The roots of old trees form its ceiling; and on its sides are innumerable cyphers, among which the author discovered his own and those of his brothers, cut by the hand of their childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter.
To this place the Author, during the Summer months of the year 1793, conducted a party of young ladies; one of whom, of stature elegantly small, and of complexion colourless yet clear, was proclaimed the Faery Queen. On which occasion the following Irregular Ode was written.
I
Whom the untaught Shepherds call
Pixies in their madrigal,
Fancy’s children, here we dwell:
Welcome, Ladies! to our cell.
Here the wren of softest note
Builds its nest and warbles well;
Here the blackbird strains his throat;
Welcome, Ladies! to our cell.
II
When fades the moon to shadowy-pale,
10 And scuds the cloud before the gale,
Ere the Morn, all gem-bedight,
Hath streak’d the East with rosy light,
We sip the furze-flower’s fragrant dews
Clad in robes of rainbow hues:
Or sport amid the shooting gleams
To the tune of distant-tinkling teams,
While lusty Labour scouting sorrow
Bids the Dame a glad good-morrow,
Who jogs the accustomed road along,
20 And paces cheery to her cheering song.
III
But not our filmy pinion
We scorch amid the blaze of day,
When Noontide’s fiery-tressed minion
Flashes the fervid ray.
Aye from the sultry heat
We to the cave retreat
O’ercanopied by huge roots intertwined
With wildest texture, blackened o’er with age:
Round them their mantle green the ivies bind,
30 Beneath whose foliage pale
Fanned by the unfrequent gale
We shield us from the Tyrant’s mid-day rage.
IV
Thither, while the murmuring throng
Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song,
By Indolence and Fancy brought,
A youthful Bard, ‘unknown to Fame’,
Wooes the Queen of Solemn Thought,
And heaves the gentle misery of a sigh
Gazing with tearful eye,
40 As round our sandy grot appear
Many a rudely sculptured name
To pensive Memory dear!
Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctured hue
We glance before his view:
O’er his hush’d soul our soothing witcheries shed
And twine the future garland round his head.
V
When Evening’s dusky car
Crowned with her dewy star
Steals o’er the fading sky in shadowy flight;
50 On leaves of aspen trees
We tremble to the breeze
Veiled from the grosser ken of mortal sight.
Or, haply, at the visionary hour,
Along our wildly-bowered sequestered walk,
We listen to the enamoured rustic’s talk;
Heave with the heavings of the maiden’s breast,
Where young-eyed Loves have hid their turtle nest;
Or guide of soul-subduing power
The glance, that from the half-confessing eye
60 Darts the fond question or the soft reply.
VI
Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale
We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank;
Or, silent-sandal’d, pay our defter court,
Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale,
Where wearied with his flower-caressing sport,
Supine he slumbers on a violet bank;
Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam
By lonely Otter’s sleep-persuading stream;
Or where his wave with loud unquiet song
70 Dashed o’er the rocky channel froths along;
Or where, his silver waters smoothed to rest,
The tall tree’s shadow sleeps upon his breast.
VII
Hence thou lingerer, Light!
Eve saddens into Night.
Mother of wildly-working dreams! we view
The sombre hours, that round thee stand
With down-cast eyes (a duteous band!)
Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew.
Sorceress of the ebon throne!
80 Thy power the Pixies own,
When round thy raven brow
Heaven’s lucent roses glow,
And clouds in watery colours drest
Float in light drapery o’er thy sable vest:
What time the pale moon sheds a softer day
Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam:
For mid the quivering light ’tis ours to play,
Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream.
VIII
Welcome, Ladies! to the cell
90 Where the blameless Pixies dwell:
But thou, sweet Nymph! proclaimed our Faery Queen,
With what obeisance meet
Thy presence shall we greet?
For lo! attendant on thy steps are seen
Graceful Ease in artless stole,
And white-robed Purity of soul,
With Honour’s softer mien;
Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair,
And meek-eyed Pity eloquently fair,
100 Whose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view,
As snow-drop wet with dew.
IX
Unboastful Maid! though now the Lily pale
Transparent grace thy beauties meek;
Yet ere again along the impurpling vale,
The purpling vale and elfin-haunted grove,
Young Zephyr his fresh flowers profusely throws,
We’ll tinge with livelier hues thy cheek;
And, haply, from the nectar-breathing Rose
Extract a Blush for Love!
To a Young Ass,
ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT
Poor little Foal of an oppressèd Race!
I love the languid Patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dullèd Spirits hath dismayed,
That never thou dost sport along the glade?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?
Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate,
10 Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?
The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
‘Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes?’
Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain
To see thy wretched Mother’s shortened Chain?
And truly, very piteous is her Lot –
Chained to a Log within a narrow spot,
Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting Green!
Poor Ass! thy master should have learnt to show
20 Pity – best taught by fellowship of Woe!
For much I fear me that He lives like thee,
Half famished in a land of Luxury!
How askingly its footsteps hither bend;
It seems to say, ‘And have I then one Friend?’
Innocent Foal! thou poor despised Forlorn!
I hail thee Brother – spite of the fool’s scorn!
And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell
Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,
30 And Laughter tickle Plenty’s ribless side!
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
Yea! and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,
Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest
The aching of pale Fashion’s vacant breast!
Lines on a Friend
WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER INDUCED BY CALUMNIOUS REPORTS
Edmund! thy grave with aching eye I scan,
And inly groan for Heaven’s poor outcast – Man!
’Tis tempest all or gloom: in early youth
If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth
We force to start amid her feigned caress
Vice, siren-hag! in native ugliness;
A Brother’s fate will haply rouse the tear,
And on we go in heaviness and fear!
But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure’s bower
10 Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour,
The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground,
And mingled forms of Misery rise around:
Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast,
That courts the future woe to hide the past;
Remorse, the poisoned arrow in his side,
And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close allied:
Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping pain,
Darts her hot lightning-flash athwart the brain.
Rest, injur’d shade! Shall Slander squatting near
20 Spit her cold venom in a dead Man’s ear?
’Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow
In Merit’s joy, and Poverty’s meek woe;
Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies,
The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies.
Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew,
And in thy heart they withered! Such chill dew
Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed;
And Vanity her filmy net-work spread,
With eye that rolled around in asking gaze,
30 And tongue that trafficked in the trade of praise.
Thy follies such! the hard world marked them well!
Were they more wise, the proud who never fell?
Rest, injured shade! the poor man’s grateful prayer
On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear.
As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass,
And sit me down upon its recent grass,
With introverted eye I contemplate
Similitude of soul, perhaps of – fate;
To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assigned
40 Energic Reason and a shaping mind,
The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot’s part,
And Pity’s sigh, that breathes the gentle heart.
Sloth-jaundiced all! and from my graspless hand
Drop Friendship’s precious pearls, like hour-glass sand.
I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,
A dreamy pang in Morning’s feverous doze.
Is this piled earth our Being’s passless mound?
Tell me, cold grave! is death with poppies crowned?
Tired Sentinel! mid fitful starts I nod,
50 And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod!
To a Friend
TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM
Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme
Elaborate and swelling: yet the heart
Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers
I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse,
Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought
Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know)
From business wandering far and local cares,
Thou creepest round a dear-lov’d Sister’s bed
With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look,
10 Soothing each pang with fond solicitude,
And tenderest tones medicinal of love.
I too a Sister had, an only Sister –
She lov’d me dearly, and I doted on her!
To her I pour’d forth all my puny sorrows
(As a sick Patient in a Nurse’s arms)
And of the heart those hidden maladies
That e’en from Friendship’s eye will shrink asham’d.
O! I have wak’d at midnight, and have wept,
Because she was not! – Cheerily, dear Charles!
20 Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year:
Such warm presages feel I of high Hope.
For not uninterested the dear Maid
I’ve view’d – her soul affectionate yet wise,
Her polish’d wit as mild as lambent glories
That play around a sainted infant’s head.
He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees,
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love
Aught to implore were impotence of mind)
That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne,
30 Prepar’d, when he his healing ray vouchsafes,
Thanksgiving to pour forth with lifted heart,
And praise Him Gracious with a Brother’s Joy!
SONNETS ON EMINENT
CHARACTERS
1. To the Honourable Mr Erskine
When British Freedom for a happier land
Spread her broad wings, that fluttered with affright,
Erskine! thy voice she heard, and paused her flight
Sublime of hope! For dreadless thou didst stand
(Thy censer glowing with the hallowed flame)
A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine,
And at her altar pour the stream divine
Of unmatched eloquence. Therefore thy name
Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast
10 With blessings heaven-ward breathed. And when the doom
Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb
Thy light shall shine: as sunk beneath the West
Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze,
Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.
