FOR THE WANDERING JEW. THOUGH the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Resting places calm and deep.
Clouds that love through air to hasten, Ere the storm its fury stills, Helmet-like themselves will fasten On the heads of towering hills. What, if through the frozen centre Of the Alps the Chamois bound, Yet he has a home to enter In some nook of chosen ground: And the Sea-horse, though the ocean Yield him no domestic cave, Slumbers without sense of motion, Couched upon the rocking wave. If on windy days the Raven Gambol like a dancing skiff, Not the less she loves her haven In the bosom of the cliff. The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, Vagrant over desert sands, Brooding on her eggs reposes When chill night that care demands. Day and night my toils redouble, Never nearer to the goal;
Night and day, I feel the trouble Of the Wanderer in my soul. 1800.
In sight of the spires,
All alive with the fires
Of the sun going down to his rest,
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky, They dance, there are three, as jocund as free, While they dance on the calm river's breast. Man and Maidens wheel,
They themselves make the reel, And their music's a prey which they seize; It plays not for them,-what matter? 'tis theirs; And if they had care, it has scattered their cares, While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!' They dance not for me,
Thus pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.
The showers of the spring Rouse the birds, and they sing : If the wind do but stir for his proper delight, Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss: Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother;
They are happy, for that is their right! 1806.
THE PILGRIM'S DREAM;
OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM. A PILGRIM, when the summer day Had closed upon his weary way, A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof; But him the haughty Warder spurned; And from the gate the Pilgrim turned, To seek such covert as the field
Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield, Or lofty wood, shower-proof.
He paced along; and, pensively, Halting beneath a shady tree,
Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch
The murmur of a neighbouring stream, Induced a soft and slumbrous dream, Apregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds He recognised the earth-born Star, And That which glittered from afar; And (strange to witness!) from the frame Of the ethereal Orb, there came Intelligible sounds.
Much did it taunt the humble Light That now, when day was fled, and night Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary eyes, A very reptile could presume
To show her taper in the gloom, As if in rivalship with One Who sate a ruler on his throne Erected in the skies.
"Exalted Star!" the Worm replied,
Abate this unbecoming pride,
Or with a less uneasy lustre shine; Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays
Are mastered by the breathing haze; While neither mist, nor thickest cloud That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, Hath power to injure mine.
But not for this do I aspire To match the spark of local fire,
That at my will burns on the dewy lawn, With thy acknowledged glories:-No! Yet, thus upbraided, I may show What favours do attend me here, Till, like thyself, I disappear Before the purple dawn."
When this in modest guise was said, Across the welkin seemed to spread
A boding sound-for aught but sleep unfit! Hills quaked, the rivers backward ran; That Star, so proud of late, looked wan; And reeled with visionary stir
In the blue depth, like Lucifer
Cast headlong to the pit!
Fire raged: and, when the spangled floor
Of ancient ether was no more,
New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought
And all the happy Souls that rode Transfigured through that fresh abode Had heretofore, in humble trust, Shone meekly mid their native dust, The Glow-worms of the earth!
This knowledge, from an Angel's voice Proceeding, made the heart rejoice Of Him who slept upon the open lea: Waking at morn he murmured not; And, till life's journey closed, the spot Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared, Where by that dream he had been cheered Beneath the shady tree. 1818.
POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE.
As often as I murmur here My half-formed melodies,
Straight from her osier mansion near, The Turtledove replies: Though silent as a leaf before, The captive promptly coos: Is it to teach her own soft lore, Or second my weak Muse? I rather think, the gentle Dove Is murmuring a reproof, Displeased that I from lays of love Have dared to keep aloof; That I, a Bard of hill and dale, Have caroll'd, fancy free, As if nor dove nor nightingale, Had heart or voice for me. If such thy meaning, O forbear,
Sweet Bird! to do me wrong; Love, blessed Love, is every where The spirit of my song:
'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside, Love animates my lyre- That coo again !-'tis not to chide, I feel, but to inspire.
A WREN'S NEST.
AMONG the dwellings framed by birds In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little Wren's In snugness may compare. No door the tenement requires, And seldom needs a laboured roof; Yet is it to the fiercest sun
Impervious, and storm-proof.
So warm, so beautiful withal, In perfect fitness for its aim, That to the Kind by special grace Their instinct surely came.
And when for their abodes they seek An opportune recess,
The hermit has no finer eye
For shadowy quietness.
