That your transports are not mine, That I do not wholly fare Even as ye do,thoughtless pair! And I will have my careless season, Spite of melancholy reason.
Will walk through life in such a way That, when time brings on decay, Now and then I may possess Hours of perfect gladsomeness. -Pleased by any random toy; By a kitten's busy joy, Or an infant's laughing eye Sharing in the ecstasy; I would fare like that or this, Find my wisdom in my bliss ; Keep the sprightly soul awake, And have faculties to take, Even from things by sorrow wrought, Matter for a jocund thought; Spite of care, and spite of grief, To gambol with life's falling leaf.
BETWEEN two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie Sacred to flow'rets of the hills, And sacred to the sky.
And in this smooth and open dell There is a tempest-stricken tree; A corner-stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a cottage hut; And in this dell you see
A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The shadow of a Danish boy.
In clouds above the lark is heard,- He sings his blithest and his best;
But in this lonesome nook the bird Did never build her nest.
No beast, no bird hath here his home; The bees, borne on the breezy air, Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers, to other dells, Nor ever linger there.
The Danish boy walks here alone; The lovely dell is all his own.
A spirit of noonday is he,
He seems a form of flesh and blood; Nor piping shepherd shall he be, Nor herd-boy of the wood.
A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven's wing;
It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue As budding pines in spring; His helmet has a vernal grace, Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
A harp is from his shoulder slung; He rests the harp upon his knee; And there, in a forgotten tongue, He warbles melody.
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills He is the darling and the joy; And often, when no cause appears, The mountain ponies prick their ears, -They hear the Danish boy,
While in the dell he sits alone
Beside the tree and corner-stone.
There sits he: in his face you spy
No trace of a ferocious air,
Nor ever was a cloudless sky
So steady or so fair.
The lovely Danish boy is blest
And happy in his flowery cove:
From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war That seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mean; Like a dead boy, he is serene.
ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER,
ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD ON THAT DAY.
-HAST thou then survived,
Mild offspring of infirm humanity,
Meek Infant! among all forlornest things The most forlorn, one life of that bright star, The second glory of the heavens? Thou hast- Already hast survived that great decay;
That transformation through the wide earth felt, And by all nations. In that Being's sight From whom the race of human kind proceed, A thousand years are but as yesterday; And one day's narrow circuit is to Him Not less capacious than a thousand years.
But what is time? What outward glory? Neither A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend
Through "heaven's eternal year."-Yet hail to thee, Frail, feeble monthling?-by that name, methinks, Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out Not idly. Hadst thou been of Indian birth, Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, Or to the churlish elements exposed
On the blank plains,-the coldness of the night, Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned, Would, with imperious admonition, then Have scored thine age, and punctually timed Thine infant history, on the minds of those Who might have wandered with thee. Mother's love, Nor less than mother's love in other breasts, Will, among us warm clad and warmly housed, Do for thee what the finger of the heavens
Doth all too often harshly execute
For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds Where fancy hath small liberty to grace Th' affections, to exalt them or refine; And the maternal sympathy itself, Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours! Even now-to solemnize thy helpless state, And to enliven in the mind's regard Thy passive beauty-parallels have risen, Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect, Within the region of a father's thoughts, Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. And first; thy sinless progress, through a world By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, Apt likeness bears to hers through gathered clouds Moving untouched in silver purity,
And cheering ofttimes their reluctant gloom. Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain: But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn With brightness !-leaving her to post along, And range about disquieted in change, And still impatient of the shape she wears. Once up, once down the hill, one journey, babe, That will suffice thee; and it seems that now
Thou hast foreknowledge that such task is thine; Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon Hath this conception, grateful to behold, Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er By breathing mist; and thine appears to be A mournful labour, while to her is given Hope and renovation without end.
-That smile forbids the thought;-for on thy face Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn,
To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been seen,- Tranquil assurances that heaven supports The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers Thy loneliness; or shall those smiles be called Feelers of love,-put forth as if t' explore This untried world, and to prepare thy way Through a strait passage intricate and dim? Such are they, and the same are tokens, signs, Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt; And reason's godlike power be proud to own.
Poems of the Imagination.
THERE was a boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander! Many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him. And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again,
Responsive to his call,-with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received Into the bosom of the steady lake.
This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, The vale where he was born: the church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village school;
And there, along that bank, when I have passed At evening, I believe that oftentimes
A long half-hour together I have stood Mute--looking at the grave in which he lies!
O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice:
O Cuckoo shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
While I am lying on the grass, Thy loud note smites my ear! From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near!
I hear thee babbling to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers;
And unto me thou bring'st a tale Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery.
The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that cry
Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be
« AnteriorContinuar » |