Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain, To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air! Sweet Hope! ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. In the long vista of the years to roll, Let me not see our country's honor fade! C let me see our land retain her soul! Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade. From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shedBeneath thy pinions canopy my head! Let me not see the patriot's high bequest, Great Liberty! how great in plain attire! With the base purple of a court oppress'd, Bowing her head, and ready to expire: But let me see thee stoop from Heaven on wings That fill the skies with silver glitterings! And as, in sparkling majesty, a star Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud; Brightening the half-veil'd face of heaven afar: So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed, Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head. February, 1815. IMITATION OF SPENSER. Now Morning from her orient chamber came, And her first footstep touch'd a verdant hill: Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, Silvering the untainted gushes of its rill; Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distil, And, after parting beds of simple flowers, By many streams a little lake did fill, Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers. There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright, Vying with fish of brilliant dye below; Whose silken fins' and golden scales' light Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow: There saw the swan his neck of arched snow, And oar'd himself along with majesty ; Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony, And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle And all around it dipp'd luxuriously As if to glean the ruddy tears it tried, Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem! Haply it was the workings of its pride, In strife to throw upon the shore a gem Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem. WOMAN! when I behold thee flippant, vain, Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast These lures I straight forget,- e'en ere I dine, Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark Such charms with mild intelligences shine, My ear is open like a greedy shark. To catch the tunings of a voice divine. Ah! who can e'er forget so fair a being? Who can forget her half-retiring sweets? God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing, Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing, Will never give him pinions, who entreats Such innocence to ruin,-who vilely cheats A dove-like bosom. In truth, there is no freeing One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear A lay that once I saw her hand awake, Her form seems floating palpable, and near: Had I e'er seen her from an arbor take A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 1. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 2. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth! That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 3. Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 4. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 5 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 6. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vainTo thy high requiem become a sod. 7. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in fairy-lands forlorn. 8. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision, or a waking dream? ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 1. THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness! Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth: What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy! 2. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 3. Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed For ever piping songs for ever new ; For ever panting and for ever young; Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest! What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 5. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. ODE TO PSYCHE. O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung, Even into thine own soft-couched ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes! I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? O brightest! though too late for antique vows, From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind With the wreathed trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, FANCY. EVER let the Fancy roam, At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Then let winged Fancy wander Through the thoughts still spread beyond her Open wide the mind's cage-door, She'll dart forth, and cloud ward soar. O sweet Fancy' let her loose; When the soundless earth is muffled, And the caked snow is shuffled From the plowboy's heavy shoon; When the Night doth meet the Noon To banish Even from her sky. Sit thee there, and send abroad, And thou shalt quaff it:-thou shalt hear Distant harvest-carols clear; Rustle of the reaped corn; Sweet birds antheming the morn: And, in the same moment-hark! Or the rooks, with busy caw, Sapphire queen of the mid-May; O, sweet Fancy! let her loose; At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid.-Break the mesh And such joys as these she'll bring.- ODE. BARDS of Passion and of Mirth, With the noise of fountains wondrous, Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites, Of their glory and their shame ; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away. Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new! LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN SOULS of poets dead and gone, I have heard that on a day And pledging with contented smack Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 1 Honor to maid Marian, ROBIN HOOD TO A FRIEND. No! those days are gone away, No, the bugle sounds no more, And the twanging bow no more; Silent is the ivory shrill Past the heath and up the hill; There is no mid-forest laugh, Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight, amazed to hear Jesting, deep in forest drear On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguil To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent; For he left the merry tale Messenger for spicy ale. Gone, the merry morris din; She would weep, and he would craze : So it is; yet let us sing Honor to the old bow-string! Honor to the bugle-horn! Honor to the woods unshorn. Honor to the Lincoln green! Honor to the archer keen! Honor to tight little John, And the horse he rode upon! Honor to bold Robin Hood, Sleening in the underwood! And to all the Sherwood clan! Though their days have hurried by, Let us two a burden try. TO AUTUMN. SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness! To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel-shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies ODE ON MELANCHOLY. No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes |