NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells; And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy: bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will mumur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground: Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
Its own small pasture almost its own sky! But covet not the Abode:-forbear to sigh, As many do, repining while they look; Intruders-who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. Think what the Home must be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants!-Roof, window, door,
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the porch which they entwine: Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touched, would melt
Which for the loss of that moist gleam atone That tempted first to gather it. That here, O chief of Friends! such feelings I present, To thy regard, with thoughts so fortunate, Were a vain notion; but the hope is dear, That thou, if not with partial joy elate, Wilt smile upon this gift with more than mild
BELOVED Vale!" I said, "When I shall con Those many records of my childish years, Remembrance of myself and of my peers Will press me down: to think of what is gone Will be an awful thought, if life have one.' But, when into the Vale I came, no fears Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no
Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall : So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small!
A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed; I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed and all The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
AT APPLETHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK,
A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell, BEAUMONT! it was thy wish that I should rear
On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell
In neighbourhood with One to me most dear, That undivided we from year to year Might work in our high Calling-a bright hope To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope Till checked by some necessities severe. And should these slacken, honoured BEAU- MONT! Still
Even then we may perhaps in vain implore Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil Whether this boon be granted us or not, Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot With pride, the Muses love it evermore.
PELION and Ossa flourish side by side, Together in immortal books enrolled:
COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WEST- MORELAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY. WITH each recurrence of this glorious morn That saw the Saviour in his human frame
Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame Put on fresh raiment-till that hour unworn: Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn, And she who span it culied the daintiest fleece, In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace, Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn. A blest estate when piety sublime These humble props disdained not! O green dales!
Sad may I be who heard your sabbath chime When Art's abused inventions were unknown: Kind Nature's various wealth was all your
But, when the closer view of wedded life Hath shown that nothing human can be clear From frailty, for that insight may the Wife To her indulgent Lord become more dear.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. I.
YES! hope may with my strong desire keep
And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;
For if of our affections none finds grace
In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made
The world which we inhabit? Better plea Love cannot have, than that in loving thee Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, Who such divinity to thee imparts As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. His hope is treacherous only whose love dies With beauty, which is varying every hour : But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, That breathes on earth the air of paradise.
No mortal object did these eyes behold When first they met the placid light of thine, And my Soul felt her destiny divine, And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold;
Beyond the visible world she soars to seek (For what delights the sense is false and weak) Ideal Form, the universal mould.
The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest In that which perishes nor will he lend His heart to aught which doth on time depend That kills the soul: love betters what is best, 'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, Even here below, but more in heaven above.
TO THE SUPREME BEING. 111.
THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed If Thou the spirit give by which I pray : My unassisted heart is barren clay, That of its native self can nothing feed: Of good and pious works thou art the seed, That quickens only where thou say'st it may Unless Thou show to us thine own true way No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred That in thy holy footsteps I may tread: The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, That I may have the power to sing of thee, And sound thy praises everlastingly.
But how could I forget thee? Through what
Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss?-That thought's
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed; But all the steps and ground about were strown With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone Ever put on a miserable crowd.
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan.
Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave Smooth way: and I beheld the face of one" Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone: A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!
EVEN So for me a Vision sanctified The sway of Death: long ere mine eyes had
Thy countenance-the still rapture of thy mienWhen thou, dear Sister wert become Death's Bride:
No trace of pain or languor could abide That change-age on thy brow was smoothed -thy cold
Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold A loveliness to living youth denied.
Oh! if within me hope should e'er decline, The lamp of faith, lost Friend! too faintly burn: Then may that heaven-revealing smile of thine, The bright assurance, visibly return: And let my spirit in that power divine Rejoice, as, through that power, it ceased to
IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder--everlastingly. Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.
WITH Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed : Some lying fast at anchor in the road, Some veering up and down, one knew not why. A goodly Vessel did I then espy
Come like a giant from a haven broad; And lustily along the bay she strode, Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her, Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look; This Ship to all the rest did I prefer: When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
No tarrying where She comes the winds must
On went She, and due north her journey took.
THE world is too much with us: late and soon. Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not. -Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn: So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlora ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found, Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play.