2. Burke
As late I lay in slumber’s shadowy vale,
With wetted cheek and in a mourner’s guise,
I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise:
She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale –
‘Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,
Ere in an evil hour with altered voice
Thou bad’st Oppression’s hireling crew rejoice
Blasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame.
Yet never, Burke! thou drank’st Corruption’s bowl!
10 Thee stormy Pity and the cherished lure
Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul
Wildered with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure!
That error’s mist had left thy purgèd eye:
So might I clasp thee with a Mother’s joy!’
3. Priestley
Though roused by that dark Vizir Riot rude
Have driven our Priestley o’er the ocean swell;
Though Superstition and her wolfish brood
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell;
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell!
For lo! Religion at his strong behest
Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell,
And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest,
Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy;
10 And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly:
And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil
To smile with fondness on her gazing son!
4. La Fayette
As when far off the warbled strains are heard
That soar on Morning’s wing the vales among,
Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird
Swells the full chorus with a generous song:
He bathes no pinion in the dewy light,
No Father’s joy, no Lover’s bliss he shares,
Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight;
His fellows’ freedom soothes the captive’s cares!
Thou, Fayette! who didst wake with startling voice
10 Life’s better sun from that long wintry night,
Thus in thy Country’s triumphs shalt rejoice,
And mock with raptures high the dungeon’s might:
For lo! the morning struggles into day,
And Slavery’s spectres shriek and vanish from the ray!
5. Koskiusko
O what a loud and fearful shriek was there,
As though a thousand souls one death-groan poured!
Ah me! they saw beneath a hireling’s sword
Their Koskiusko fall! Through the swart air
(As pauses the tired Cossac’s barbarous yell
Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale
Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell
The dirge of murdered Hope! while Freedom pale
Bends in such anguish o’er her destined bier,
10 As if from eldest time some Spirit meek
Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear
That ever on a Patriot’s furrowed cheek
Fit channel found, and she had drained the bowl
In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!
6. Pitt
Not always should the Tear’s ambrosial dew
Roll its soft anguish down thy furrow’d cheek!
Not always heaven-breath’d tones of Suppliance meek
Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Scowler view,
Who with proud words of dear-lov’d Freedom came –
More blasting than the mildew from the South!
And kiss’d his country with Iscariot mouth
(Ah! foul apostate from his Father’s fame!)
Then fix’d her on the Cross of deep distress,
10 And at safe distance marks the thirsty Lance
Pierce her big side! But O! if some strange trance
The eye-lids of thy stern-brow’d Sister press,
Seize, Mercy! thou more terrible the brand,
And hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand!
7. To the Rev. W. L. Bowles
[FIRST VERSION]
My heart has thank’d thee, Bowles! for those soft strains,
That, on the still air floating, tremblingly
Wak’d in me Fancy, Love, and Sympathy!
For hence, not callous to a Brother’s pains
Thro’ Youth’s gay prime and thornless paths I went;
And, when the darker day of life began,
And I did roam, a thought-bewilder’d man
Thy kindred Lays an healing solace lent,
Each lonely pang with dreamy joys combin’d,
10 And stole from vain Regret her scorpion stings;
While shadowy Pleasure, with mysterious wings,
Brooded the wavy and tumultuous mind,
Like that great Spirit, who with plastic sweep
Mov’d on the darkness of the formless Deep!
[REVISED VERSION]
My heart has thanked thee, Bowles! for those soft strains
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring
Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring!
For hence not callous to the mourner’s pains
Through Youth’s gay prime and thornless paths I went:
And when the mightier throes of mind began,
And drove me forth, a thought-bewildered man,
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent
A mingled charm, such as the pang consigned
10 To slumber, though the big tear it renewed;
Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,
As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep
Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep.
8. Mrs Siddons
As when a child on some long Winter’s night
Affrighted clinging to its Grandam’s knees
With eager wond’ring and perturb’d delight
Listens strange tales of fearful dark decrees
Mutter’d to wretch by necromantic spell;
Or of those hags, who at the witching time
Of murky Midnight ride the air sublime,
And mingle foul embrace with fiends of Hell:
Cold Horror drinks its blood! Anon the tear
10 More gentle starts, to hear the Beldame tell
Of pretty Babes, that lov’d each other dear,
Murder’d by cruel Uncle’s mandate fell:
Even such the shiv’ring joys thy tones impart,
Even so thou, Siddons! meltest my sad heart!
