Now Morning from her orient chamber came,

And her first footsteps touched a verdant hill;

Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,

Silv’ring the untainted gushes of its rill;

Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill,

And after parting beds of simple flowers,

By many streams a little lake did fill,

Which round its marge reflected woven bowers,

And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.

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There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright

Vying with fish of brilliant dye below;

Whose silken fins, and golden scales light

Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow:

There saw the swan his neck of archèd snow,

And oared himself along with majesty;

Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show

Beneath the waves like Afric’s ebony,

And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.

Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle

20

That in that fairest lake had placed been,

I could e’en Dido of her grief beguile;

Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen:

For sure so fair a place was never seen,

Of all that ever charmed romantic eye:

It seemed an emerald in the silver sheen

Of the bright waters; or as when on high,

Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the cerulean sky.

And all around it dipped luxuriously

Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,

30

Which, as it were in gentle amity,

Rippled delighted up the flowery side;

As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,

Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!

Haply it was the workings of its pride,

In strife to throw upon the shore a gem

Outvying all the buds in Flora’s diadem.

O Peace! and dost thou with thy presence bless

The dwellings of this war-surrounded Isle;

Soothing with placid brow our late distress,

Making the triple kingdom brightly smile?

Joyful I hail thy presence; and I hail

The sweet companions that await on thee;

Complete my joy – let not my first wish fail,

Let the sweet mountain nymph thy favourite be,

With England’s happiness proclaim Europa’s liberty.

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O Europe! let not sceptred tyrants see

That thou must shelter in thy former state;

Keep thy chains burst, and boldly say thou art free;

Give thy kings law – leave not uncurbed the great;

So with the horrors past thou’lt win thy happier fate!

Fill for me a brimming bowl

And let me in it drown my soul:

But put therein some drug, designed

To banish Woman from my mind:

For I want not the stream inspiring

That heats the sense with lewd desiring,

But I want as deep a draught

As e’er from Lethe’s waves was quaffed;

From my despairing breast to charm

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The Image of the fairest form

That e’er my revelling eyes beheld,

That e’er my wandering fancy spelled.

’Tis vain! away I cannot chase

The melting softness of that face,

The beaminess of those bright eyes,

That breast – earth’s only Paradise.

My sight will never more be blessed;

For all I see has lost its zest:

Nor with delight can I explore

20

The Classic page, the Muse’s lore.

Had she but known how beat my heart,

And with one smile relieved its smart,

I should have felt a sweet relief,

I should have felt ‘the joy of grief’.

Yet as a Tuscan ’mid the snow

Of Lapland thinks on sweet Arno,

Even so for ever shall she be

The Halo of my Memory.

Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody!

Attuning still the soul to tenderness,

As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,

Had touched her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,

Hadst caught the tones, nor suffered them to die.

O’ershading sorrow doth not make thee less

Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress

With a bright halo, shining beamily,

As when a cloud a golden moon doth veil,

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Its sides are tinged with a resplendent glow,

Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,

And like fair veins in sable marble flow;

Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,

The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.

As from the darkening gloom a silver dove

Upsoars, and darts into the Eastern light,

On pinions that naught moves but pure delight,

So fled thy soul into the realms above,

Regions of peace and everlasting love;

Where happy spirits, crowned with circlets bright

Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight,

Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove.

There thou or joinest the immortal quire

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In melodies that even Heaven fair

Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire

Of the omnipotent Father, cleavest the air

On holy message sent – What pleasures higher?

Wherefore does any grief our joy impair?

I

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,

And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?

The transient pleasures as a vision seem,

And yet we think the greatest pain’s to die.

II

How strange it is that man on earth should roam,

And lead a life of woe, but not forsake

His rugged path; nor dare he view alone

His future doom which is but to awake.

O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate!

Dear child of sorrow – son of misery!

How soon the film of death obscured that eye,

Whence Genius wildly flashed, and high debate.

How soon that voice, majestic and elate,

Melted in dying murmurs! Oh! how nigh

Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die

A half-blown flower which cold blasts amate.

But this is past: thou art among the stars

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Of highest Heaven: to the rolling spheres

Thou sweetly singest: naught thy hymning mars,

Above the ingrate world and human fears.

On earth the good man base detraction bars

From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.

What though, for showing truth to flattered state,

Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,

In his immortal spirit, been as free

As the sky-searching lark, and as elate.

Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?

Think you he naught but prison walls did see,

Till, so unwilling, thou unturned’st the key?

Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate!

In Spenser’s halls he strayed, and bowers fair,

10

Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew

With daring Milton through the fields of air:

To regions of his own his genius true

Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair

When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?

When by my solitary hearth I sit,

And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;

When no fair dreams before my ‘mind’s eye’ flit,

And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;

Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,

And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head.

Whene’er I wander, at the fall of night,

Where woven boughs shut out the moon’s bright ray,

Should sad Despondency my musings fright,

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And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,

Peep with the moon-beams through the leafy roof,

And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof.

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,

Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;

When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,

Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:

Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,

And fright him as the morning frightens night!

Whene’er the fate of those I hold most dear

20

Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,

O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer;

Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:

Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,

And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head!

Should e’er unhappy love my bosom pain,

From cruel parents, or relentless fair;

O let me think it is not quite in vain

To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!

Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,

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And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head!

In the long vista of the years to roll,

Let me not see our country’s honour fade:

O let me see our land retain her soul,

Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom’s shade.

From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed –

Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!

Let me not see the patriot’s high bequest,

Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!

With the base purple of a court oppressed,

40

Bowing her head, and ready to expire:

But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings

That fill the skies with silver glitterings!

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star

Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;

Brightening the half-veiled face of heaven afar:

So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,

Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,

Waving thy silver pinions o’er my head.

