The Complete Poems Read Online

And when her sire,

Who in his dream of hope already grasped

10                The golden circlet in his hand, rejected

My suit with insult, and in memory

Of ancient feuds poured curses on my head,

Her blessings overtook and baffled them!

But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance

Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.

Sandoval. Anxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously.

But Oropeza –

Earl Henry.

        Blessings gather round her!

Within this wood there winds a secret passage,

Beneath the walls, which opens out at length

20                Into the gloomiest covert of the garden.–

The night ere my departure to the army,

She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom,

And to that covert by a silent stream,

Which, with one star reflected near its marge,

Was the sole object visible around me.

No leaflet stirred; the air was almost sultry;

So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o’er us!

No leaflet stirred; – yet pleasure hung upon

The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air.

30        A little further on an arbour stood,

Fragrant with flowering trees – I well remember

What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness

Their snow-white blossoms made – thither she led me,

To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembled –

I heard her heart beat – if ’twere not my own.

Sandoval. A rude and scaring note, my friend!

Earl Henry.                                                        Oh! no!

I have small memory of aught but pleasure.

The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams

Still flowing, still were lost in those of love:

40                So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature,

Fleeing from pain, sheltered herself in joy.

The stars above our heads were dim and steady,

Like eyes suffused with rapture. – Life was in us:

We were all life, each atom of our frames

A living soul – I vowed to die for her:

With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,

Relapses into blessedness, I vowed it:

That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard,

A murmur breathed against a lady’s ear.

50        Oh! there is joy above the name of pleasure,

Deep self-possession, an intense repose.

Sandoval [with a sarcastic smile]. No other than as eastern sages

paint,

The God, who floats upon a lotos leaf,

Dreams for a thousand ages; then awaking,

Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble,

Relapses into bliss.

Earl Henry.         Ah! was that bliss

Feared as an alien, and too vast for man?

For suddenly, impatient of its silence,

Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead.

60        I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them.

Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice; –

‘Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou?’

I swore, and with an inward thought that seemed

The purpose and the substance of my being,

I swore to her, that were she red with guilt,

I would exchange my unblenched state with hers. –

Friend! by that winding passage, to that bower

I now will go – all objects there will teach me

Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.

70                Go, Sandoval! I am prepared to meet her –

Say nothing of me – I myself will seek her –

Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment

And keen inquiry of that scanning eye. –

[Earl Henry retires into the wood.]

Sandoval [alone]. O Henry! always striv’st thou to be great

By thine own act – yet art thou never great

But by the inspiration of great passion.

The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up

And shape themselves: from earth to heaven they stand,

As though they were the pillars of a temple,

80                Built by Omnipotence in its own honour!

But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit

Is fled: the mighty columns were but sand,

And lazy snakes trail o’er the level ruins!

On Revisiting the Sea-Shore

AFTER LONG ABSENCE, UNDER STRONG MEDICAL RECOMMENDATION NOT TO BATHE

God be with thee, gladsome Ocean!

How gladly greet I thee once more!

Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion,

And men rejoicing on thy shore.

Dissuading spake the mild physician,

‘Those briny waves for thee are death!’

But my soul fulfilled her mission,

And lo! I breathe untroubled breath!

Fashion’s pining sons and daughters,

10           That seek the crowd they seem to fly,

Trembling they approach thy waters;

And what cares Nature, if they die?

Me a thousand hopes and pleasures,

A thousand recollections bland,

Thoughts sublime, and stately measures,

Revisit on thy echoing strand:

Dreams (the soul herself forsaking),

Tearful raptures, boyish mirth;

Silent adorations, making

20      A blessed shadow of this Earth!

O ye hopes, that stir within me,

Health comes with you from above!

God is with me, God is in me!

I cannot die, if Life be Love.

Inscription

FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH

This Sycamore, oft musical with bees, –

Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed

May all its aged boughs o’er-canopy

The small round basin, which this jutting stone

Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,

Quietly as a sleeping infant’s breath,

Send up cold waters to the traveller

With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease

Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,

10         Which at the bottom, like a Fairy’s page,

As merry and no taller, dances still,

Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.

Here twilight is and coolness: here is moss,

A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.

Thou may’st toil far and find no second tree.

Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart

Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh

Thy Spirit, listening to some gentle sound,

Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!

Drinking versus Thinking

OR, A SONG AGAINST THE NEW PHILOSOPHY

My Merry men all, that drink with glee

This fanciful Philosophy,

Pray tell me what good is it?

If antient Nick should come and take,

The same across the Stygian Lake,

I guess we ne’er should miss it.

Away, each pale, self-brooding spark

That goes truth-hunting in the dark,

Away from our carousing!

10         To Pallas we resign such fowls –

Grave birds of Wisdom! ye’re but owls,

And all your trade but mousing!

My merry men all, here’s punch and wine,

And spicy bishop, drink divine!

Let’s live while we are able.

While Mirth and Sense sit, hand in glove,

This Don Philosophy we’ll shove

Dead drunk beneath the table!

An Ode to the Rain

Composed before day-light, on the morning appointed for the departure of a very worthy, but not very pleasant Visitor; whom it was feared the rain might detain.

I

I know it is dark; and though I have lain

Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain,

I have not once open’d the lids of my eyes,

But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.

O Rain! that I lie listening to,

You’re but a doleful sound at best:

I owe you little thanks, ’tis true,

For breaking thus my needful rest!

Yet if, as soon as it is light,

10        O Rain! you will but take your flight,

I’ll neither rail, nor malice keep,

Tho’ sick and sore for want of sleep:

But only now, for this one day,

Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

II

O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound,

The clash hard by, and the murmur all round!

You know, if you know aught, that we,

Both night and day, but ill agree:

For days, and months, and almost years,

20                 Have limp’d on thro’ this vale of tears,

Since body of mine, and rainy weather,

Have liv’d on easy terms together.