9. To William Godwin
AUTHOR OF ‘POLITICAL JUSTICE’
O form’d t’ illume a sunless world forlorn,
As o’er the chill and dusky brow of Night,
In Finland’s wintry skies the Mimic Morn
Electric pours a stream of rosy light,
Pleas’d I have mark’d Oppression, terror-pale,
Since, thro’ the windings of her dark machine,
Thy steady eye has shot its glances keen –
And bade th’ All-lovely ‘scenes at distance hail’.
Nor will I not thy holy guidance bless,
10 And hymn thee, Godwin! with an ardent lay;
For that thy voice, in Passion’s stormy day,
When wild I roam’d the bleak Heath of Distress,
Bade the bright form of Justice meet my way –
And told me that her name was HAPPINESS.
10. To Robert Southey
OF BALLIOL COLLEGE, OXFORD, AUTHOR OF THE
‘RETROSPECT’, AND OTHER POEMS
Southey! thy melodies steal o’er mine ear
Like far-off joyance, or the murmuring
Of wild bees in the sunny showers of Spring –
Sounds of such mingled import as may cheer
The lonely breast, yet rouse a mindful tear:
Wak’d by the Song doth Hope-born Fancy fling
Rich showers of dewy fragrance from her wing,
Till sickly Passion’s drooping Myrtles sear
Blossom anew! But O! more thrill’d, I prize
10 Thy sadder strains, that bid in Memory’s Dream
The faded forms of past Delight arise;
Then soft, on Love’s pale cheek, the tearful gleam
Of Pleasure smiles – as faint yet beauteous lies
The imag’d Rainbow on a willowy stream.
11. To Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Esq.
It was some Spirit, Sheridan! that breathed
O’er thy young mind such wildly various power!
My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour,
Thy temples with Hymettian flow’rets wreathed:
And sweet thy voice, as when o’er Laura’s bier
Sad music trembled through Vauclusa’s glade;
Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade
That wafts soft dreams to Slumber’s listening ear.
Now patriot rage and indignation high
10 Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance
Meanings of Scorn and Wit’s quaint revelry!
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance
The Apostate by the brainless rout adored,
As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael’s sword.
12. To Lord Stanhope
on reading his late protest in the house of lords
STANHOPE! I hail, with ardent Hymn, thy name!
Thou shalt be bless’d and lov’d, when in the dust
Thy corse shall moulder – Patriot pure and just!
And o’er thy tomb the grateful hand of Fame
Shall grave: – ‘Here sleeps the Friend of Humankind!’
For thou, untainted by Corruption’s bowl,
Or foul Ambition, with undaunted soul
Hast spoke the language of a Free-born mind
Pleading the cause of Nature! Still pursue
10 Thy path of Honour! – To thy Country true,
Still watch th’ expiring flame of Liberty!
O Patriot! still pursue thy virtuous way,
As holds his course the splendid Orb of Day,
Or thro’ the stormy or the tranquil sky!
ONE OF THE PEOPLE
To Earl Stanhope
Not, STANHOPE! with the Patriot’s doubtful name
I mock thy worth – Friend of the Human Race!
Since scorning Faction’s low and partial aim
Aloof thou wendest in thy stately pace,
Thyself redeeming from that leprous stain,
Nobility: and aye unterrify’d
Pourest thine Abdiel warnings on the train
That sit complotting with rebellious pride
’Gainst her who from the Almighty’s bosom leapt
10 With whirlwind arm, fierce Minister of Love!
Wherefore, ere Virtue o’er thy tomb hath wept,
Angels shall lead thee to the Throne above:
And thou from forth its clouds shalt hear the voice,
Champion of Freedom and her God! rejoice!
Lines
TO A FRIEND IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY LETTER
Away, those cloudy looks, that labouring sigh,
The peevish offspring of a sickly hour!
Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune’s power,
When the blind gamester throws a luckless die.
Yon setting sun flashes a mournful gleam
Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train:
To-morrow shall the many-coloured main
In brightness roll beneath his orient beam!
Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time
10 Flies o’er his mystic lyre: in shadowy dance
The alternate groups of Joy and Grief advance
Responsive to his varying strains sublime!
Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate;
The swain, who, lulled by Seine’s mild murmurs, led
His weary oxen to their nightly shed,
To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State.
Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile
Survey the sanguinary despot’s might,
And haply hurl the pageant from his height
20 Unwept to wander in some savage isle.
There shiv’ring sad beneath the tempest’s frown
Round his tired limbs to wrap the purple vest;
And mixed with nails and beads, an equal jest!
