Poems 1817 | Page 9

I leave this dull, and earthly mould,?Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold?With after times.--The patriot shall feel?My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;?Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers?To startle princes from their easy slumbers.?The sage will mingle with each moral theme?My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem?With lofty periods when my verses fire him,?And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.?Lays have I left of such a dear delight?That maids will sing them on their bridal night.?Gay villagers, upon a morn of May?When they have tired their gentle limbs, with play,?And form'd a snowy circle on the grass,?And plac'd in midst of all that lovely lass?Who chosen is their queen,--with her fine head?Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red:?For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,?Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:?Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,?A bunch of violets full blown, and double,?Serenely sleep:--she from a casket takes?A little book,--and then a joy awakes?About each youthful heart,--with stifled cries,?And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes:?For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears;?One that I foster'd in my youthful years:?The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep,?Gush ever and anon with silent creep,?Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest?Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,?Be lull'd with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!?Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view:?Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions,?Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions.?Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,?That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,?And warm thy sons!" Ah, my dear friend and brother,?Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother,?For tasting joys like these, sure I should be?Happier, and dearer to society.?At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain?When some bright thought has darted through my brain:?Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure?Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.?As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them,?I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.?Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment,?Stretch'd on the grass at my best lov'd employment?Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought?While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.?E'en now I'm pillow'd on a bed of flowers?That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers?Above the ocean-waves. The stalks, and blades,?Chequer my tablet with their, quivering shades.?On one side is a field of drooping oats,?Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats?So pert and useless, that they bring to mind?The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.?And on the other side, outspread, is seen?Ocean's blue mantle streak'd with purple, and green.?Now 'tis I see a canvass'd ship, and now?Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.?I see the lark down-dropping to his nest.?And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest;?For when no more he spreads his feathers free,?His breast is dancing on the restless sea.?Now I direct my eyes into the west,?Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest:?Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu!?'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!
August, 1816.
TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE.
Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,?And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;?He slants his neck beneath the waters bright?So silently, it seems a beam of light?Come from the galaxy: anon he sports,--?With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,?Or ruffles all the surface of the lake?In striving from its crystal face to take?Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure?In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.?But not a moment can he there insure them,?Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;?For down they rush as though they would be free,?And drop like hours into eternity.?Just like that bird am I in loss of time,?Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme;?With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent,?I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;?Still scooping up the water with my fingers,?In which a trembling diamond never lingers.
By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see?Why I have never penn'd a line to thee:?Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,?And little fit to please a classic ear;?Because my wine was of too poor a savour?For one whose palate gladdens in the flavour?Of sparkling Helicon:--small good it were?To take him to a desert rude, and bare.?Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease,?While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze?That gave soft music from Armida's bowers,?Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:?Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream?Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;?Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,?And lovely Una in a leafy nook,?And Archimago leaning o'er his book:?Who had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen,?From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen;?From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania,?To the blue dwelling of