Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight— The revelries and mysteries of night:
And should I ever see them, I will tell you Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.
These are the living pleasures of the bard:
But richer far posterity's award.
What does he murmur with his latest breath, While his proud eye looks through the film of death? "What though 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 formed a snowy circle on the grass,
And placed 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 fostered 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 lulled 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, Stretched on the grass at my best loved employment Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught. E'en now I'm pillowed on a bed of flowers That crowns a lofty cliff, 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 streaked with purple, and green.
Now 'tis I see a canvassed ship, and now Mark the bright silver curling round her prow. I see the lark down-dropping to his nest, And the broad winged seagull 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 shattered boat, oar snapt, and canvas rent,
I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;
* Celebrated for his Shakspearian studies and for his excellent edition (in conjunction with Mary Cowden Clarke) of the plays.
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 penned 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 Baia's shore reclined 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 sequestered haunts of gay Titania To the blue dwelling of divine Urania: One, who, of late, had ta'en sweet forest walks With him who elegantly chats, and talks- The wronged Libertas-who has told you stories Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories; Of troops chivalrous prancing through a city, And tearful ladies made for love and pity:
With many else which I have never known.
Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown Slowly, or rapidly-unwilling still
For you to try my dull, unlearned quill.
*See Spenser's "Fairy Queen."
Nor should I now, but that I've known you long; That you first taught me all the sweets of song : The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine; What swelled with pathos, and what right divine: Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,
And float along like birds o'er summer seas;
Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness; Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness. Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly Up to its climax and then dying proudly? Who found for me the grandeur of the ode, Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load? Who let me taste that more than cordial dram, The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram? Showed me that epic was of all the king, Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring? You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty, And pointed out the patriot's stern duty; The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell; The hand of Brutus; that so grandly fell
Upon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen, Or known your kindness, what might I have been ? What my enjoyments in my youthful years, Bereft of all that now my life endears?
And can I e'er these benefits forget? And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?
No, doubly no ;—yet should these rhymings please, I shall roll on the grass with twofold ease:
For I have long time been my fancy feeding
With hopes that you would one day think the reading
Of my rough verses not an hour misspent ;
Should it e'er be so, what a rich content!
Some weeks have passed since last I saw the spires In lucent Thames reflected :—warm desires To see the sun o'erpeep the eastern dimness, And morning shadows streaking into slimness
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