Barter for food the jewels of his crown.
To an Infant
Ah! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life!
I did but snatch away the unclasped knife:
Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye,
And to quick laughter change this peevish cry!
Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of woe,
Tutored by pain each source of pain to know!
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire;
Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight,
10 And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright!
Untaught, yet wise! mid all thy brief alarms
Thou closely clingest to thy Mother’s arms,
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest!
Man’s breathing Miniature! thou mak’st me sigh –
A Babe art thou – and such a Thing am I!
To anger rapid and as soon appeased,
For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased,
Break Friendship’s mirror with a tetchy blow,
20 Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure’s altar glow!
O thou that rearest with celestial aim
The future Seraph in my mortal frame,
Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet
As on I totter with unpractised feet,
Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee,
Meek nurse of souls through their long infancy!
To the Rev. W. J. Hort
WHILE TEACHING A YOUNG LADY SOME SONG-TUNES
ON HIS FLUTE
I
Hush! ye clamorous Cares! be mute!
Again, dear Harmonist! again
Thro’ the hollow of thy flute
Breathe that passion-warbled strain:
Till MEMORY each form shall bring
The loveliest of her shadowy throng;
And HOPE, that soars on sky-lark wing,
Carol wild her gladdest song!
II
O skill’d with magic spell to roll
10 The thrilling tones, that concentrate the soul!
Breathe thro’ thy flute those tender notes again,
While near thee sits the chaste-eyed Maiden mild;
And bid her raise the Poet’s kindred strain
In soft impassion’d voice, correctly wild.
III
In Freedom’s UNDIVIDED dell,
Where Toil and Health with mellow’d Love shall dwell,
Far from folly, far from men,
In the rude romantic glen,
Up the cliff, and Thro’ the glade,
20 Wand’ring with the dear-lov’d maid,
I shall listen to the lay,
And ponder on thee far away!
Still, as she bids those thrilling notes aspire
(‘Making my fond attunèd heart her lyre’),
Thy honour’d form, my Friend! shall reappear,
And I will thank thee with a raptur’d tear.
Sonnet
Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled
To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy grey hairs
Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away this tattered vest
That mocks thy shivering! take my garment – use
A young man’s arm! I’ll melt these frozen dews
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.
My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child:
10 And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side’s recess,
Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness.
He did not so, the Galilean mild,
Who met the Lazars turned from rich men’s doors,
And called them Friends, and healed their noisome sores!
To the Nightingale
Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel!
How many Bards in city garret pent,
While at their window they with downward eye
Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell’d mud,
And listen to the drowsy cry of Watchmen
(Those hoarse unfeather’d Nightingales of Time!),
How many wretched Bards address thy name,
And hers, the full-orb’d Queen that shines above.
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,
10 Within whose mild moon-mellow’d foliage hid
Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.
O! I have listen’d, till my working soul,
Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies,
Absorb’d hath ceas’d to listen! Therefore oft,
I hymn thy name: and with a proud delight
Oft will I tell thee, Minstrel of the Moon!
‘Most musical, most melancholy’ Bird!
That all thy soft diversities of tone,
Tho’ sweeter far than the delicious airs
20 That vibrate from a white-arm’d Lady’s harp,
What time the languishment of lonely love
Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow,
Are not so sweet as is the voice of her,
My Sara – best beloved of human kind!
When breathing the pure soul of tenderness,
She thrills me with the Husband’s promis’d name!
Lines
COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF
BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795
With many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock
That on green plots o’er precipices browse:
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yew tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
10 Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest: – and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadow’d fields, and prospect-bounding sea!
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!
Lines
IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER
O Peace, that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an olive tree,
I would, that from the pinions of thy dove
One quill withouten pain yplucked might be!
For O! I wish my Sara’s frowns to flee,
And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,
Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light,
But broke my plighted word – ah! false and recreant wight!
10 Last night as I my weary head did pillow
With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost,
Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow,
As though my breast entombed a pining ghost.
‘From some blest couch, young Rapture’s bridal boast,
Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way;
But leave me with the matin hour, at most!
As night-closed floweret to the orient ray,
My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey.’
But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
20 Contrived a too successful wile, I ween:
And whispered to himself, with malice fraught –
‘Too long our Slave the Damsel’s smiles hath seen:
To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien!’