These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls, A canopy in some still nook; Others are pent-housed by a brae That overhangs a brook.
There to the brooding bird her mate Warbles by fits his low clear song; And by the busy streamlet both
Are sung to all day long.
Or in sequestered lanes they build, Where, till the flitting bird's return, Her eggs within the nest repose, Like relics in an urn.
But still, where general choice is good, There is a better and a best ; And, among fairest objects, some Are fairer than the rest;
This, one of those small builders proved In a green covert, where, from out The forehead of a pollard oak,
The leafy antlers sprout;
For She who planned the mossy lodge, Mistrusting her evasive skill,
Had to a Primrose looked for aid Her wishes to fulfil.
High on the trunk's projecting brow
And fixed an infant's span above
The budding flowers, peeped forth the
The prettiest of the grove!
The treasure proudly did I show
To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things; but once Looked up for it in vain :
"Tis gone a ruthless spoiler's prey, Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved Indignant at the wrong.
Just three days after, passing by
In clearer light the moss-built cell I saw, espied its shaded mouth; And felt that all was well. The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves; And thus, for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
Concealed from friends who might disturb Thy quiet with no ill intent,
Secure from evil eyes and hands
On barbarous plunder bent,
Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent Earthward in uncomplaining languishment, The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower! (Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led, Though by a slender thread,)
So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air The gentlest breath of resignation drew; While Venus in a passion of despair Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair Spangled with drops of that celestial shower. She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do; But pangs more lasting far that Lover knew Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone bower
Did press this semblance of unpitied smart Into the service of his constant heart,
His own dejection, downcast Flower! could
With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear.
COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. NEVER enlivened with the liveliest ray That fosters growth or checks or cheers decay, Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more deprest, This Flower, that first appeared as summer's
Preserves her beauty mid autumnal leaves And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves. When files of stateliest plants have ceased to bloom,
One after one submitting to their doom, When her coevals each and all are fled, What keeps her thus reclined upon her lone- some bed?
The old mythologists, more impress'd than we Of this late day by character in tree Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy, Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear, Or with the language of the viewless air By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause To solve the mystery, not in Nature's laws But in Man's fortunes. Hence a thousand tales
Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick Maid, Who, while each stood companionless and eyed This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed, Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure, A fate that has endured and will endure, And, patience coveting yet passion feeding. Called the dejected Lingerer, Love lies bleeding.
RURAL ILLUSIONS.
SYLPH was it? or a Bird more bright
Than those of fabulous stock?
A second darted by:-and lo! Another of the flock,
Through sunshine flitting from the bough To nestle in the rock.
Transient deception! a gay freak
Of April's mimicries!
Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy Among the budding trees,
Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the
To frolic on the breeze.
Maternal Flora! show thy face,
And let thy hand be seen,
Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers, That, as they touch the green, Take root (so seems it) and look up In honour of their Queen. Yet, sooth, those little starry specks, That not in vain aspired
To be confounded with live growths, Most dainty, most admired, Were only blossoms dropped from twigs Of their own offspring tired.
Not such the World's illusive shows; Her wingless flutterings,
Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave The floweret as it springs,
For the undeceived, smile as they may, Are melancholy things:
But gentle Nature plays her part With ever-varying wiles,
And transient feignings with plain truth So well she reconciles,
That those fond Idlers most are pleased Whom oftenest she beguiles.
THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES.
THAT way look, my Infant, lo! What a pretty baby-show! See the Kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Withered leaves-one-two-and three- From the lofty elder-tree!
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink Softly, slowly one might think, From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or Faery hither tending,- To this lower world descending, Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.
-But the Kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! First at one, and then its fellow Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now-now one-- Now they stop and there are none: What intenseness of desire In her upward eye of fire! With a tiger-leap half way Now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then Has it in her power again : Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjurer: Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart. Were her antics played in the eye Of a thousand standers-by, Clapping hands with shout and stare, What would little Tabby care For the plaudits of the crowd? Over happy to be proud, Over wealthy in the treasure Of her own exceeding pleasure!
'Tis a pretty baby-treat; Nor, I deem, for me unmeet: Here, for neither Babe nor me, Other play-mate can I see. Of the countless living things, That with stir of feet and wings (In the sun or under shade, Upon bough or grassy blade) And with busy revellings, Chirp and song, and murmurings, Made this orchard's narrow space, And this vale so blithe a place, Multitudes are swept away Never more to breathe the day: Some are sleeping; some in bands Travelled into distant lands; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighbourhood; And, among the Kinds that keep With us closer fellowship, With us openly abide,
All have laid their mirth aside.