In thy western halls of gold

When thou sittest in thy state,

Bards, that erst sublimely told

Heroic deeds, and sung of fate,

With fervour seize their adamantine lyres,

Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.

There Homer with his nervous arms

Strikes the twanging harp of war,

And even the western splendour warms,

While the trumpets sound afar:

But, what creates the most intense surprise,

His soul looks out through renovated eyes.

Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells

The sweet majestic tone of Maro’s lyre:

The soul delighted on each accent dwells, –

Enraptur’d dwells, – not daring to respire,

The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre.

’Tis awful silence then again;

Expectant stand the spheres;

20

Breathless the laurelled peers,

Nor move, till ends the lofty strain,

Nor move till Milton’s tuneful thunders cease,

And leave once more the ravished heavens in peace.

Thou biddest Shakespeare wave his hand,

And quickly forward spring

The Passions – a terrific band –

And each vibrates the string

That with its tyrant temper best accords,

While from their Master’s lips pour forth the inspiring words.

30

A silver trumpet Spenser blows,

And, as its martial notes to silence flee,

From a virgin chorus flows

A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity.

’Tis still! Wild warblings from the Aeolian lyre

Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.

Next thy Tasso’s ardent numbers

Float along the pleasèd air,

Calling youth from idle slumbers,

Rousing them from Pleasure’s lair: –

40

Then o’er the strings his fingers gently move,

And melt the soul to pity and to love.

But when Thou joinest with the Nine,

And all the powers of song combine,

We listen here on earth:

The dying tones that fill the air,

And charm the ear of evening fair,

From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth.

Infatuate Britons, will you still proclaim

His memory, your direst, foulest shame?

Nor patriots revere?

Ah! when I hear each traitorous lying bell,

’Tis gallant Sidney’s, Russell’s, Vane’s sad knell,

That pains my wounded ear.

What though, while the wonders of nature exploring,

I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;

Nor listen to accents that, almost adoring,

Bless Cynthia’s face, the enthusiast’s friend:

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes,

With you, kindest friends, in idea I muse –

Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,

Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?

10

Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?

Ah! you list to the nightingale’s tender condoling,

Responsive to sylphs, in the moon-beamy air.

’Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,

I see you are treading the verge of the sea:

And now! ah, I see it – you just now are stooping

To pick up the keep-sake intended for me.

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,

Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven;

And, smiles with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,

20

The blessing of Tighe had melodiously given;

It had not created a warmer emotion

Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blessed with from you,

Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean

Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.

For, indeed, ’tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure

(And blissful is he who such happiness finds),

To possess but a span of the hour of leisure,

In elegant, pure, and aërial minds.

Hast thou from the caves of Golconda a gem,

Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain?

Bright as the humming-bird’s green diadem,

When it flutters in sunbeams that shine through a fountain?

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?

That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?

And splendidly marked with the story divine

Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold?

Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?

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Hast thou a sword that thine enemy’s smart is?

Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing?

And wear’st thou the shield of the famed Britomartis?

What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave,

Embroidered with many a spring-peering flower?

Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave?

And hastest thou now to that fair lady’s bower?

Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crowned;

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth!

I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound

20

In magical powers to bless, and to soothe.

On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair

A sunbeamy tale of a wreath, and a chain;

And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare

Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain.

This canopy mark: ’tis the work of a fay;

Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish,

When lovely Titania was far, far away,

And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish.

There, oft would he bring from his soft-sighing lute

30

Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listened;

The wondering spirits of heaven were mute,

And tears ’mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened.

In this little dome, all those melodies strange,

Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh;

Nor e’er will the notes from their tenderness change;

Nor e’er will the music of Oberon die.

So, when I am in a voluptuous vein,

I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose,

And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain,

40

Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.

Adieu, valiant Eric! with joy thou art crowned;

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,

I too have my blisses, which richly abound

In magical powers, to bless and to soothe.

O come, dearest Emma! the rose is full blown,

And the riches of Flora are lavishly strown,

The air is all softness, and crystal the streams,

And the West is resplendently clothèd in beams.

We will hasten, my fair, to the opening glades,

The quaintly carved seats, and the freshening shades,

Where the faeries are chanting their evening hymns,

And in the last sunbeam the sylph lightly swims.

And when thou art weary I’ll find thee a bed

10

Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head;

There, beauteous Emma, I’ll sit at thy feet,

While my story of love I enraptured repeat.

So fondly I’ll breathe, and so softly I’ll sigh,

Thou wilt think that some amorous Zephyr is nigh –

Ah, no! – as I breathe, I will press thy fair knee,

And then thou wilt know that the sigh comes from me.

Then why, lovely girl, should we lose all these blisses?

That mortal’s a fool who such happiness misses.

So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand,

20

With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly bland.

Stay, ruby-breasted warbler, stay,

And let me see thy sparkling eye,

Oh brush not yet the pearl-strung spray

Nor bow thy pretty head to fly.

Stay while I tell thee, fluttering thing,

That thou of love an emblem art,

Yes! patient plume thy little wing,

Whilst I my thoughts to thee impart.

When summer nights the dews bestow,

10

And summer suns enrich the day,

Thy notes the blossoms charm to blow,

Each opes delighted at thy lay.

So when in youth the eye’s dark glance

Speaks pleasure from its circle bright,

The tones of love our joys enhance

And make superior each delight.

And when bleak storms resistless rove,

And every rural bliss destroy,

Nought comforts then the leafless grove

20

But thy soft note – its only joy –

E’en so the words of love beguile

When Pleasure’s tree no longer bears,

And draw a soft endearing smile

Amid the gloom of grief and tears.

Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,

Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;

Without that modest softening that enhances

The downcast eye, repentant of the pain

That its mild light creates to heal again:

E’en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,

E’en then my soul with exultation dances

For that to love, so long, I’ve dormant lain:

But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,

10

Heavens! how desperately do I adore

Thy winning graces; – to be thy defender

I hotly burn – to be a Calidore –

A very Red Cross Knight – a stout Leander –

Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair,

Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,

Are things on which the dazzled senses rest

Till the fond, fixèd eyes forget they stare.

From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare

20

To turn my admiration, though unpossessed

They be of what is worthy, – though not dressed

In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.

Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark;

These lures I straight forget, – e’en ere I dine,

Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark

Such charms with mild intelligences shine,

My ear is open like a greedy shark,

To catch the tunings of a voice divine.

Ah! who can e’er forget so fair a being?

30

Who can forget her half-retiring sweets?

God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats

For man’s protection. Surely the All-seeing,

Who joys to see us with His gifts agreeing,

Will never give him pinions, who intreats

Such innocence to ruin, – who vilely cheats

A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing

One’s thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear

A lay that once I saw her hand awake,

Her form seems floating palpable, and near;

40

Had I e’er seen her from an arbour take

A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,

And o’er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.

O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,

Let it not be among the jumbled heap

Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep –

Nature’s observatory – whence the dell,

Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell,

May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep

‘Mongst boughs pavilioned, where the deer’s swift leap

Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.

But though I’ll gladly trace these scenes with thee,

10

Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,

Whose words are images of thoughts refined,

Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be

Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,

When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,

And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song;

Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view

A fate more pleasing, a delight more true

Than that in which the brother Poets joyed,

Who with combinèd powers, their wit employed

To raise a trophy to the drama’s muses.

The thought of this great partnership diffuses

Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling

10

Of all that’s high, and great, and good, and healing.

Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee

Past each horizon of fine poesy;

Fain would I echo back each pleasant note

As o’er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float

‘Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted,

Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted –

But ’tis impossible; far different cares

Beckon me sternly from soft ‘Lydian airs’,

And hold my faculties so long in thrall,

20

That I am oft in doubt whether at all

I shall again see Phoebus in the morning:

Or flushed Aurora in the roseate dawning!

Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream;

Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam;

Or again witness what with thee I’ve seen,

The dew by fairy feet swept from the green,

After a night of some quaint jubilee

Which every elf and fay had come to see:

When bright processions took their airy march

30

Beneath the curvèd moon’s triumphal arch.

But might I now each passing moment give

To the coy muse, with me she would not live

In this dark city, nor would condescend

‘Mid contradictions her delights to lend.

Should e’er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind,

Ah! surely it must be whene’er I find

Some flowery spot, sequestered, wild, romantic,

That often must have seen a poet frantic;

Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing,

40

And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing;

Where the dark-leaved laburnum’s drooping clusters

Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres,

And intertwined the cassia’s arms unite,

With its own drooping buds, but very white;

Where on one side are covert branches hung,

‘Mong which the nightingales have always sung

In leafy quiet: where to pry, aloof,

Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof,

Would be to find where violet beds were nestling,

50

And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling.

There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy,

To say ‘joy not too much in all that’s bloomy’.

Yet this is vain – O Mathew, lend thy aid

To find a place where I may greet the maid –

Where we may soft humanity put on,

And sit and rhyme, and think on Chatterton;

And that warm-hearted Shakespeare sent to meet him

Four laurelled spirits, heaven-ward to entreat him.

With reverence would we speak of all the sages

60

Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages:

And thou shouldst moralize on Milton’s blindness,

And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness

To those who strove with the bright golden wing

Of genius, to flap away each sting

Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell

Of those who in the cause of freedom fell;

Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell;

Of him whose name to ev’ry heart’s a solace,

High-minded and unbending William Wallace.

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While to the rugged north our musing turns

We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns.

Felton! without incitements such as these,

How vain for me the niggard Muse to tease:

For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace,

And make ‘a sun-shine in a shady place’:

For thou wast once a floweret blooming wild,

Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefiled,

Whence gush the streams of song: in happy hour

Came chaste Diana from her shady bower,

80

Just as the sun was from the east uprising;

And, as for him some gift she was devising,

Beheld thee, plucked thee, cast thee in the stream

To meet her glorious brother’s greeting beam.

I marvel much that thou hast never told

How, from a flower, into a fish of gold

Apollo changed thee; how thou next didst seem

A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream;

And when thou first didst in that mirror trace

The placid features of a human face:

90

That thou hast never told thy travels strange,

And all the wonders of the mazy range

O’er pebbly crystal, and o’er golden sands,

Kissing thy daily food from Naiad’s pearly hands.

Hadst thou lived in days of old,

O what wonders had been told

Of thy lively countenance,

And thy humid eyes that dance

In the midst of their own brightness,

In the very fane of lightness.

Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,

Picture out each lovely meaning:

In a dainty bend they lie,

10

Like to streaks across the sky,

Or the feathers from a crow,

Fallen on a bed of snow.

Of thy dark hair that extends

Into many graceful bends:

As the leaves of hellebore

Turn to whence they sprung before

And behind each ample curl

Peeps the richness of a pearl.

Downward too flows many a tress

20

With a glossy waviness;

Full, and round like globes that rise

From the censer to the skies

Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness

Of thy honeyed voice; the neatness

Of thine ankle lightly turned:

With those beauties, scarce discerned,

Kept with such sweet privacy,

That they seldom meet the eye

Of the little loves that fly

30

Round about with eager pry.

Saving when, with freshening lave,

Thou dipp’st them in the taintless wave;

Like twin water-lilies, born

In the coolness of the morn.

O, if thou hadst breathèd then,

Now the Muses had been ten.

Couldst thou wish for lineage higher

Than twin sister of Thalia?

At least for ever, evermore,

40

Will I call the Graces four.

Hadst thou lived when chivalry

Lifted up her lance on high,

Tell me what thou wouldst have been?

Ah! I see the silver sheen

Of thy broidered, floating vest

Covering half thine ivory breast;

Which, O heavens! I should see,

But that cruel destiny

Has placed a golden cuirass there;

50

Keeping secret what is fair.

Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested

Thy locks in knightly casque are rested:

O’er which bend four milky plumes

Like the gentle lily’s blooms

Springing from a costly vase.

See with what a stately pace

Comes thine alabaster steed;

Servant of heroic deed!

O’er his loins, his trappings glow

60

Like the northern lights on snow.

Mount his back! thy sword unsheathe!

Sign of the enchanter’s death;

Bane of every wicked spell;

Silencer of dragon’s yell.

Alas! thou this wilt never do –

Thou art an enchantress too,

And wilt surely never spill

Blood of those whose eyes can kill.

Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs

Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell

Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well

Would passion arm me for the enterprise:

But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;

No cuirass glistens on my bosom’s swell;

I am no happy shepherd of the dell

Whose lips have trembled with a maiden’s eyes.

Yet must I dote upon thee – call thee sweet,

10

Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honeyed roses

When steeped in dew rich to intoxication.

Ah! I will taste that dew, for me ’tis meet,

And when the moon her pallid face discloses,

I’ll gather some by spells, and incantation.

Give me Women, Wine, and Snuff

Until I cry out, ‘Hold, enough!’

You may do so sans objection

Till the day of resurrection;

For, bless my beard, they aye shall be

My beloved Trinity.

Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;

For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye.

Not like the formal crest of latter days:

But bending in a thousand graceful ways –

So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand,

Or e’en the touch of Archimago’s wand,

Could charm them into such an attitude.

We must think rather, that in playful mood,

Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight,

10

To show this wonder of its gentle might.

Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;

For while I muse, the lance points slantingly

Athwart the morning air: some lady sweet,

Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,

From the worn top of some old battlement

Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent:

And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,

Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.

Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would take,

20

It is reflected, clearly, in a lake,

With the young ashen boughs, ’gainst which it rests,

And th’ half-seen mossiness of linnets’ nests.

Ah! shall I ever tell its cruelty,

When the fire flashes from a warrior’s eye,

And his tremendous hand is grasping it,

And his dark brow for very wrath is knit?

Or when his spirit, with more calm intent,

Leaps to the honours of a tournament,

And makes the gazers round about the ring

30

Stare at the grandeur of the balancing?

No, no! this is far off: – then how shall I

Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy,

Which linger yet about lone gothic arches,

In dark green ivy, and among wild larches?

How sing the splendour of the revelries,

When butts of wine are drunk off to the lees?

And that bright lance, against the fretted wall,

Beneath the shade of stately banneral,

Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield

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Where ye may see a spur in bloody field?

Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces

Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces;

Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens,

Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens.

Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry –

Or wherefore comes that steed so proudly by?

Wherefore more proudly does the gentle Knight

Rein in the swelling of his ample might?

Spenser! thy brows are archèd, open, kind,

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And come like a clear sun-rise to my mind;

And always does my heart with pleasure dance,

When I think on thy noble countenance:

Where never yet was aught more earthly seen

Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green.

Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully

Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh

My daring steps: or if thy tender care,

Thus startled unaware,

Be jealous that the foot of other wight

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Should madly follow that bright path of light

Traced by thy loved Libertas, he will speak,

And tell thee that my prayer is very meek;

That I will follow with due reverence,

And start with awe at mine own strange pretence.

Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope

To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope,

The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers,

Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers.

Young Calidore is paddling o’er the lake,

His healthful spirit eager and awake

To feel the beauty of a silent eve,

Which seemed full loth this happy world to leave,

The light dwelt o’er the scene so lingeringly.

He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky,

And smiles at the far clearness all around,

Until his heart is well nigh over-wound,

And turns for calmness to the pleasant green

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Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean

So elegantly o’er the waters’ brim

And show their blossoms trim.

Scarce can his clear and nimble eyesight follow

The freaks, and dartings of the black-winged swallow,

Delighting much, to see it half at rest,

Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast

‘Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon,

The widening circles into nothing gone.

And now the sharp keel of his little boat

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Comes up with ripple, and with easy float,

And glides into a bed of water-lilies:

Broad-leaved are they and their white canopies

Are upward turned to catch the heavens’ dew.

Near to a little island’s point they grew;

Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view

Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore

Went off in gentle windings to the hoar

And light blue mountains: but no breathing man

With a warm heart, and eye prepared to scan

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Nature’s clear beauty, could pass lightly by

Objects that looked out so invitingly

On either side. These, gentle Calidore

Greeted, as he had known them long before.

The sidelong view of swelling leafiness,

Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress;

Whence ever and anon the jay outsprings,

And scales upon the beauty of its wings.

The lonely turret, shattered, and outworn,

Stands venerably proud – too proud to mourn

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Its long lost grandeur: fir trees grow around,

Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground.

The little chapel with the cross above

Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove,

That on the window spreads his feathers light,

And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight.

