And once her both arms suddenly Round Mary's neck she flung, And her heart panted, and she felt The words upon her tongue. She felt them coming, but no power So gentle Ellen now no more Could make this sad house cheery; And Mary's melancholy ways Drove Edward wild and weary. Lingering he raised his latch at eve, Though tired in heart and limb: He loved no other place, and yet Home was no home to him. Une evening he took up a book, And nothing in it read; Then flung it down, and groaning, cried, "O! Heaven! that I were dead." Mary look'd up into his face, And nothing to him said; She tried to smile, and on his arm Mournfully lean'd her head. And he burst into tears, and fell Upon his knees in prayer; "Her heart is broke! O God! my grief, It is too great to bear!" 'Twas such a foggy time as makes Old sextons, sir! like me, Rest on their spades to cough; the spring Was late uncommonly. And then the hot days, all at once, It happen'd then, ('twas in the bower No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh But cluster'd near the chattering brook, Those hollies of themselves a shape As of an arbour took, A close, round arbour; and it stands Not three strides from a brook. Within this arbour, which was sti!) With scarlet berries hung, Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, Just as the first bell rung. 'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet To hear the Sabbath bell, 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once, Deep in a woody dell. His limbs along the moss, his head Upon a mossy heap, And talk'd as 'twere by stealth. "The sun peeps through the close thick leaves, See, dearest Ellen! see! 'Tis in the leaves, a little sun, No bigger than your e'e; "A tiny sun, and it has got A perfect glory, too; Ten thousand threads and hairs of light, Round that small orb, so blue." And then they argued of those rays, So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts But soon they heard his hard quick pants, "A mother, too!" these selfsame words Both groan'd at once, for both knew well That hath been just struck blind. "O God, forgive me!" he exclaim'd, "I have torn out her heart." Then Ellen shriek'd, and forthwith burst Into ungentle laughter; And Mary shiver'd, where she sat, And never she smiled after. Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. Tc morrow! and to-morrow! and to-morrow! DEJECTION; AN ODE. Late, late yestreen, I saw the new Moon, Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens. I. WELL! if the bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, The coming on of rain and squally blast. And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! II. A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, O lady in this wan and heartless mood, And its peculiar tint of yellow green; I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! III. My genial spirits fail, And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win What, and wherein it doth exist, Joy, virtuous lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud; And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness: For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth; Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth. But O! each visitation Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, My shaping spirit of imagination. For not to think of what I needs must feel, But to be still and patient, all I can ; And haply by abstruse research to steal From my own nature all the natural man— This was my sole resource, my only plan; Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, Reality's dark dream! I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthen'd out That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that raves. without, Bare crag, or mountain tairn,* or blasted tree, The passion and the life, whose fountains are Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, within. IV. O lady! we receive but what we give, And from the soul itself must there be sent V. O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be! Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, "Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! * Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the storm wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country. 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice: To her may all things live, from pole to pole, O simple spirit, guided from above, ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUTCHESS OF ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER "PAS- And hail the chapel! hail the platform wild! SPLENDOUR'S fondly foster'd child! O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! Light as a dream your days their circlets ran, Far, far removed! from want, from hope, from fear! Enchanting music lull'd your infant ear, With many a bright obtrusive form of art, Detain'd your eye from nature: stately vests, That veiling strove to deck your charms divine, Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine, Were yours unearn'd by toil; nor could you see The unenjoying toiler's misery. And yet, free nature's uncorrupted child, O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, But boasts not many a fair compeer A heart as sensitive to joy and fear; Yet these delight to celebrate The doom of ignorance and penray! O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! You were a mother! That most holy name I may not vilely prostitute to those Its gaudy parent fly. You were a mother! at your bosom fed The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye Each twilight thought, each nascent feeling read, Which you yourself created. O! delight! A second time to be a mother, Without the mother's bitter groans: By touch or taste, by looks or tones A moment turn'd his awful face away; Blest intuitions and communions fleet O beautiful! O nature's child! 'Twas thence you hail'd the platform wild, O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. TRANQUILLITY! thou better name Trou ne'er wilt leave my riper age And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore, roar. Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, And sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, o vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. But me thy gentle hand will lead At morning through th' accustom'd mead; And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, The feeling heart, the searching soul, To thee I dedicate the whole! The present works of present man- TO A YOUNG FRIEND, ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE AUTHOR. COMPOSED IN 1796. A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, Calm pensiveness night muse herself to sleep; Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb. Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb, E'en while the bosora ached with lonelinessHow more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless Th' adventurous toil, and up the path sublime Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound! O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark The berries of the half uprooted ash Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dasn,Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark, Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock; In social silence now, and now t' unlock The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm, Save if the one, his muse's witching charm Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag; Till high o'erhead his beckoning friend appears, And from the forehead of the topmost crag Shouts eagerly: for haply there uprears To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The hill of knowledge I essay'd to trace; That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour To glad and fertilize the subject plains; That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, And many a fancy-blest and holy sod, Where inspiration, his diviner strains Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, And bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage! LINES TO W. L., ESQ., WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC. WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues, Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died! ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE, WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND HENCE that fantastic wantonness of wo Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal! O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd, All effortless thou leave life's commonweal A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind. SONNET. COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796. OFT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-question'd in her sleep; and some have said* We lived ere yet this robe of flesh we wore. O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks shall tell me thou art dead, (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear,) I think that I should struggle to believe Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve; Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve, While we wept idly o'er thy little bier! SONNET. TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first All I had been, and all my child might be ! And hanging at her bosom (she the while And dearer was the mother for the child. SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER. DEAR native brook! wild streamlet of the west! But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray, And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes On my Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs: Ah! that once more I were a careless child! THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE HYMN. COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY. DORMI, Jesu! Mater ridet, Si non dormis, Mater plorat, Blande, veni, somnule. ENGLISH. Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling, Sleep, my darling, tenderly! * Ην που ημων η ψυχη πριν εν τωδε τω ανθρωπινω είδει γενέσθαι. PLAT. in Phadon |