He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed
The morning shot her dewy glances keen,
When as I ’gan to lift my drowsy head –
‘Now, Bard! I’ll work thee woe!’ the laughing Elfin said.
Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;
30 When twanged an arrow from Love’s mystic string,
With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart.
Was there some magic in the Elfin’s dart?
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance?
For straight so fair a Form did upwards start
(No fairer decked the bowers of old Romance)
That Sleep enamoured grew, nor moved from his sweet trance!
My Sara came, with gentlest look divine;
Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam:
I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!
40 Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme –
Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,
He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did bide,
That I the living image of my dream
Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh’d –
‘O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide!’
To the Author of Poems
PUBLISHED ANONYMOUSLY AT BRISTOL IN
SEPTEMBER 1795
Unboastful Bard! whose verse concise yet clear
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer’d sense,
May your fame fadeless live, as ‘never-sere’
The Ivy wreathes yon Oak, whose broad defence
Embowers me from Noon’s sultry influence!
For, like that nameless Rivulet stealing by,
Your modest verse to musing Quiet dear
Is rich with tints heaven-borrow’d: the charm’d eye
Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften’d sky.
10 Circling the base of the Poetic mount
A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow
Its coal-black waters from Oblivion’s fount:
The vapour-poison’d Birds, that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet
Beneath the Mountain’s lofty-frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,
A mead of mildest charm delays th’ unlabouring feet.
Not there the cloud-climb’d rock, sublime and vast,
20 That like some giant king, o’er-glooms the hill;
Nor there the Pine-grove to the midnight blast
Makes solemn music! But th’ unceasing rill
To the soft Wren or Lark’s descending trill
Murmurs sweet undersong ’mid jasmin bowers.
In this same pleasant meadow, at your will
I ween, you wander’d – there collecting flowers
Of sober tint, and herbs of med’cinable powers!
There for the monarch-murder’d Soldier’s tomb
You Wove th’ unfinish’d wreath of saddest hues;
30 And to that holier chaplet added bloom
Besprinkling it with Jordan’s cleansing dews.
But lo your Henderson awakes the Muse –
His Spirit beckon’d from the mountain’s height!
You left the plain and soar’d mid richer views!
So Nature mourn’d when sunk the First Day’s light,
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night!
Still soar, my Friend, those richer views among,
Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing Fancy’s beam!
Virtue and Truth shall love your gentler song;
40 But Poesy demands th’ impassion’d theme:
Waked by Heaven’s silent dews at Eve’s mild gleam
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around!
But if the vext air rush a stormy stream
Or Autumn’s shrill gust moan in plaintive sound,
With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest-honour’d ground.
The Production of a Young Lady
ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE POEMS ALLUDED TO
IN THE PRECEDING EPISTLE
She had lost her Silver Thimble, and her complaint being
accidentally overheard by him, her Friend, he immediately sent her
four others to take her choice of.
As oft mine eye with careless glance
Has gallop’d Thro’ some old romance,
Of speaking Birds and Steeds with wings,
Giants and Dwarfs, and Fiends and Kings;
Beyond the rest with more attentive care
I’ve lov’d to read of elfin-favour’d Fair –
How if she long’d for aught beneath the sky
And suffer’d to escape one votive sigh,
Wafted along on viewless pinions aery
10 It laid itself obsequious at her Feet:
Such things, I thought, one might not hope to meet
Save in the dear delicious land of Faery!
But now (by proof I know it well)
There’s still some peril in free wishing –
Politeness is a licenc’d spell,
And you, dear Sir! the Arch-magician.
You much perplex’d me by the various set:
They were indeed an elegant quartette!
My mind went to and fro, and waver’d long;
20 At length I’ve chosen
(Samuel thinks me wrong)
That, around whose azure rim
Silver figures seem to swim,
Like fleece-white clouds, that on the skiey Blue,
Wak’d by no breeze, the self-same shapes retain;
Or ocean Nymphs with limbs of snowy hue
Slow-floating o’er the calm cerulean plain.
Just such a one, mon cher ami,
(The finger shield of industry)
Th’ inventive Gods, I deem, to Pallas gave
30 What time the vain Arachne, madly brave,
Challeng’d the blue-eyed Virgin of the sky
A duel in embroider’d work to try.
And hence the thimbled Finger of grave Pallas
To th’ erring Needle’s point was more than callous.
