Upon the clouds? Has she not shown us From the clear space of ether, to the small 210 170 Of Jove's large eye-brow,1 to the tender Of April meadows? Here her altar shone, Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh With honors; nor had any other care Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism 185 His glories: with a puling infant's force 1 A reference to Jove's irrevocable nod, in con- 3 A reference to eighteenth century poets. Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 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: And did not know it,-no, they went about, The name of one Boileau! Affright you? Did our old lamenting Delight you? Did ye never cluster round Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound, 215 And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu To regions where no more the laurel grew? Or did ye stay to give a welcoming To some lone spirits who could proudly sing Their youth away, and die? 'Twas even So: 220 But let me think away those times of 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 In many places;-some has been upstirr'd 225 From out its crystal dwelling in a lake, By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick 230 These things are, doubtless: yet in truth we've had Strange thunders from the potency of song; Mingled indeed with what is sweet and 270 strong From majesty: but in clear truth the themes Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes 235 Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower Of light is Poesy; 'tis the supreme of power; Who simply tell the most heart-easing things. O may these joys be ripe before I die. Will not some say that I presumptuously Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace "Twere better far to hide my foolish face? Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? "Tis might half slumb'ring on its own 275 If I do hide myself, it sure shall be right arm. The very archings of her eye-lids charm A thousand willing agents to obey, 240 And still she governs with the mildest fluttering, In the very fane, the light of Poesy: And there shall be a kind memorial graven. A noble end, are thirsty every hour. dower 285 Of spanning wisdom; though I do not 290 Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. Yeaned1 in aftertimes, when we are flown, be Nought more ungentle than the placid look Between two hills. All hail, delightful 265 As she was wont, th' imagination Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, 1 born 300 Ah! rather let me like a madman run Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an in- 305 Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile. An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle, Spreads awfully before me. How much toil! How many days! what desperate turmoil! 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, For what there may be worthy in these rhymes 350 I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes Of friendly voices had just given place To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. It was a poet's house1 who keeps the keys 355 Of pleasure's temple. Round about were hung And friendliness, the nurse of mutual good. 320 Into the brain ere one can think upon it; 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- To cluster round it when we next shall Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs 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 335 Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye The glorious features of the bards who sung In other ages-cold and sacred busts At swelling apples with a frisky leap Of liny2 marble, and thereto a train 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; motion With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er Its rocky marge, and balances once more The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam 380 Feel all about their undulating home. 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- As if he always listened to the sighs 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 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, Thy branches ne'er remember The north cannot undo them, With a sleety whistle through them; In a drear-nighted December, 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 Happy is England! I could be content 5 Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment 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. 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 |