The anxious month, relieved of its pains, Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May; The eyelids with the passing coolness play

Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains.

The calmest thoughts come round us; as of leaves

10 Budding-fruit ripening in stillness-autumn suns

Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheavesSweet Sappho's cheek-a smiling infant's breath

The gradual sand that through an hourglass runs

A woodland rivulet-a Poet's death.

Come hither, all sweet maidens, soberly, Down-looking aye, and with a chasten'd light

Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, And meekly let your fair hands joined be, 5 As if so gentle that ye could not see, Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright, Sinking away to his young spirit's night,Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea: 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death; 10 Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips

For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her

smile.

O horrid dream! see how his body dips Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile:

He's gone: up bubbles all his amorous breath!

TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.
1817
1817

Glory and loveliness have pass'a away; For if we wander out in early morn, No wreathed incense do we see upborne Into the east, to meet the smiling day: 5 No crowd of nymphs soft-voic'd, and young, and gay,

In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,2 Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn The shrine of Flora in her early May. But there are left delights as high as these, 10 And I shall ever bless my destiny,

That in a time, when under pleasant trees 1 Chaucer's authorship of this poem is now discredited. 2 wheat