But ah the poor Arachne! She unarm’d
Blundering Thro’ hasty eagerness, alarm’d
With all a Rival’s hopes, a Mortal’s fears,
Still miss’d the stitch, and stain’d the web with tears.
Unnumber’d punctures small yet sore
40 Full fretfully the maiden bore,
Till she her lily finger found
Crimson’d with many a tiny wound;
And to her eyes, suffus’d with wat’ry woe,
Her flower-embroider’d web danc’d dim, I wist,
Like blossom’d shrubs in a quick-moving mist:
Till vanquish’d the despairing Maid sunk low.
O Bard! whom sure no common Muse inspires,
I heard your Verse that glows with vestal fires!
And I from unwatch’d needle’s erring point
50 Had surely suffer’d on each finger-joint
Those wounds, which erst did poor Arachne meet;
While he, the much-lov’d Object of my Choice
(My bosom thrilling with enthusiast heat),
Pour’d on mine ear with deep impressive voice,
How the great Prophet of the Desart stood
And preach’d of Penitence by Jordan’s Flood;
On WAR; or else the legendary lays
In simplest measures hymn’d to ALLA’S praise;
Or what the Bard from his heart’s inmost stores
60 O’er his Friend’s grave in loftier numbers pours:
Yes, Bard polite! you but obey’d the laws
Of Justice, when the thimble you had sent;
What wounds your thought-bewildering Muse might cause
’Tis well, your finger-shielding gifts prevent.
SARA
Effusion XXXV
COMPOSED AUGUST 20TH, 1795, AT CLEVEDON,
SOMERSETSHIRE
My pensive SARA! thy soft cheek reclin’d
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our cot, our cot o’er grown
With white-flower’d Jasmin, and the broad-leav’d Myrtle,
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
Slow-sad’ning round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should Wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
10 Snatch’d from yon bean-field! and the world so hush’d!
The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
Tells us of Silence. And that simplest Lute
Plac’d length-ways in the clasping casement, hark!
How by the desultory breeze caress’d,
Like some coy Maid half-yielding to her Lover,
It pours such sweet upbraidings, as must needs
Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now its strings
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes
Over delicious surges sink and rise,
20 Such a soft floating witchery of sound
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
Voyage on gentle gales from Faery Land,
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
Nor pause nor perch, hov’ring on untam’d wing.
And thus, my Love! as on the midway slope
Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon
Whilst Thro’ my half-clos’d eyelids I behold
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main,
30 And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;
Full many a thought uncall’d and undetain’d,
And many idle flitting phantasies,
Traverse my indolent and passive brain
As wild and various, as the random gales
That swell or flutter on this subject Lute!
And what if all of animated nature
Be but organic Harps diversly fram’d,
That tremble into thought, as o’er them sweeps,
Plastic and vast, one intellectual Breeze,
40 At once the Soul of each, and God of all?
But thy more serious eye a mild reproof
Darts, O beloved Woman! nor such thoughts
Dim and unhallow’d dost thou not reject,
And biddest me walk humbly with my God.
Meek Daughter in the Family of Christ,
Well hast thou said and holily disprais’d
These shapings of the unregenerate mind,
Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break
On vain Philosophy’s aye-babbling spring.
50 For never guiltless may I speak of Him,
Th’ INCOMPREHENSIBLE! save when with awe
I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels;
Who with his saving mercies healed me,
A sinful and most miserable man
Wilder’d and dark, and gave me to possess
PEACE, and this COT, and THEE, heart-honour’d Maid!
The Eolian Harp
COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE
My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our cot, our cot o’ergrown
With white-flowered jasmin, and the broad-leaved myrtle,
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
10 Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world so hushed!
The stilly murmur of the distant sea
Tells us of silence.
And that simplest lute,
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark!
How by the desultory breeze caressed,
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover,
It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs
Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes
Over delicious surges sink and rise,
20 Such a soft floating witchery of sound
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing!
O the one life within us and abroad,
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,
A light in sound, a sound-like power in light
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where –
30 Methinks, it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world so filled;
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air
Is Music slumbering on her instrument.
And thus, my love! as on the midway slope
Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,
Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main,
And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;
Full many a thought uncalled and undetained,
40 And many idle flitting phantasies,
Traverse my indolent and passive brain,
As wild and various as the random gales
That swell and flutter on this subject lute!
And what if all of animated nature
Be but organic harps diversely framed,
That tremble into thought, as o’er them sweeps
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,
At once the Soul of each, and God of All?