Yet if, as soon as it is light,

O Rain! you will but take your flight,

Though you should come again to-morrow,

And bring with you both pain and sorrow;

Tho’ stomach should sicken, and knees should swell –

I’ll nothing speak of you but well.

But only now for this one day,

30         Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

III

Dear Rain! I ne’er refus’d to say

You’re a good creature in your way.

Nay, I could write a book myself,

Would fit a parson’s lower shelf,

Shewing, how very good you are –

What then? sometimes it must be fair!

And if sometimes, why not to day?

Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

IV

Dear Rain! if I’ve been cold and shy,

40         Take no offence! I’ll tell you, why.

A dear old Friend e’en now is here,

And with him came my sister dear;

After long absence now first met,

Long months by pain and grief beset –

We three dear friends! in truth, we groan

Impatiently to be alone.

We three, you mark! and not one more!

The strong wish makes my spirit sore.

We have so much to talk about,

50        So many sad things to let out;

So many tears in our eye-corners,

Sitting like little Jacky Horners –

In short, as soon as it is day,

Do go, dear Rain! do go away.

V

And this I’ll swear to you, dear Rain!

Whenever you shall come again,

Be you as dull as e’er you cou’d

(And by the bye ’tis understood,

You’re not so pleasant, as you’re good),

60        Yet, knowing well your worth and place,

I’ll welcome you with cheerful face;

And though you stay’d a week or more,

Were ten times duller than before;

Yet with kind heart, and right good will,

I’ll sit and listen to you still;

Nor should you go away, dear Rain!

Uninvited to remain.

But only now, for this one day,

Do go, dear Rain! do go away.

The Wills of the Wisp

A SAPPHIC

Vix ea nostra voco

Lunatic Witch-fires! Ghosts of Light and Motion!

Fearless I see you weave your wanton dances

Near me, far off me; you, that tempt the traveller

                                     Onward and onward.

Wooing, retreating, till the swamp beneath him

Groans – and ’tis dark! – This woman’s wile – I know it!

Learnt it from thee, from thy perfidious glances!

                                 Black-ey’d Rebecca!

Ode to Tranquillity

Tranquillity! thou better name

Than all the family of Fame!

Thou ne’er wilt leave my riper age

To low intrigue, or factious rage;

For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth,

To thee I gave my early youth,

And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore,

Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar.

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,

10            On him but seldom, Power divine,

Thy spirit rests! Satiety

And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,

Mock the tired worldling. Idle hope

And dire remembrance interlope,

To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind:

The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.

But me thy gentle hand will lead

At morning through the accustomed mead;

And in the sultry summer’s heat

20             Will build me up a mossy seat;

And when the gust of Autumn crowds,

And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,

Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune,

Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon.

The feeling heart, the searching soul,

To thee I dedicate the whole!

And while within myself I trace

The greatness of some future race,

Aloof with hermit-eye I scan

30             The present works of present man –

A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,

Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

A Letter to——
April 4, 1802. – Sunday Evening

	[1834 lines]
Well! if the Bard was weatherwise, who made	1
The grand old Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,	2
This Night, so tranquil now, will not go hence	3
Unrous’d by winds, that ply a busier trade	4
Than that, which moulds yon clouds in lazy flakes,	5
Or the dull sobbing Draft, that drones & rakes	6
Upon the Strings of this Eolian Lute,	7
Which better far were mute.	8
For, lo! the New Moon, winter-bright!	9
10       And overspread with phantom Light,	10
(With swimming phantom Light o’erspread	11
But rimm’d & circled with a silver Thread)	12
I see the Old Moon in her Lap, foretelling	13
The coming-on of Rain & squally Blast –	14
O! Sara! that the Gust ev’n now were swelling,	15
And the slant Night-shower driving loud & fast!	16
A Grief without a pang, void, dark, & drear,	21
A stifling, drowsy, unimpassion’d Grief	22
That finds no natural Outlet, no Relief	23
20               In word, or sigh, or tear –	24
This, Sara! well thou know’st,
Is that sore Evil, which I dread the Most,
And oft’nest suffer! In this heartless Mood,
To other thoughts by yonder Throstle woo’d,	26
That pipes within the Larch-tree, not unseen,
(The Larch, which pushes out in tassels green
Its bundled Leafits) woo’d to mild Delights
By all the tender Sounds & gentle Sights
Of this sweet Primrose-month – & vainly woo’d
30              O dearest Sara! in this heartless Mood	25
All this long Eve, so balmy & serene,	27
Have I been gazing on the western Sky	28
And it’s peculiar Tint of Yellow Green –	29
And still I gaze – & with how blank an eye!	30
And those thin Clouds above, in flakes & bars,	31
That give away their Motion to the Stars	32
Those Stars, that glide behind them, or between,	33
Now sparkling, now bedimm’d, but always seen;	34
Yon crescent Moon, as fix’d as if it grew;	35
40             In it’s own cloudless, starless Lake of Blue –	36
A boat becalm’d! dear William’s Sky Canoe!
– I see them all, so excellently fair!	37
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are.	38
My genial Spirits fail –	39
And what can these avail	40
To lift the smoth’ring Weight from off my Breast?	41
It were a vain Endeavour,	42
Tho’ I should gaze for ever	43
On that Green Light which lingers in the West!	44
50   I may not hope from outward Forms to win	45
The Passion & the Life whose Fountains are within!	46
These lifeless Shapes, around, below, Above,
O what can they impart?
When even the gentle Thought, that thou, my Love!

Art gazing now, like me,

And see’st the Heaven, I see –

Sweet Thought it is – yet feebly stirs my Heart!

Feebly! O feebly! – Yet

(I well remember it)

60       In my first Dawn of Youth that Fancy stole

With many secret Yearnings on my Soul.