Green tufted islands casting their soft shades

Across the lake; sequestered leafy glades,

That through the dimness of their twilight show

Large dock leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow

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Of the wild cat’s-eyes, or the silvery stems

Of delicate birch trees, or long grass which hems

A little brook. The youth had long been viewing

These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing

The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught

A trumpet’s silver voice. Ah! it was fraught

With many joys for him. The warder’s ken

Had found white coursers prancing in the glen:

Friends very dear to him he soon will see;

So pushes off his boat most eagerly,

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And soon upon the lake he skims along,

Deaf to the nightingale’s first undersong;

Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly:

His spirit flies before him so completely.

And now he turns a jutting point of land,

Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand:

Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches,

Before the point of his light shallop reaches

Those marble steps that through the water dip:

Now over them he goes with hasty trip,

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And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors:

Anon he leaps along the oaken floors

Of halls and corridors.

Delicious sounds! those little bright-eyed things

That float about the air on azure wings,

Had been less heartfelt by him than the clang

Of clattering hoofs. Into the court he sprang,

Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain,

Were slanting out their necks with loosened rein;

While from beneath the threatening portcullis

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They brought their happy burthens. What a kiss,

What gentle squeeze he gave each lady’s hand!

How tremblingly their delicate ankles spanned!

Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone,

While whisperings of affection

Made him delay to let their tender feet

Come to the earth. With an incline so sweet

From their low palfreys o’er his neck they bent:

And whether there were tears of languishment,

Or that the evening dew had pearled their tresses,

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He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses

With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye,

All the soft luxury

That nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand,

Fair as some wonder out of fairy land,

Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers

Of whitest cassia, fresh from summer showers:

And this he fondled with his happy cheek

As if for joy he would no further seek –

When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond

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Came to his ear, like something from beyond

His present being: so he gently drew

His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new,

From their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending,

Thanked heaven that his joy was never ending,

While ’gainst his forehead he devoutly pressed

A hand heaven made to succour the distressed;

A hand that from the world’s bleak promontory

Had lifted Calidore for deeds of Glory.

Amid the pages, and the torches’ glare,

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There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair

Of his proud horse’s mane. He was withal

A man of elegance, and stature tall,

So that the waving of his plumes would be

High as the berries of a wild ash tree,

Or as the wingèd cap of Mercury.

His armour was so dexterously wrought

In shape, that sure no living man had thought

It hard, and heavy steel, but that indeed

It was some glorious form, some splendid weed,

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In which a spirit new come from the skies

Might live, and show itself to human eyes.

’Tis the far-famed, the brave Sir Gondibert,

Said the good man to Calidore alert;

While the young warrior with a step of grace

Came up – a courtly smile upon his face,

And mailèd hand held out, ready to greet

The large-eyed wonder and ambitious heat

Of the aspiring boy; who as he led

Those smiling ladies, often turned his head

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To admire the visor arched so gracefully

Over a knightly brow; while they went by

The lamps that from the high-roofed hall were pendent,

And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent.

Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated;

The sweet-lipped ladies have already greeted

All the green leaves that round the window clamber,

To show their purple stars, and bells of amber.

Sir Gondibert had doffed his shining steel,

Gladdening in the free and airy feel

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Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond

Is looking round about him with a fond

And placid eye, young Calidore is burning

To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning

Of all unworthiness, and how the strong of arm

Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm

From lovely woman: while brimful of this,

He gave each damsel’s hand so warm a kiss,

And had such manly ardour in his eye,

That each at other looked half-staringly;

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And then their features started into smiles

Sweet as blue heavens o’er enchanted isles.

Softly the breezes from the forest came,

Softly they blew aside the taper’s flame;

Clear was the song from Philomel’s far bower;

Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower;

Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpet’s tone;

Lovely the moon in ether, all alone:

Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals,

As that of busy spirits when the portals

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Are closing in the west, or that soft humming

We hear around when Hesperus is coming.

Sweet be their sleep.…

To one who has been long in city pent,

’Tis very sweet to look into the fair

And open face of heaven – to breathe a prayer

Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with heart’s content,

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair

And gentle tale of love and languishment?

Returning home at evening, with an ear

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Catching the notes of Philomel – an eye

Watching the sailing cloudlet’s bright career,

He mourns that day so soon has glided by:

E’en like the passage of an angel’s tear

That falls through the clear ether silently.

O! how I love, on a fair summer’s eve,

When streams of light pour down the golden west,

And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest

The silver clouds, far – far away to leave

All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve

From little cares; to find, with easy quest,

A fragrant wild, with Nature’s beauty dressed,

And there into delight my soul deceive.

There warm my breast with patriotic lore,

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Musing on Milton’s fate – on Sidney’s bier –

Till their stern forms before my mind arise:

Perhaps on the wing of Poesy upsoar,

Full often dropping a delicious tear,

When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.

As late I rambled in the happy fields –

What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew

From his lush clover covert, when anew

Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields –

I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,

A fresh-blown musk-rose; ’twas the first that threw

Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew

As is the wand that queen Titania wields.

And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,

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I thought the garden-rose it far excelled:

But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me

My sense with their deliciousness was spelled:

Soft voices had they, that with tender plea

Whispered of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquelled.

Many the wonders I this day have seen:

The sun, when first he kissed away the tears

That filled the eyes of morn – the laurelled peers

Who from the feathery gold of evening lean –

The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,

Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears –

Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears

Must think on what will be, and what has been.

E’en now, dear George, while this for you I write,

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Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping

So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,

And she her half-discovered revels keeping.

But what, without the social thought of thee,

Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?

Full many a dreary hour have I passed,

My brain bewildered, and my mind o’ercast

With heaviness; in seasons when I’ve thought

No sphery strains by me could e’er be caught

From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze

On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;

Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,

Pry ’mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:

That I should never hear Apollo’s song,

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Though feathery clouds were floating all along

The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,

The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:

That the still murmur of the honey bee

Would never teach a rural song to me:

That the bright glance from beauty’s eyelids slanting

Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,

Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold

Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times, when those that love the bay,

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Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;

A sudden glow comes on them, naught they see

In water, earth, or air, but poesy.