But thy more serious eye a mild reproof
50 Darts, O beloved woman! nor such thoughts
Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject,
And biddest me walk humbly with my God.
Meek daughter in the family of Christ!
Well hast thou said and holily dispraised
These shapings of the unregenerate mind;
Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break
On vain Philosophy’s aye-babbling spring.
For never guiltless may I speak of him,
The Incomprehensible! save when with awe
60 I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels;
Who with his saving mercies healed me,
A sinful and most miserable man,
Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess
Peace, and this cot, and thee, heart-honoured Maid!
Lines
WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER,
SEPTEMBER, 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM BRISTOL
Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better
Received from absent friend by way of Letter.
For what so sweet can laboured lays impart
As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart?
ANON.
Nor travels my meandering eye
The starry wilderness on high;
Nor now with curious sight
I mark the glow-worm, as I pass,
Move with ‘green radiance’ through the grass,
An emerald of light.
O ever present to my view!
My wafted spirit is with you,
And soothes your boding fears:
10 I see you all oppressed with gloom
Sit lonely in that cheerless room –
Ah me! You are in tears!
Beloved Woman! did you fly
Chilled Friendship’s dark disliking eye,
Or Mirth’s untimely din?
With cruel weight these trifles press
A temper sore with tenderness,
When aches the Void within.
But why with sable wand unblest
20 Should Fancy rouse within my breast
Dim-visaged shapes of Dread?
Untenanting its beauteous clay
My Sara’s soul has winged its way,
And hovers round my head!
I felt it prompt the tender dream,
When slowly sank the day’s last gleam;
You roused each gentler sense,
As sighing o’er the blossom’s bloom
Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume
30 With viewless influence.
And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans
Through yon reft house! O’er rolling stones
In bold ambitious sweep,
The onward-surging tides supply
The silence of the cloudless sky
With mimic thunders deep.
Dark reddening from the channelled Isle
(Where stands one solitary pile
Unslated by the blast)
40 The watchfire, like a sullen star
Twinkles to many a dozing tar
Rude cradled on the mast.
Even there – beneath that light-house tower –
In the tumultuous evil hour
Ere Peace with Sara came,
Time was, I should have thought it sweet
To count the echoings of my feet,
And watch the storm-vexed flame.
And there in black soul-jaundiced fit
50 A sad gloom-pampered Man to sit,
And listen to the roar:
When mountain surges bellowing deep
With an uncouth monster leap
Plunged foaming on the shore.
Then by the lightning’s blaze to mark
Some toiling tempest-shattered bark;
Her vain distress-guns hear;
And when a second sheet of light
Flashed o’er the blackness of the night –
60 To see no vessel there!
But Fancy now more gaily sings;
Or if awhile she droop her wings,
As sky-larks ’mid the corn,
On summer fields she grounds her breast:
The oblivious poppy o’er her nest
Nods, till returning morn.
O mark those smiling tears, that swell
The opened rose! From heaven they fell,
And with the sun-beam blend.
70 Blest visitations from above,
Such are the tender woes of Love
Fostering the heart they bend!
When stormy Midnight howling round
Beats on our roof with clattering sound,
To me your arms you’ll stretch:
Great God! you’ll say – To us so kind,
O shelter from this loud bleak wind
The houseless, friendless wretch!
The tears that tremble down your cheek,
80 Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek
In Pity’s dew divine;
And from your heart the sighs that steal
Shall make your rising bosom feel
The answering swell of mine!
How oft, my Love! with shapings sweet
I paint the moment, we shall meet!
With eager speed I dart –
I seize you in the vacant air,
And fancy, with a husband’s care
90 I press you to my heart!
’Tis said, in Summer’s evening hour
Flashes the golden-coloured flower
A fair electric flame:
And so shall flash my love-charged eye
When all the heart’s big ecstasy
Shoots rapid through the frame!
Reflections
ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT
Sermoni propriora.
HOR.
Low was our pretty Cot: our tallest rose
Peeped at the chamber-window. We could hear
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,
The sea’s faint murmur. In the open air
Our myrtles blossomed; and across the porch
Thick jasmins twined: the little landscape round
Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye.
It was a spot which you might aptly call
The Valley of Seclusion! Once I saw
10 (Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness)
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by,
Bristowa’s citizen: methought, it calmed
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse
With wiser feelings: for he paused, and looked
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around,
Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round again,
And sighed, and said, it was a Blessed Place.
And we were blessed.
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