Loathing thy polluted lot,
Hie thee, maiden, hie thee hence! Seek thy weeping mother's cot, With a wiser innocence.
Thou hast known deceit and folly, Thou hast felt that vice is wo: With a musing melancholy
Inly arm'd, go, maiden! go.
Mother sage of self-dominion,
Firm thy steps, O melancholy!
The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion Is the memory of past folly.
Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,
While she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimm'd the tender corn,
Or the bean-field's odorous blooms;
Scon with renovated wing
Shall she dare a loftier flight, Upward to the day-star spring,
And embathe in heavenly light.
LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. NOR cold nor stern my soul! yet I detest These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast, In intricacies of laborious song.
These feel not music's genuine power, nor deign To melt at nature's passion-warbled plaint; But when the long-breathed singer's uptrill'd strain Bursts in a squall-they gape for wonderment.
Hark the deep buzz of vanity and hate!
Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, While the pert captain, or the primmer priest, Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. O give me, from this heartless scene released, To hear our old musician, blind and gray, (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kiss'd,) His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night, The while I dance amid the tedded hay With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light.
Or lies the purple evening on the bay Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide
Unheard, unseen, behind the alder trees, For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied, On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, And while the lazy boat sways to and fro, Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.
The things of nature utter; birds or trees, Or moan of ocean gale in weedy caves,
Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.
THE tedded hay, the first-fruits of the soil, The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, Show summer gone, ere come. The fox-glove tall Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, Or when it bends beneath th' up-springing lark, Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose (In vain the darling of successful love) Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk
By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!* So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk Has work'd (the flowers which most she knew 1 loved,)
And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair.
In the cool morning twilight, early waked By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, Over their dim, fast-moving shadows hung, Making a quiet image of disquiet
In the smooth, scarcely-moving river-pool. There, in that bower where first she own'd her love, And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name Between the moss-rose and forget-me-not- Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair. That forced to wander till sweet spring return, I yet inight ne'er forget her smile, her look, Has made me wish to steal away and weep,) Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood Nor yet th' entrancement of that maiden kiss With which she promised, .that when spring re- turn'd,
She would resign one-half of that dear name, And own thenceforth no other name but mine!
WITH FALCONER'S "SHIPWRECK." AH! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams, In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice; Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams, To harp and song from lady's hand and voice;
One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over the whole empire of Germany, (Vergissmein nicht,) and, we believe, in Den mark and Sweden.
And sweet it is, in summer bower, Sincere, affectionate, and gay, One's own dear children feasting round, To celebrate one's marriage-day.
But what is all, to his delight,
Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back
Before the door of his own home?
Home-sickness is a wasting pang;
This feel I hourly more and more: There's healing only in thy wings, Thou breeze that playest on Albion's shore!
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,
The linnet and thrush, say, "I love and I love!"
SAD lot, to have no hope! Though lowly kneeling He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of heal
That his sick body might have ease and rest; He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest Against his will the stifling load revealing, Though nature forced; though like some captive guest,
Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, An alien's restless mood but half-concealing, The sternness on his gentle brow confess'd, Sickness within and miserable feeling: Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, And dreaded sleep, each night repell'd in vain, Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams, Yet never could his heart command, though fain, One deep full wish to be no more in pain.
That hope, which was his inward bliss and boast Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he
For love's despair is but hope's pining ghost!
Dreams, (the soul herself forsaking,)
Tearful raptures, boyish mirth; Silent adorations, making
A blessed shadow of this earth!
O ye hopes, that stir within me, Health comes with you from above! God is with me, God is in me! I cannot die, if life be love.
THE COMPOSITION OF A KISS.
CUPID, if storying legends* tell aright, Once framed a rich elixir of delight. A chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd, And in it nectar and ambrosia mix'd:
With these the magic dews, which evening brings, Brush'd from th' Idalian star by faery wings: Each tender pledge of sacred faith he join❜d, Each gentler pleasure of th' unspotted mind- Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow,
And hope, the blameless parasite of wo.
The eyeless chemist heard the process rise, The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs;
Sweet sounds transpired, as when th' enamour'd dove
Pours the soft murmuring of responsive love. The finish'd work might envy vainly blame,
And "Kisses" was the precious compound's name.
With half the god his Cyprian mother blest, And breathed on SARA's lovelier lips the rest.
III. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived, Who seeks a heart in the unthinking man. Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life Impress their characters on the smooth forehead: Naught sinks into the bosom's silent depth. Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul Warmeth the inner frame.
HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY.
Besides the rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides, and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the gentiana major grows in immense
numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue."
HAST thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
*Effinixt quondam blandum meditata laborem Basia lascivâ Cypria Diva manâ, Ambrosiæ succos occultâ temperat arte, Fragransque infuso nectare tingit opus. Sufficit et partem mellis, quod subdolus olim Nou impune favis surripuisset Amor,
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity!
O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer I worshipp'd the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy: Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing-there As in her natural form, swell'd vast to heaven! Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn.
Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! O struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Companion of the morning star at dawn, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink: Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who call'd you forth from night and utter death From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, For ever shatter'd and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ?
And who commanded, (and the silence came,) Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain- Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?— God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
Decussos violæ foliis ad miscet odores Et spolia æstivis plurima rapta rosis. Addit et illecebras et mille et mille lepores, Et quot Acidalius gaudia Cestus habet. Ex his composuit Dea basía; et omnia libaos Invenias nitidæ sparsa per ora Cloës. Carm Quod Vol II.
God! sing, ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! | return to his room, found, to his no small surprise
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal frost! Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the element!
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!
Thou, too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast- Thou too again, stupendous mountain! thou That as I raised my head, a while bow'd low
In adoration, upward from thy base
and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and, images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas' without the after restoration of the latter.
Is broken-all that phantom-world so fair Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, And each misshapes the other. Stay a while, Poor youth who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes- The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon The visions will return! And lo, he stays, And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms Come trembling back, unite, and now once more The pool becomes a mirror.
Yet, from the still surviving recollections in his
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, mind, the author has frequently purposed to finish Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,
To rise before me-Rise, O ever rise,
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
[THE following fragment is here published at the request of a poet of great and deserved celebrity, and, as far as the author's own opinions are concerned, rather as a psychological curiosity, than on the ground of any supposed poetic merits.
for himself what had been originally, as it were, given to him. Zapepov adiov aow: but the to-morrow is yet to come.
As a contrast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a very different character, describing with equal fidelity the dream of pain and disease. -Note to the first edition, 1816.]
IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree; Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man, Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree; And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills, And here were forests ancient as the hills, Infolding sunny spots of greenery.
In the summer of the year 1797, the author, then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock and Linton, on the Exmoor con- fiues of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been pre- scribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following sentence, or words of the same substance, in Purchas's "Pilgrimage:"-" Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden thereunto; and thus ten miles of fertile ground were enclosed with a wall." The author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence that he could not have composed less than from two to three hun- dred lines; if that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation, or conscious- ness of effort. On awaking he appeared to him- self to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here pre- served. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, It was a miracle of rare device,
But O that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seeth- ing,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing A mighty fountain momently was forced : Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion, Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves.
and detained by him above an hour, and on his A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
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