It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,

(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,)

That when a Poet is in such a trance,

In air he sees white coursers paw, and prance,

Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,

Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel,

And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,

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Is the swift opening of their wide portal,

When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,

Whose tones reach naught on earth but Poet’s ear.

When these enchanted portals open wide,

And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,

The Poet’s eye can reach those golden halls,

And view the glory of their festivals:

Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem

Fit for the silvering of a seraph’s dream;

Their rich brimmed goblets, that incessant run

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Like the bright spots that move about the sun;

And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar

Pours with the lustre of a falling star.

Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers,

Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers –

And ’tis right just, for well Apollo knows

‘Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.

All that’s revealed from that far seat of blisses,

Is, the clear fountains’ interchanging kisses,

As gracefully descending, light and thin,

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Like silver streaks across a dolphin’s fin,

When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,

And sports with half his tail above the waves.

These wonders strange he sees, and many more,

Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.

Should he upon an evening ramble fare

With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,

Would he naught see but the dark, silent blue

With all its diamonds trembling through and through?

Or the coy moon, when in the waviness

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Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,

And staidly paces higher up, and higher,

Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?

Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight –

The revelries, and mysteries of night:

And should I ever see them, I will tell you

Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.

These are the living pleasures of the bard:

But richer far posterity’s award.

What does he murmur with his latest breath,

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While his proud eye looks through the film of death?

‘What though I leave this dull, and earthly mould,

Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold

With after times. The patriot shall feel

My stern alarum, and unsheathe his steel;

Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers

To startle princes from their easy slumbers.

The sage will mingle with each moral theme

My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem

With lofty periods when my verses fire him,

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And then I’ll stoop from heaven to inspire him.

Lays have I left of such a dear delight

That maids will sing them on their bridal night.

Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,

When they have tired their gentle limbs with play,

And formed a snowy circle on the grass,

And placed in midst of all that lovely lass

Who chosen is their queen – with her fine head

Crownèd with flowers purple, white, and red:

For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,

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Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying.

Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,

A bunch of violets full blown, and double,

Serenely sleep: she from a casket takes

A little book and then a joy awakes

About each youthful heart, with stifled cries,

And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes –

For she’s to read a tale of hopes, and fears,

One that I fostered in my youthful years.

The pearls, that on each glistening circlet sleep,

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Gush ever and anon with silent creep,

Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest

Shall the dear babe, upon its mother’s breast,

Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!

Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view:

Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions,

Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions.

Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,

That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,

And warm thy sons!’ Ah, my dear friend and brother,

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Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother,

For tasting joys like these, sure I should be

Happier, and dearer to society.

At times, ’tis true, I’ve felt relief from pain

When some bright thought has darted through my brain:

Through all that day I’ve felt a greater pleasure

Than if I’d brought to light a hidden treasure.

As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them,

I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.

Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment,

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Stretched on the grass at my best loved employment

Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought

While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.

E’en now I’m pillowed on a bed of flowers

That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers

Above the ocean-waves. The stalks, and blades,

Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades.

On one side is a field of drooping oats,

Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats,

So pert and useless, that they bring to mind

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The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.

And on the other side, outspread, is seen

Ocean’s blue mantle streaked with purple, and green.

Now ’tis I see a canvassed ship, and now

Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.

I see the lark down-dropping to his nest

And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest;

For when no more he spreads his feathers free,

His breast is dancing on the restless sea.

Now I direct my eyes into the west,

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Which at this moment is in sunbeams dressed:

Why westward turn? ’Twas but to say adieu!

’Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,

And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;

He slants his neck beneath the waters bright

So silently, it seems a beam of light

Come from the galaxy: anon he sports –

With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,

Or ruffles all the surface of the lake

In striving from its crystal face to take

Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure

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In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.

But not a moment can he there insure them,

Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;

For down they rush as though they would be free,

And drop like hours into eternity.

Just like that bird am I in loss of time,

Whene’er I venture on the stream of rhyme;

With shattered boat, oar snapped, and canvas rent

I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;

Still scooping up the water with my fingers,

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In which a trembling diamond never lingers.

By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see

Why I have never penned a line to thee:

Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,

And little fit to please a classic ear;

Because my wine was of too poor a savour

For one whose palate gladdens in the flavour

Of sparkling Helicon – small good it were

To take him to a desert rude, and bare,

Who had on Baiae’s shore reclined at ease,

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While Tasso’s page was floating in a breeze

That gave soft music from Armida’s bowers,

Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:

Small good to one who had by Mulla’s stream

Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;

Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,

And lovely Una in a leafy nook,

And Archimago leaning o’er his book:

Who had of all that’s sweet tasted, and seen,

From silvery ripple, up to beauty’s queen;

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From the sequestered haunts of gay Titania,

To the blue dwelling of divine Urania :

One, who, of late, had ta’en sweet forest walks

With him who elegantly chats, and talks –

The wronged Libertas – who has told you stories

Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo’s glories;

Of troops chivalrous prancing through a city,

And tearful ladies made for love, and pity:

With many else which I have never known.

Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown

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Slowly, or rapidly – unwilling still

For you to try my dull, unlearned quill.

Nor should I now, but that I’ve known you long,

That you first taught me all the sweets of song:

The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine;

What swelled with pathos, and what right divine;

Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,

And float along like birds o’er summer seas;

Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness;

Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve’s fair slenderness.

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Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly

Up to its climax and then dying proudly?

Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,

Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?

Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,

The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?