At eve, sky-gazing in ‘ecstatic fit’

(Alas! for cloister’d in a city School

The Sky was all, I knew, of Beautiful)

At the barr’d window often did I sit,

And oft upon the leaded School-roof lay,

And to myself would say –

There does not live the Man so stripp’d of good affections

As not to love to see a Maiden’s quiet Eyes

70     Uprais’d, and linking on sweet Dreams by dim Connections

To Moon, or Evening Star, or glorious western Skies –

While yet a Boy, this Thought would so pursue me

That often it became a kind of Vision to me!

Sweet Thought! and dear of old

To Hearts of finer Mould!

Ten thousand times by Friends & Lovers blest!

I spake with rash Despair,

And ere I was aware,

The Weight was somewhat lifted from my Breast!

80        O Sara! in the weather-fended Wood,

Thy lov’d haunt! where the Stock-doves coo at Noon,

I guess, that thou hast stood

And watch’d yon Crescent, & its ghost-like Moon.

And yet, far rather in my present Mood

I would, that thou’dst been sitting all this while

Upon the sod-built Seat of Camomile –

And tho’ thy Robin may have ceas’d to sing,

Yet needs for my sake must thou love to hear

The Bee-hive murmuring near,

90         That ever-busy & most quiet Thing

Which I have heard at Midnight murmuring.

I feel my spirit moved –

And wheresoe’er thou be,

O Sister! O Beloved!

Those dear mild Eyes, that see

Even now the Heaven, I see –

There is a Prayer in them! It is for me –

And I, dear Sara – I am blessing thee!

It was as calm as this, that happy night

100     When Mary, thou, & I together were,

The low decaying Fire our only Light,

And listen’d to the Stillness of the Air!

O that affectionate ’ blameless Maid,

Dear Mary! on her Lap my head she lay’d –

   Her Hand was on my Brow,

   Even as my own is now;

And on my Cheek I felt thy eye-lash play.

Such Joy I had, that I may truly say,

My Spirit was awe-stricken with the Excess

110      And trance-like Depth of it’s brief Happiness.

Ah fair Remembrances, that so revive

The Heart, & fill it with a living Power,

Where were they, Sara? – or did I not strive

To win them to me? – on the fretting Hour

Then when I wrote thee that complaining Scroll

Which even to bodily Sickness bruis’d thy Soul!

And yet thou blam’st thyself alone! And yet

   Forbidd’st me all Regret!

And must I not regret, that I distress’d

120      Thee, best belov’d! who lovest me the best?

My better mind had fled, I know not whither –

For O! was this an Absent Friend’s Employ

To send from far both Pain & Sorrow thither

Where still his Blessings should have call’d down Joy!

I read thy guileless Letter o’er again –

I hear thee of thy blameless Self complain –

And only this I learn – & this, alas! I know –

That thou art weak & pale with Sickness, Grief, & Pain –

   And I – I made thee so!

130      O for my own sake I regret perforce

Whatever turns thee, Sara! from the course

Of calm Well-being & a Heart at rest!

When thou, & with thee those, whom thou lov’st best,

Shall dwell together in one happy Home,

One House, the dear abiding Home of All,

I too will crown me with a Coronal –

Nor shall this Heart in idle Wishes roam

  Morbidly soft!

No! let me trust, that I shall wear away

140      In no inglorious Toils the manly Day,

And only now & then, & not too oft,

Some dear & memorable Eve will bless

Dreaming of all your Loves & Quietness.

Be happy, & I need thee not in sight.

Peace in thy Heart, & Quiet in thy Dwelling,

Health in thy Limbs, & in thine Eyes the Light

Of Love, & Hope, & honorable Feeling –

Wheree’er I am, I shall be well content!

Not near thee, haply shall be more content!

150      To all things I prefer the Permanent.

And better seems it for a heart, like mine,

Always to know, than sometimes to behold,

Their Happiness & thine –

For Change doth trouble me with pangs untold!

To see thee, hear thee, feel thee – then to part

Oh! – it weighs down the Heart!

To visit those, I love, as I love thee,

Mary, & William, & dear Dorothy,

It is but a temptation to repine –

160      The transientness is Poison in the Wine,

Eats out the pith of Joy, makes all Joy hollow,

All Pleasure a dim Dream of Pain to follow!

My own peculiar Lot, my house-hold Life

It is, & will remain, Indifference or Strife –

While ye are well & happy, ’twould but wrong you

If I should fondly yearn to be among you –

Wherefore, O wherefore! should I wish to be

A wither’d branch upon a blossoming Tree?

But (let me say it! for I vainly strive

170      To beat away the Thought) but if thou pin’d,

Whate’er the Cause, in body or in mind,

I were the miserablest Man alive

To know it & be absent! Thy Delights

Far off, or near, alike I may partake –

But O! to mourn for thee, & to forsake

All power, all hope of giving comfort to thee –

To know that thou art weak & worn with pain,

And not to hear thee, Sara! not to view thee

Not sit beside thy Bed,

180          Not press thy aching Head,

Not bring thee Health again –

At least to hope, to try –

By this Voice, which thou lov’st, & by this earnest Eye –
Nay, wherefore did I let it haunt my Mind	94
The dark distressful Dream!	95
I turn from it, & listen to the Wind	96
Which long has rav’d unnotic’d! What a Scream	97
Of agony by Torture lengthen’d out	98
That Lute sent forth! O thou wild Storm without!	99
190     Jagg’d Rock, or mountain Pond, or blasted Tree,	100
Or Pine-grove, whither Woodman never clomb,	101
Or lonely House, long held the Witches’ Home,	102
Methinks were fitter Instruments for Thee,	103
Mad Lutanist! that in this month of Showers,	104
Of dark brown Gardens, & of peeping Flowers,	105
Mak’st Devil’s Yule, with worse than wintry Song	106
The Blossoms, Buds, and timorous Leaves among!	107
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic Sounds!	108
Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold!	109
200         What tell’st thou now about?	110
’Tis of the Rushing of an Host in Rout –	111
And many Groans from men with smarting Wounds –	112
At once they groan with smart, and shudder with the Cold!	113
’Tis hush’d! there is a Trance of deepest Silence –	114
Again! but all that Sound, as of a rushing Crowd,	115
And Groans & tremulous Shudderings, all are over–	116
And it has other Sounds, and all less deep, less loud!	117
A Tale of less Affright,	118
And temper’d with Delight,	119
210   As William’s Self had made the tender Lay–	120
’Tis of a little Child	121
Upon a heathy Wild,	122
Not far from home – but it has lost its way –	123
And now moans low in utter grief & fear –	124
And now screams loud, & hopes to make its Mother hear!	125

’Tis Midnight! and small Thoughts have I of Sleep.	126
Full seldom may my Friend such Vigils keep –	127
O breathe She softly in her gentle Sleep!
Cover her, gentle Sleep! with wings of Healing –	128
220   And be this Tempest but a Mountain Birth!	129
May all the Stars hang bright above her Dwelling,	130
Silent, as tho’ they watch’d the sleeping Earth!	131
Healthful & light, my Darling! may’st thou rise	132
With clear & cheerful Eyes –	133
And of the same good Tidings to me send!
For, oh! beloved Friend!
I am not the buoyant Thing, I was of yore –
When like an own Child, I to JOY belong’d;
For others mourning oft, myself oft sorely wrong’d,
230   Yet bearing all things then, as if I nothing bore!
Yes, dearest Sara! yes!
There was a time when tho’ my path was rough,	76
The Joy within me dallied with Distress;	77
And all Misfortunes were but as the Stuff	78
Whence Fancy made me Dreams of Happiness:	79
For Hope grew round me, like the climbing Vine,	80
And Leaves & Fruitage, not my own, seem’d mine!	81
But now Ill Tidings bow me down to earth –	82
Nor care I, that they rob me of my Mirth –	83
But oh! each Visitation	84
240      Suspends what Nature gave me at my Birth,	85
My shaping Spirit of Imagination!	86

I speak not now of those habitual Ills

That wear out Life, when two unequal Minds

Meet in one House, & two discordant Wills –

      This leaves me, where it finds,

Past cure, & past Complaint – a fate austere

Too fix’d & hopeless to partake of Fear!

But thou, dear Sara! (dear indeed thou art,

My Comforter! A Heart within my Heart!)

250     Thou, & the Few, we love, tho’ few ye be,

Make up a world of Hopes & Fears for me.

And if Affliction, or distemp’ring Pain,

Or wayward Chance befall you, I complain

Not that I mourn – O Friends, most dear! most true!

      Methinks to weep with you

Were better far than to rejoice alone –

But that my coarse domestic Life has known

No Habits of heart-nursing Sympathy,

No Griefs, but such as dull and deaden me,

260       No mutual mild Enjoyments of it’s own,

No Hopes of it’s own Vintage, None, O! none –

Whence when I mourn’d for you, my Heart might borrow

Fair forms & living Motions for it’s Sorrow.

For not to think of what I needs must feel,	87
But to be still & patient all I can;	88
And haply by abstruse Research to steal	89
From my own Nature all the Natural Man –	90
This was my sole Resource, my wisest plan!	91
And that, which suits a part, infects the whole,	92
270       And now is almost grown the Temper of my Soul.	83

My little Children are a Joy, a Love,

    A good Gift from above!

But what is Bliss, that still calls up a Woe,

      And makes it doubly keen

Compelling me to feel, as well as know,

What a most blessed Lot mine might have been

Those little Angel Children (woe is me!)

There have been hours, when feeling how they bind

And pluck out the wing-feathers of my Mind,

280      Turning my Error to Necessity,

I have half-wish’d, they never had been born!

That seldom! But sad Thoughts they always bring,

And like the Poet’s Philomel, I sing

My Love-song, with my breast against a Thorn.

With no unthankful Spirit I confess,

This clinging Grief too, in it’s turn, awakes

That Love, and Father’s Joy; but O! it makes

The Love the greater, & the Joy far less.

These Mountains too, these Vales, these Woods, these Lakes,

290      Scenes full of Beauty & of Loftiness

Where all my Life I fondly hop’d to live –

I were sunk low indeed, did they no solace give;

But oft I seem to feel, & evermore I fear,

They are not to me the Things, which once they were.

O Sara! we receive but what we give,	47
And in our Life alone does Nature live.	48
Our’s is her Wedding Garment, our’s her Shroud –	49
And would we aught behold of higher Worth	50
Than that inanimate cold World allow’d	51
300   To the poor loveless ever-anxious Crowd,	52
Ah! from the Soul itself must issue forth	53
A Light, a Glory, and a luminous Cloud	54
Enveloping the Earth!	55
And from the Soul itself must there be se[nt]	56
A sweet & potent Voice, of it’s own Bir[th,]	57
Of all sweet Sounds the Life & Element.	58
O pure of Heart! thou need’st not ask of me	59
What this strong music in the Soul may be,	60
What, & wherein it doth exist,	61
310   This Light, this Glory, this fair luminous Mist,	62
This beautiful & beauty-making Power!	63
Joy, innocent Sara! Joy, that ne’er was given	64
Save to the Pure, & in their purest Hour,	65
Joy, Sara! is the Spirit & the Power,	67
That wedding Nature to us gives in Dower	68
A new Earth & new Heaven	69
Undreamt of by the Sensual & the Proud!	70
Joy is that strong Voice, Joy that luminous Cloud –	71
We, we ourselves rejoice!	72
320   And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,	73
All melodies the Echoes of that Voice,	74
All Colours a Suffusion of that Light.	75

Sister & Friend of my devoutest Choice!

