That veiling strove to deck your charms divine, And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child, Beneath the shaft of Tell! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! There crowd your finely-fibred frame, His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, A heart as sensitive to joy and fear? And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife, Yet these delight to celebrate The doom of Ignorance and Penury! 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. Oh! delight! A second time to be a Mother, Without the Mother's bitter groans: Another thought, and yet another, By touch, or taste, by looks or tones O'er the growing Sense to roll, The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides A moment turn'd his awful face away; "Twas thence you hail'd the Platform wild, Where once the Austrian fell O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. TRANQUILLITY! thou better name And left the bark, and blest the stedfast shore, Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, Thy spirit rests! Satiety And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: But me thy gentle hand will lead At morning through the accustom'd mead; And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon. The feeling heart, the searching soul, To thee I dedicate the whole ! The present works of present man A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile! TO A YOUNG FRIEND, ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE AUTHOR. COMPOSED IN 1796. A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb Such a green mountain 't were most sweet to climb, E'en while the bosom ached with lonelinessHow more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound! O then 't were loveliest sympathy, to mark The berries of the half-uprooted ash Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash, Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark, Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock; In social silence now, and now to 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 That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs, Which latest shall detain the enamour'd sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims, Tinged yellow with the rich departing light; And haply, basin'd in some unsunn'd cleft, A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale! Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left, Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine, And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine To cheat our noons in moralizing mood, While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount, To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss! 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! O meek retiring spirit! we will climb, :| And oft the melancholy theme supply), There, while the prospect through the gazing eye Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same, As neighboring fountains image, each the whole : Then, when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth, We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, Rekindling sober Joy's domestic flame. They whom I love shall love thee. Honor'd youth! Now may Heaven realize this vision bright! LINES TO W. L. ESQ. WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC. WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues, And if at death's dread moment I should lie ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE, HENCE that fantastic wantonness of woe, Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part heart 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 TO THE RIVER OTTER. DEAR native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West! How many various-fated years have past, What happy, and what mournful hours, since last I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes I never shut amid the sunny ray, 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 Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way, Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs: Ah! that once more I were a careless child! SONNET. COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR 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 should 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 NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME. CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first I scann'd that face of feeble infancy : For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst All I had been, and all my child might be! But when I saw it on its Mother's arm, And hanging at her bosom (she the while Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm Impress'd a Father's kiss: and all beguiled Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, I seem'd to see an angel-form appear"T was even thine, beloved woman mild! So for the Mother's sake the Child was dear, And dearer was the Mother for the Child. THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE-HYMN. COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY. DORMI, Jesu! Mater ridet, Quæ tam dulcem somnum videt, Dormi, Jesu! blandule! Si non dormis, Mater plorat, Blande, veni, somnule. While others wish thee wise and fair, Thy Mother's name, a potent spell, Meek Quietness, without offence; Associates of thy name, sweet Child! These Virtues mayst thou win; With Face as eloquently mild To say, they lodge within. So when, her tale of days all flown, Some hoary-headed Friend, perchance, Ev'n thus a lovely rose I view'd In summer-swelling pride; Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude Peep'd at the Rose's side. It chanced, I pass'd again that way And wond'ring saw the self-same spray Ah fond deceit! the rude green bud Had bloom'd, where bloom'd its parent stud, EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. ITs balmy lips the Infant blest Relaxing from its Mother's breast, How sweet it heaves the happy sigh Of innocent Satiety! And such my Infant's latest sigh! O tell, rude stone! the passer-by, That here the pretty babe doth lie, Death sang to sleep with Lullaby. MELANCHOLY. A FRAGMENT. STRETCH'D on a moulder'd Abbey's broadest wall, A CHRISTMAS CAROL. And now they check'd their eager tread, They told her how a glorious light, While, sweeter than a Mother's song, A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here describes is called the Hart's Tongue. She listen'd to the tale divine, And closer still the Babe she press'd; And while she cried, the Babe is mine! The milk rush'd faster to her breast: Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn; Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, O why should this thy soul elate? Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story,- And is not War a youthful King, A stately Hero clad in mail? Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail Their Friend, their Play-mate! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. "Tell this in some more courtly scene, And therefore is my Soul elate. "A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, He kills the Sire and starves the Son; The Husband kills, and from her board Steals all his Widow's toil had won; Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away All safety from the Night, all comfort from the Day. "Then wisely is my soul elate, That Strife should vanish, Battle cease: The Mother of the Prince of Peace. Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn : Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born!" HUMAN LIFE, ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY IF dead, we cease to be; if total gloom Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare She form'd with restless hands unconsciously! If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy Hopes, thy Fears, The counter-weights!-Thy Laughter and thy Tears Mean but themselves, each fittest to create, And to repay the other! Why rejoices Image of image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf, ELEGY, IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANK VERSE NEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread, Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, Where "sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant O humbly press that consecrated ground! But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue! Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale. With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms, Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught: KUBLA KHAN; OR, A VISION IN A DREAM. [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. 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 confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, 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 inclosed with a wall." The author continued for abou 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 hundred 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 consciousness of effort. On awaking he appeared to himself 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 preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise 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. Then all the charm Is broken-all that phantom-world so fair Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Author bed-has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been originally, as it were, given to him. Eaμepov adiov aow: but the to-morrow is yet to come. For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain! Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide, 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 |