On "coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay:
How quickly from that aery hold unbound, Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye Convinced that there, there only, she can lay Secure foundations. As the year runs round, Apart she toils within the chosen ring; While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye Is gently closing with the flowers of spring; Where even the motion of an Angel's wing Would interrupt the intense tranquillity Of silent hills, and more than silent sky. XXXV.
"WEAK is the will of Man, his judgment blind; Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays; Heavy is woe;-and joy, for human-kind,
A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!" Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days Who wants the glorious faculty assigned To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays Imagination is that sacred power, Imagination lofty and refined:
'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind. XXXVI.
TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT.
CALVERT! it must not be unheard by them Who may respect my name, that I to thee Owed many years of early liberty. This care was thine when sickness did condemn Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and That I, if frugal and severe, might stray Where'er I liked; and finally array My temples with the Muse's diadem. Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth; If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays Of higher mood which now I meditate:- It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, Youth! To think how much of this will be thy praise.
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues), Demands the service of a mind and heart, Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part, Heroically fashioned-to infuse
Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, While the whole world seems adverse to desert. And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may, Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress, Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, And in the soul admit of no decay, Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness- Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
FROM the dark chambers of dejection freed, Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care, Rise, GILLIES, rise: the gales of youth shall bear
stem-Thy genius forward like a winged steed. Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove deereed In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air, Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that dare, If aught be in them of immortal seed, And reason govern that audacious flight Which heaven-ward they direct.-Then droop not thou,
SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains-alas, too few!
Erroneously renewing a sad vow
In the low dell mid Roslin's faded grove : A cheerful life is what the Muses love, A soaring spirit is their prime delight."
I WATCH, and long have watched, with calm regret
Yon slowly-sinking star-immortal Sire (So might he seem) of all the glittering quire! Blue ether still surrounds him-yet-and yet; But now the horizon's rocky parapet Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire, He burns- transmuted to a dusky fire- Then pays submissively the appointed debt To the flying moments, and is seen no more. Angels and gods! We struggle with our fate, While health, power, glory, from their height decline,
Depressed; and then extinguished: and our
In this, how different, lost Star, from thine, That no to-morrow shall our beams restore! VII.
I HEARD (alas! 'twas only in a dream) Strains-which, as sage Antiquity believed, By waking ears have sometimes been received Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream;
If the whole weight of what we think and feel, Save only far as thought and feeling blend With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend! From thy remonstrance would be no appeal ; But to promote and fortify the weal
Of our own Being is her paramount end; A truth which they alone shall comprehend Who shun the mischief which they cannot heal. Peace in these feverish times is sovereign bliss: Here, with no thirst but what the stream can slake,
And startled only by the rustling brake, Cool air I breathe; while the unincumbered
By some weak aims at services assigned To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss.
NOT Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange- Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell; But where untroubled peace and concord dwell, There also is the Muse not loth to range, Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange, Skyward ascending from a woody dell. Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour, And sage content, and placid melancholy; She loves to gaze upon a crystal river- Diaphanous because it travels slowly; Soft is the music that would charm for ever; The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.
MARK the concentred hazels that enclose Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray Of noontide suns:-and even the beams that play
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows,
Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom, The very image framing of a Tomb,
In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose Among the lonely mountains.-Live, ye trees! And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep
Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep: For more than Fancy to the influence bends When solitary Nature condescends
To mimic Time's forlorn humanities.
* See the Phædon of Plato, by which this Sonnet was suggested.
And from our earthly memory fade away." THOSE words were uttered as in pensive mood We turned, departing from that solemn sight: And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed! A contrast and reproach to gross delight, But now upon this thought I cannot brood; It is unstable as a dream of night;
Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright, Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome, Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, Find in the heart of man no natural home: The immortal Mind craves objects that endure: These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam, Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.
XIII. SEPTEMBER, 1815. WHILE not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,
With ripening harvest prodigally fair,
In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air, Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields
Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware: And whispers to the silent birds, "Prepare Against the threatening foe your trusties shields."
To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry For me, who under kindlier laws belong Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline
Announce a season potent to renew,
Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of
And nobler cares than listless summer knew.
How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright The effluence from yon distant mountain's head,
Which, strown with snow smooth as the sky can shed,
Shines like another sun-on mortal sight L
« ÀÌÀü°è¼Ó » |