Thou being innocent & full of love,

And nested with the Darlings of thy Love,

And feeling in thy Soul, Heart, Lips, & Arms

Even what the conjugal & mother Dove

That borrows genial Warmth from those, she warms,

Feels in her thrill’d wings, blessedly outspread –

330   Thou free’d awhile from Cares & human Dread

By the Immenseness of the Good & Fair

      Which thou see’st every where –

Thus, thus should’st thou rejoice!

To thee would all Things live from Pole to Pole,	135
Their Life the Eddying of thy living Soul.	136
O dear! O Innocent! O full of Love!	[137]
A very Friend! A Sister of my Choice –	138
O dear, as Light & Impulse from above,	[137]
Thus may’st thou ever, evermore rejoice!	139

                                                                   S. T. C.

Dejection: An Ode

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,

With the old Moon in her arms;

And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!

We shall have a deadly storm.

                                                              Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence

I

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made

The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,

This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence

Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade

Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,

Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes,

Upon the strings of this Eolian lute,

Which better far were mute.

For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!

10            And overspread with phantom light,

(With swimming phantom light o’erspread

But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)

I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling

The coming on of rain and squally blast.

And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!

Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,

And sent my soul abroad,

Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,

20   Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!

II

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,

A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,

Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,

In word, or sigh, or tear –

O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,

To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo’d,

All this long eve, so balmy and serene,

Have I been gazing on the western sky,

And its peculiar tint of yellow green:

30        And still I gaze – and with how blank an eye!

And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,

That give away their motion to the stars;

Those stars, that glide behind them or between,

Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:

Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew

In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;

I see them all so excellently fair,

I see, not feel how beautiful they are!

III

My genial spirits fail;

40               And what can these avail

To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?

It were a vain endeavour,

Though I should gaze for ever

On that green light that lingers in the west:

I may not hope from outward forms to win

The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

IV

O Lady! we receive but what we give,

And in our life alone does nature live:

Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!

50        And would we aught behold, of higher worth,

Than that inanimate cold world allowed

To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,

Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,

A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

Enveloping the Earth –

And from the soul itself must there be sent

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,

Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

V

O pure of heart! thou need’st not ask of me

60       What this strong music in the soul may be!

What, and wherein it doth exist,

This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,

This beautiful and beauty-making power.

Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne’er was given,

Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,

Life, and Life’s effluence, cloud at once and shower,

Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,

Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,

A new Earth and new Heaven,

70         Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud –

Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud –

We in ourselves rejoice!

And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,

All melodies the echoes of that voice,

All colours a suffusion from that light.

VI

There was a time when, though my path was rough,

This joy within me dallied with distress,

And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:

80   For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,

And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.

But now afflictions bow me down to earth:

Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth,

But oh! each visitation

Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,

My shaping spirit of Imagination.

For not to think of what I needs must feel,

But to be still and patient, all I can;

And haply by abstruse research to steal

90   From my own nature all the natural man –

This was my sole resource, my only plan:

Till that which suits a part infects the whole,

And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

VII

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,

Reality’s dark dream!

I turn from you, and listen to the wind,

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream

Of agony by torture lengthened out

That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that ravest without,

100   Bare craig, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,

Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,

Or lonely house, long held the witches’ home,

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,

Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,

Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,

Mak’st Devils’ yule, with worse than wintry song,

The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!

Thou mighty Poet, e’en to frenzy bold!

110 What tell’st thou now about?

’Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,

With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds –

At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!

But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,

With groans, and tremulous shudderings – all is over –

It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!

A tale of less affright,

And temper’d with Delight,

120 As Otway’s self had framed the tender lay,

’Tis of a little child

Upon a lonesome wild,

Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:

And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,

And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

VIII

’Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:

Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!

Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,

130;   May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling

Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!

With light heart may she rise,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;

To her may all things live, from pole to pole,

Their life the eddying of her living soul!

O simple spirit, guided from above,

Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,

Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

[A Soliloquy of the full Moon, She being in a Mad Passion –]

Now as Heaven is my Lot, they’re the Pests of the Nation!

Wherever they can come

With clankum and blankum

’Tis all Botheration, & Hell & Damnation,

With fun, jeering

Conjuring

Sky-staring,

Loungering,

And still to the tune of Transmogrification –

10       Those muttering

Spluttering

Ventriloquogusty

Poets

With no Hats

Or Hats that are rusty.

They’re my Torment and Curse

And harass me worse

And bait me and bay me, far sorer I vow

Than the Screech of the Owl

20       Or the witch-wolf ’s long howl,

Or sheep-killing Butcher-dog’s inward Bow wow

For me they all spite – an unfortunate Wight.

And the very first moment that I came to Light

A Rascal call’d Voss the more to his scandal,

Turn’d me into a sickle with never a handle.

A Night or two after a worse Rogue there came,

The head of the Gang, one Wordsworth by name –

‘Ho! What’s in the wind?’ ’Tis the voice of a Wizzard!

I saw him look at me most terribly blue!

30       He was hunting for witch-rhymes from great A to Izzard,

And soon as he’d found them made no more ado

But chang’d me at once to a little Canoe.

From this strange Enchantment uncharm’d by degrees

I began to take courage & hop’d for some Ease,

When one Coleridge, a Raff of the self-same Banditti

Passed by – & intending no doubt to be witty,

Because I’d th’ ill-fortune his taste to displease,

He turn’d up his nose,

And in pitiful Prose

40       Made me into the half of a small Cheshire Cheese.

Well, a night or two past – it was wind, rain & hail –

And I ventur’d abroad in a thick Cloak & veil –

But the very first Evening he saw me again

The last mentioned Ruffian popp’d out of his Den –

I was resting a moment on the bare edge of Naddle

I fancy the sight of me turn’d his Brains addle –

For what was I now?