Showed me that epic was of all the king,

Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn’s ring?

You too upheld the veil from Clio’s beauty,

And pointed out the patriot’s stern duty;

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The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;

The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell

Upon a tyrant’s head. Ah! had I never seen,

Or known your kindness, what might I have been?

What my enjoyments in my youthful years,

Bereft of all that now my life endears?

And can I e’er these benefits forget?

And can I e’er repay the friendly debt?

No, doubly no – yet should these rhymings please,

I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease:

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For I have long time been my fancy feeding

With hopes that you would one day think the reading

Of my rough verses not an hour misspent;

Should it e’er be so, what a rich content!

Some weeks have passed since last I saw the spires

In lucent Thames reflected – warm desires

To see the sun o’er-peep the eastern dimness,

And morning shadows streaking into slimness

Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water;

To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter;

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To feel the air that plays about the hills,

And sips its freshness from the little rills;

To see high, golden corn wave in the light

When Cynthia smiles upon a summer’s night,

And peers among the cloudlets jet and white,

As though she were reclining in a bed

Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed –

No sooner had I stepped into these pleasures

Than I began to think of rhymes and measures:

The air that floated by me seemed to say

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‘Write! thou wilt never have a better day.’

And so I did. When many lines I’d written,

Though with their grace I was not oversmitten,

Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I’d better

Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter.

Such an attempt required an inspiration

Of a peculiar sort – a consummation –

Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been

Verses from which the soul would never wean:

But many days have passed since last my heart

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Was warmed luxuriously by divine Mozart,

By Arne delighted, or by Handel maddened,

Or by the song of Erin pierced and saddened,

What time you were before the music sitting,

And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.

Since I have walked with you through shady lanes

That freshly terminate in open plains,

And revelled in a chat that ceasèd not

When at night-fall among your books we got:

No, nor when supper came, nor after that –

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Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;

No, nor till cordially you shook my hand

Mid-way between our homes. Your accents bland

Still sounded in my ears, when I no more

Could hear your footsteps touch the gravelly floor.

Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;

You changed the footpath for the grassy plain.

In those still moments I have wished you joys

That well you know to honour – ‘Life’s very toys

With him,’ said I, ‘will take a pleasant charm;

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It cannot be that aught will work him harm.’

These thoughts now come o’er me with all their might –

Again I shake your hand – friend Charles, good night.

How many bards gild the lapses of time!

A few of them have ever been the food

Of my delighted fancy – I could brood

Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime:

And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,

These will in throngs before my mind intrude:

But no confusion, no disturbance rude

Do they occasion; ’tis a pleasing chime.

So the unnumbered sounds that evening store;

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The songs of birds, the whispering of the leaves,

The voice of waters, the great bell that heaves

With solemn sound, and thousand others more,

That distance of recognizance bereaves,

Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

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When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific – and all his men

Looked at each other with a wild surmise –

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear

From my glad bosom: now from gloominess

I mount for ever – not an atom less

Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.

No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here

In the Sun’s eye, and ’gainst my temples press

Apollo’s very leaves, woven to bless

By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.

Lo! who dares say, ‘Do this’? Who dares call down

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My will from its high purpose? Who say, ‘Stand’,

Or ‘Go’? This very moment I would frown

On abject Caesars – not the stoutest band

Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:

Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean

On heaped up flowers, in regions clear, and far;

Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,

Or hand of hymning angel, when ’tis seen

The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:

And let there glide by many a pearly car,

Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,

And half-discovered wings, and glances keen.

The while let music wander round my ears,

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And as it reaches each delicious ending,

Let me write down a line of glorious tone,

And full of many wonders of the spheres:

For what a height my spirit is contending!

’Tis not content so soon to be alone.

Keen, fitful gusts are whispering here and there

Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;

The stars look very cold about the sky,

And I have many miles on foot to fare.

Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,

Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,

Or of the distance from home’s pleasant lair:

For I am brimful of the friendliness

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That in a little cottage I have found;

Of fair-haired Milton’s eloquent distress,

And all his love for gentle Lycid drowned;

Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crowned.

Highmindedness, a jealousy for good,

A loving-kindness for the great man’s fame,

Dwells here and there with people of no name,

In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:

And where we think the truth least understood,

Oft may be found a ‘singleness of aim’,

That ought to frighten into hooded shame

A money-mongering, pitiable brood.

How glorious this affection for the cause

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Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly!

What when a stout unbending champion awes

Envy, and Malice to their native sty?

Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause,

Proud to behold him in his country’s eye.

Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,

And their faint cracklings o’er our silence creep

Like whispers of the household gods that keep

A gentle empire o’er fraternal souls.

And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,

Your eyes are fixed, as in poetic sleep,

Upon the lore so voluble and deep,

That aye at fall of night our care condoles.

This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice

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That thus it passes smoothly, quietly.

Many such eves of gently whispering noise

May we together pass, and calmly try

What are this world’s true joys – ere the great voice,

From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.

Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;

He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,

Who on Helvellyn’s summit, wide awake,

Catches his freshness from Archangel’s wing:

He of the rose, the violet, the spring,

The social smile, the chain for Freedom’s sake:

And lo! – whose steadfastness would never take

A meaner sound than Raphael’s whispering.

And other spirits there are standing apart

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Upon the forehead of the age to come;

These, these will give the world another heart,

And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum

Of mighty workings? –

Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,

The air was cooling, and so very still,

That the sweet buds which with a modest pride

Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,

Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,

Had not yet lost those starry diadems

Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.

The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,

And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept

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On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept

A little noiseless noise among the leaves,

Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:

For not the faintest motion could be seen

Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green.

There was wide wandering for the greediest eye,

To peer about upon variety;

Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim,

And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;

To picture out the quaint, and curious bending

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Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;

Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,

Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.