Where is he that giddy Sprite, Blue-cap, with his colours bright, Who was blest as bird could be, Feeding in the apple-tree:
Made such wanton spoil and rout, Turning blossoms inside out;
And the air is calm in rain; Vainly Morning spreads the lure Of a sky serene and pure; Creature none can she decoy Into open sign of joy: Is it that they have a fear Of the dreary season near? Or that other pleasures be Sweeter even than gaiety?
Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell In the impenetrable cell
Of the silent heart which Nature Furnishes to every creature; Whatsoe'er we feel and know Too sedate for outward show, Such a light of gladness breaks, Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,- Spreads with such a living grace O'er my little Laura's face; Yes, the sight so stirs and charms Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, That almost I could repine That your transports are not mine, That I do not wholly fare Even as ye do, thoughtless pair! And I will have my careless season Spite of melancholy reason, Will walk through life in such a way That, when time brings on decay, Now and then I may possess Hours of perfect gladsomeness. -Pleased by any random toy; By a kitten's busy joy, Or an infant's laughing eye Sharing in the ecstasy;
I would fare like that or this, Find my wisdom in my bliss ; Keep the sprightly soul awake, And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow wrought, Matter for a jocund thought,
Spite of care, and spite of grief, To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 1804.
ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER
ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 16.
Hung-head pointing towards the ground-Mild Fluttered, perched, into a round
Bound himself, and then unbound;
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen!
Light of heart and light of limb;
What is now become of Him?
Lambs, that through the mountains went Frisking, bleating merriment,
When the year was in its prime, They are sobered by this time. If you look to vale or hill, If you listen, all is still,
Save a little neighbouring rill, That from out the rocky ground Strikes a solitary sound. Vainly glitter hill and plain,
HAST thou then survived-Offspring of infirm humanity, Meek Infant! among all forlornest things The most forlorn-one life of that bright star, The second glory of the Heavens?-Thou hast Already hast survived that great decay, That transformation through the wide earth felt, And by all nations. In that Being's sight From whom the Race of human kind proceed, A thousand years are but as yesterday; And one day's narrow circuit is to Him Not less capacious than a thousand years. But what is time? What outward glory? neither A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend Through "heaven's eternal year."-Yet hail to
Frail, feeble, Monthling!-by that name, methinks,
Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out Not idly.-Hadst thou been of Indian birth, Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, Or to the churlish elements exposed On the blank plains,-the coldness of the night, Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned, Would, with imperious admonition, then Have scored thine age, and punctually timed Thine infant history, on the minds of those Who might have wandered with thee.- Mother's love,
Nor less than mother's love in other breasts, Will, among us warm-clad and warmly housed, Do for thee what the finger of the heavens Doth all too often harshly execute For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds Where fancy hath small liberty to grace The affections, to exalt them or refine; And the maternal sympathy itself, Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. Happier, far happier, is thy lot and ours! Even now-to solemnise thy helpless state, And to enliven in the mind's regard Thy passive beauty-parallels have risen, Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect, Within the region of a father's thoughts, Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. And first-thy sinless progress, through a world
By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds,
Moving untouched in silver purity,
And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain: But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn With brightness! leaving her to post along, And range about, disquieted in change, And still impatient of the shape she wears. Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe, That will suffice thee; and it seems that now Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine;
Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon Hath this conception, grateful to behold, Changed countenance, like an object sullied
By breathing mist; and thine appears to be A mournful labour, while to her is given Hope, and a renovation without end. -That smile forbids the thought; for on thy face
Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn, To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been
Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers Thy loneliness: or shall those smiles be called Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore This untried world, and to prepare thy way Through a strait passage intricate and dim? Such are they; and the same are tokens, signs, Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt; And Reason's godlike Power be proud to own. 1804.
THE WAGGONER.
"In Cairo's crowded streets
The impatient Merchant, wondering, waits in vain,
And Mecca saddens at the long delay."
When I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of Peter Bell, you asked "why THE WAGGONER was not added?"-To say the truth,-from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehended, this little Piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, THE WAGGONER was read to you in manuscript, and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, I am the more encouraged to hope that, since the localities on which the Poem partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of inscribing it to you in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your Writings, and of the high esteem with which I am very truly yours,
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