A complete Barley-mow

And when I climb’d higher he made a long leg,

50       And chang’d me at once to an Ostrich’s Egg –

But now Heaven be praised in contempt of the Loon,

I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon.

Yet my heart is still fluttering –

For I heard the Rogue muttering –

He was hulking and skulking at the skirt of a Wood

When lightly & brightly on tip-toe I stood

On the long level Line of a motionless Cloud

And ho! what a Skittle-ground! quoth he aloud

And wish’d from his heart nine-pins to see

60       In brightness & size just proportion’d to me.

So I fear’d from my soul,

That he’d make me a Bowl,

But in spite of his spite

This was more than his might

And still Heaven be prais’d! in contempt of the Loon

I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon.

Answer to a Child’s Question

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,

The linnet and thrush say, ‘I love and I love!’

In the winter they’re silent – the wind is so strong;

What it says, I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.

But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,

And singing, and loving – all come back together.

But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,

The green fields below him, the blue sky above,

That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he –

10        ‘I love my Love, and my Love loves me!’

A Day Dream

My eyes make pictures, when they are shut: –

I see a fountain, large and fair,

A willow and a ruinèd hut,

And thee, and me and Mary there.

O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow!

Bend o’er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow!

A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed,

And that and summer well agree:

And lo! where Mary leans her head,

10                Two dear names carved upon the tree!

And Mary’s tears, they are not tears of sorrow:

Our sister and our friend will both be here to-morrow.

’Twas day! But now few, large, and bright

The stars are round the crescent moon!

And now it is a dark warm night,

The balmiest of the month of June!

A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting

Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain.

O ever – ever be thou blest!

20                 For dearly, Asra, love I thee!

This brooding warmth across my breast,

This depth of tranquil bliss – ah me!

Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither,

But in one quiet room we three are still together.

The shadows dance upon the wall,

By the still dancing fire-flames made;

And now they slumber, moveless all!

And now they melt to one deep shade!

But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee:

30         I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play –

’Tis Mary’s hand upon my brow!

But let me check this tender lay

Which none may hear but she and thou!

Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming,

Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women!

The Day-Dream

FROM AN EMIGRANT TO HIS ABSENT WIFE

If thou wert here, these tears were tears of light!

But from as sweet a vision did I start

As ever made these eyes grow idly bright!

And though I weep, yet still around my heart

A sweet and playful tenderness doth linger,

Touching my heart as with an infant’s finger.

My mouth half open, like a witless man,

I saw our couch, I saw our quiet room,

Its shadows heaving by the fire-light gloom;

10        And o’er my lips a subtle feeling ran,

All o’er my lips a soft and breeze-like feeling –

I know not what – but had the same been stealing

Upon a sleeping mother’s lips, I guess

It would have made the loving mother dream

That she was softly bending down to kiss

Her babe, that something more than babe did seem,

A floating presence of its darling father,

And yet its own dear baby self far rather!

Across my chest there lay a weight, so warm!

20             As if some bird had taken shelter there;

And lo! I seemed to see a woman’s form –

Thine, Sara, thine? O joy, if thine it were!

I gazed with stifled breath, and feared to stir it,

No deeper trance e’er wrapt a yearning spirit!

And now, when I seemed sure thy face to see,

Thy own dear self in our own quiet home;

There came an elfish laugh, and wakened me:

’Twas Frederic, who behind my chair had clomb,

And with his bright eyes at my face was peeping.

30         I blessed him, tried to laugh, and fell a-weeping!

To Asra

Are there two things, of all which men possess,

That are so like each other and so near,

As mutual Love seems like to Happiness?

Dear Asra, woman beyond utterance dear!

This Love which ever welling at my heart,

Now in its living fount doth heave and fall,

Now overflowing pours thro’ every part

Of all my frame, and fills and changes all,

Like vernal waters springing up through snow,

10        This Love that seeming great beyond the power

Of growth, yet seemeth ever more to grow,

Could I transmute the whole to one rich Dower

Of Happy Life, and give it all to Thee,

Thy lot, methinks, were Heaven, thy age, Eternity!

The Happy Husband

Oft, oft methinks, the while with Thee

I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear

And dedicated name, I hear

A promise and a mystery,

A pledge of more than passing life,

Yea, in that very name of Wife!

A pulse of love, that ne’er can sleep!

A feeling that upbraids the heart

With happiness beyond desert,

10        That gladness half requests to weep!

Nor bless I not the keener sense

And unalarming turbulence

Of transient joys, that ask no sting

From jealous fears, or coy denying;

But born beneath Love’s brooding wing,

And into tenderness soon dying,

Wheel out their giddy moment, then

Resign the soul to love again; –

A more precipitated vein

20            Of notes, that eddy in the flow

Of smoothest song, they come, they go,

And leave their sweeter understrain

Its own sweet self – a love of Thee

That seems, yet cannot greater be!

A Thought Suggested by a View

OF SADDLEBACK IN CUMBERLAND

On stern Blencathra’s perilous height

The winds are tyrannous and strong;

And flashing forth unsteady light

From stern Blencathra’s skiey height,

As loud the torrents throng!

Beneath the moon, in gentle weather,

They bind the earth and sky together.

But oh! the sky and all its forms, how quiet!

The things that seek the earth, how full of noise and riot!

[Untitled]

Upon the mountain’s Edge all lightly resting

There a brief while the Globe of splendour sits,

And seems a creature of this earth; but soon

More changeful than the Moon

To Wane fantastic his great orb submits,

Or cone or mow of Fire, till sinking slowly

Even to a Star at length he lessens wholly.