I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free

As though the fanning wings of Mercury

Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,

And many pleasures to my vision started;

So I straightway began to pluck a posy

Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.

A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;

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Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;

And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,

And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them

Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,

That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,

And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind

Upon their summer thrones; there too should be

The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,

That with a score of light green brethren shoots

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From the quaint mossiness of agèd roots:

Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters

Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters

The spreading blue-bells – it may haply mourn

That such fair clusters should be rudely torn

From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly

By infant hands, left on the path to die.

Open afresh your round of starry folds,

Ye ardent marigolds!

Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,

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For great Apollo bids

That in these days your praises should be sung

On many harps, which he has lately strung;

And when again your dewiness he kisses,

Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:

So haply when I rove in some far vale,

His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:

With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,

And taper fingers catching at all things,

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To bind them all about with tiny rings.

Linger awhile upon some bending planks

That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks,

And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings:

They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings.

How silent comes the water round that bend;

Not the minutest whisper does it send

To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grass

Slowly across the chequered shadows pass –

Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach

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To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach

A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds;

Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,

Staying their wavy bodies ’gainst the streams,

To taste the luxury of sunny beams

Tempered with coolness. How they ever wrestle

With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle

Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.

If you but scantily hold out the hand,

That very instant not one will remain;

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But turn your eye, and they are there again.

The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,

And cool themselves among the emerald tresses;

The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,

And moisture, that the bowery green may live:

So keeping up an interchange of favours,

Like good men in the truth of their behaviours.

Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop

From low-hung branches; little space they stop;

But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek –

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Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:

Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,

Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.

Were I in such a place, I sure should pray

That naught less sweet might call my thoughts away,

Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown

Fanning away the dandelion’s down;

Than the light music of her nimble toes

Patting against the sorrel as she goes.

How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught

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Playing in all her innocence of thought.

O let me lead her gently o’er the brook,

Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;

O let me for one moment touch her wrist;

Let me one moment to her breathing list;

And as she leaves me may she often turn

Her fair eyes looking through her locks aubùrn.

What next? A tuft of evening primroses,

O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes;

O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,

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But that ’tis ever startled by the leap

Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting

Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;

Or by the moon lifting her silver rim

Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim

Coming into the blue with all her light.

O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight

Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;

Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,

Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,

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Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,

Lover of loneliness, and wandering,

Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!

Thee must I praise above all other glories

That smile us on to tell delightful stories.

For what has made the sage or poet write

But the fair paradise of Nature’s light?

In the calm grandeur of a sober line,

We see the waving of the mountain pine;

And when a tale is beautifully staid,

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We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:

When it is moving on luxurious wings,

The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:

Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,

And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;

O’er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar,

And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;

While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles

Charms us at once away from all our troubles:

So that we feel uplifted from the world,

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Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and curled.

So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went

On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;

What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips

First touched; what amorous, and fondling nips

They gave each other’s cheeks; with all their sighs,

And how they kissed each other’s tremulous eyes;

The silver lamp – the ravishment – the wonder –

The darkness – loneliness – the fearful thunder;

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,

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To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne.

So did he feel, who pulled the boughs aside,

That we might look into a forest wide,

To catch a glimpse of Fauns and Dryadès

Coming with softest rustle through the trees,

And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,

Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:

Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled

Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.

Poor nymph – poor Pan – how he did weep to find,

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Naught but a lovely sighing of the wind

Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain,

Full of sweet desolation – balmy pain.

What first inspired a bard of old to sing

Narcissus pining o’er the untainted spring?

In some delicious ramble, he had found

A little space, with boughs all woven round;

And in the midst of all, a clearer pool

Than e’er reflected in its pleasant cool

The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping

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Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.

And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,

A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,

Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness,

To woo its own sad image into nearness:

Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;

But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.

So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot,

Some fainter gleamings o’er his fancy shot;

Nor was it long ere he had told the tale

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Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo’s bale.

Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew

That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,

That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,

Coming ever to bless

The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing

Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing

From out the middle air, from flowery nests,

And from the pillowy silkiness that rests

Full in the speculation of the stars.

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Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;

Into some wondrous region he had gone,

To search for thee, divine Endymion!

He was a Poet, sure a lover too,

Who stood on Latmos’ top, what time there blew

Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;

And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow

A hymn from Dian’s temple; while upswelling,

The incense went to her own starry dwelling.

But though her face was clear as infant’s eyes,

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Though she stood smiling o’er the sacrifice,

The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,

Wept that such beauty should be desolate:

So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,

And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.

Queen of the wide air! thou most lovely queen

Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!

As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,

So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.

O for three words of honey, that I might

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Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,

Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels,

And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes,

Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.

The evening weather was so bright and clear,

That men of health were of unusual cheer;

Stepping like Homer at the trumpet’s call,

Or young Apollo on the pedestal:

And lovely women were as fair and warm,

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As Venus looking sideways in alarm.

The breezes were ethereal, and pure,

And crept through half-closed lattices to cure

The languid sick; it cooled their fevered sleep,

And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.

Soon they awoke clear-eyed: nor burnt with thirsting,

Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:

And springing up, they met the wondering sight

Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;

Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,

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And on their placid foreheads part the hair.

Young men, and maidens at each other gazed

With hands held back, and motionless, amazed

To see the brightness in each other’s eyes;

And so they stood, filled with a sweet surprise,

Until their tongues were loosed in Poesy.

Therefore no lover did of anguish die:

But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,

Made silken ties, that never may be broken.

Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses,

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That followed thine, and thy dear shepherd’s kisses:

Was there a Poet born? – but now no more,

My wandering spirit must no further soar.