Abrupt, as Spirits vanish, he is sunk

A soul-like breeze possesses all the wood;

10            The Boughs, the sprays have stood

As motionless, as stands the ancient Trunk,

But every leaf thro all the forest flutters,

And deep the Cavern of the Fountain mutters.

The Keepsake

The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil,

The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field,

Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall

Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,

Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,

Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose

(In vain the darling of successful love)

Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years,

The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone.

10         Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk

By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side,

That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,

Hope’s gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!

So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline

With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk

Has worked (the flowers which most she knew I loved)

And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair.

In the cool morning twilight, early waked

By her full bosom’s joyous restlessness,

20         Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,

Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,

Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze,

Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,

Making a quiet image of disquiet

In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.

There, in that bower where first she owned her love,

And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy

From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretched

The silk upon the frame, and worked her name

30         Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not –

Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!

That forced to wander till sweet spring return,

I yet might ne’er forget her smile, her look,

Her voice (that even in her mirthful mood

Has made me wish to steal away and weep),

Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss

With which she promised, that when spring returned,

She would resign one half of that dear name,

And own thenceforth no other name but mine!

The Picture,

OR THE LOVER’S RESOLUTION

Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood

I force my way; now climb, and now descend

O’er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot

Crushing the purple whorts; while oft unseen,

Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves,

The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil

I know not, ask not whither! A new joy,

Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust,

And gladsome as the first-born of the spring,

10        Beckons me on, or follows from behind,

Playmate, or guide! The master-passion quelled,

I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark

The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak,

Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake

Soar up, and form a melancholy vault

High o’er me, murmuring like a distant sea.

Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse;

Here too the love-lorn man, who, sick in soul,

And of this busy human heart aweary,

20        Worships the spirit of unconscious life

In tree or wild-flower. – Gentle lunatic!

If so he might not wholly cease to be,

He would far rather not be that, he is;

But would be something, that he knows not of,

In winds or waters, or among the rocks!

But hence, fond wretch! breathe not contagion here!

No myrtle-walks are these: these are no groves

Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood

He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore

30        His dainty feet, the brier and the thorn

Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird

Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs,

Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades!

And you, ye Earth-winds! you that make at morn

The dew-drops quiver on the spiders’ webs!

You, O ye wingless Airs! that creep between

The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze,

Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon,

The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed –

40         Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp,

Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb.

Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes!

With prickles sharper than his darts bemock

His little Godship, making him perforce

Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog’s back.

This is my hour of triumph! I can now

With my own fancies play the merry fool,

And laugh away worse folly, being free.

Here will I seat myself, beside this old,

50        Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine

Clothes as with net-work: here will I couch my limbs,

Close by this river, in this silent shade,

As safe and sacred from the step of man

As an invisible world – unheard, unseen,

And listening only to the pebbly brook

That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound;

Or to the bees, that in the neighbouring trunk

Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me,

Was never Love’s accomplice, never raised

60         The tendril ringlets from the maiden’s brow,

And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek;

Ne’er played the wanton – never half disclosed

The maiden’s snowy bosom, scattering thence

Eye-poisons for some love-distempered youth,

Who ne’er henceforth may see an aspen-grove

Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart

Shall flow away like a dissolving thing.

Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright,

Liftest the feathers of the robin’s breast,

70       That swells its little breast, so full of song,

Singing above me, on the mountain-ash.

And thou too, desert stream! no pool of thine,

Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve,

Did e’er reflect the stately virgin’s robe,

The face, the form divine, the downcast look

Contemplative! Behold! her open palm

Presses her cheek and brow! her elbow rests

On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree

That leans towards its mirror! Who erewhile

80         Had from her countenance turned, or looked by stealth

(For fear is true love’s cruel nurse), he now

With steadfast gaze and unoffending eye,

Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes

Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain,

E’en as that phantom-world on which he gazed,

But not unheeded gazed: for see, ah! see,

The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks

The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow,

Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells:

90        And suddenly, as one that toys with time,

Scatters them on the pool! Then all the charm

Is broken – all that phantom-world so fair

Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,

And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile,

Poor youth, who scarcely dar’st lift up thine eyes!

The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon

The visions will return! And lo! he stays:

And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms

Come trembling back, unite, and now once more

100       The pool becomes a mirror; and behold

Each wild-flower on the marge inverted there,

And there the half-uprooted tree – but where,

O where the virgin’s snowy arm, that leaned

On its bare branch? He turns, and she is gone!

Homeward she steals through many a woodland maze

Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth!

Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime

In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook,

Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou

110       Behold’st her shadow still abiding there,

The Naiad of the mirror!

                      Not to thee,

O wild and desert stream! belongs this tale:

Gloomy and dark art thou – the crowded firs

Spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed,

Making thee doleful as a cavern-well:

Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest

On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream!

This be my chosen haunt – emancipate

From passion’s dreams, a freeman, and alone,

120     I rise and trace its devious course. O lead,

Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms.

Lo! stealing through the canopy of firs,

How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock,

Isle of the river, whose disparted waves

Dart off asunder with an angry sound,

How soon to re-unite! And see! they meet,

Each in the other lost and found: and see

Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun

Throbbing within them, heart at once and eye!

130     With its soft neighbourhood of filmy clouds,

The stains and shadings of forgotten tears,

Dimness o’erswum with lustre! Such the hour

Of deep enjoyment, following love’s brief feuds;

And hark, the noise of a near waterfall!

I pass forth into light – I find myself

Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful

Of forest-trees, the lady of the woods)

Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock

That overbrows the cataract. How bursts

140     The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills

Fold in behind each other, and so make

A circular vale, and land-locked, as might seem,

With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages,

Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet,

The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray,

Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall.

How solemnly the pendent ivy-mass

Swings in its winnow; all the air is calm.

The smoke from cottage chimneys, tinged with light,

150     Rises in columns; from this house alone,

Close by the waterfall, the column slants,

And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this?

That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke,

And close beside its porch a sleeping child,

His dear head pillowed on a sleeping dog –

One arm between its fore legs, and the hand

Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers,

Unfilletted, and of unequal lengths.

A curious picture, with a master’s haste

160     Sketched on a strip of pinky-silver skin,

Peeled from the birchen bark! Divinest maid!

Yon bark her canvass, and those purple berries

Her pencil! See, the juice is scarcely dried

On the fine skin! She has been newly here;

And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couch –

The pressure still remains! O blessed couch!

For this mayst thou flower early, and the sun,

Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long

Upon thy purple bells! O Isabel!

170     Daughter of genius! stateliest of our maids!

More beautiful than whom AlcÆus wooed

The Lesbian woman of immortal song!

O child of genius! stately, beautiful,

And full of love to all, save only me,

And not ungentle e’en to me! My heart,

Why beats it thus? Through yonder coppice-wood

Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway

On to her father’s house. She is alone!

The night draws on – such ways are hard to hit –

180     And fit it is I should restore this sketch,

Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I yearn

To keep the relique? ’twill but idly feed

The passion that consumes me. Let me haste!

The picture in my hand which she has left;

She cannot blame me that I followed her:

And I may be her guide the long wood through.

Hymn

BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI

Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers with its ‘flowers of loveliest blue’.

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star

In his steep course? So long he seems to pause

On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!

The Arve and Arveiron at thy base

Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,

How silently! Around thee and above

Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,

An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,

10      As with a wedge! But when I look again,

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,

Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,

Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer

I worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,

20       Yea, with my life and life’s own secret joy:

Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,

Into the mighty vision passing – there

As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise

Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,

Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,

Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, awake!

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale!

30       O struggling with the darkness all the night,

And visited all night by troops of stars,

Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:

Companion of the morning-star at dawn,

Thyself Earth’s rosy star, and of the dawn

Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?

Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?

Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!

40       Who called you forth from night and utter death,

From dark and icy caverns called you forth,

Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rocks,

For ever shattered and the same for ever?

Who gave you your invulnerable life,

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?

And who commanded (and the silence came),

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s brow

50       Adown enormous ravines slope amain –

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,

And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!

Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven

Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun

Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? –

God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,

Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!

60       God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle’s nest!

Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!

Ye signs and wonders of the element!

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

70            Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,

Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene

Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast –

Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou

That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low

In adoration, upward from thy base

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,

Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,

To rise before me – Rise, O ever rise,

80        Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth!

Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,

Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,

Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,

Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

The Good, Great Man

‘How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits

Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains!

It sounds like stories from the land of spirits

If any man obtain that which he merits

Or any merit that which he obtains.’

REPLY TO THE ABOVE

For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain!

What would’st thou have a good great man obtain?

Place? titles? salary? a gilded chain?

10        Or throne of corses which his sword had slain?

Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends !

Hath he not always treasures, always friends,

The good great man? three treasures, LOVE, and LIGHT,

And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infant’s breath:

And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,

HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL DEATH!

The Knight’s Tomb

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O’Kellyn?

Where may the grave of that good man be? –

By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,

Under the twigs of a young birch tree!

The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,

And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,

And whistled and roared in the winter alone,

Is gone, – and the birch in its stead is grown. –

The Knight’s bones are dust,

10       And his good sword rust; –

His soul is with the saints, I trust.

To Matilda Betham from a Stranger

Matilda! I have heard a sweet tune played

On a sweet instrument – thy Poesie –

Sent to my soul by Boughton’s pleading voice,

Where friendship’s zealous wish inspirited,

Deepened and filled the subtle tones of taste :

(So have I heard a Nightingale’s fine notes

Blend with the murmur of a hidden stream!)

And now the fair, wild offspring of thy genius,

Those wanderers whom thy fancy had sent forth

10       To seek their fortune in this motley world,

Have found a little home within my heart,

And brought me, as the quit-rent of their lodging,

Rose-buds, and fruit-blossoms, and pretty weeds,

And timorous laurel leaflets half-disclosed,

Engarlanded with gadding woodbine tendrils!

A coronal, which, with undoubting hand,

I twine around the brows of patriot HOPE!

The Almighty, having first composed a Man,

Set him to music, framing Woman for him,

20       And fitted each to each, and made them one!

And ’tis my faith, that there’s a natural bond

Between the female mind and measured sounds,

Nor do I know a sweeter Hope than this,

That this sweet Hope, by judgment unreproved,

That our own Britain, our dear mother Isle,

May boast one Maid, a poetess indeed,

Great as th’ impassioned Lesbian, in sweet song,

And O! of holier mind, and happier fate.

Matilda! I dare twine thy vernal wreath

30       Around the brows of patriot Hope! But thou

Be wise! be bold! fulfil my auspices!

Tho’ sweet thy measures, stern must be thy thought,

Patient thy study, watchful thy mild eye!

Poetic feelings, like the stretching boughs

Of mighty oaks, pay homage to the gales,

Toss in the strong winds, drive before the gust,

Themselves one giddy storm of fluttering leaves;

Yet, all the while self-limited, remain

Equally near the fixed and solid trunk

40       Of Truth and Nature in the howling storm,

As in the calm that stills the aspen grove.

Be bold, meek Woman! but be wisely bold!

Fly, ostrich-like, firm land beneath thy feet,

Yet hurried onward by thy wings of fancy

Swift as the whirlwind, singing in their quills.

Look round thee! look within thee! think and feel!

What nobler meed, Matilda! canst thou win,

Than tears of gladness in a BOUGHTON’S eyes,

And exultation even in strangers’ hearts?

Westphalian Song

The following is an almost literal translation of a very old and very favourite song among the Westphalian Boors.