« AnteriorContinuar »
WRITTEN AT SUNRISE ON WESTMINSTER
Earth has not any thing to shew more fair :
houses seem asleep, And all that mighty heart is lying still !
WORK WITHOUT HOPE.
The Poet in Despondency.
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar
flow. Bloom, Oye amaranths, bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away! With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll: And would you learn the spells that drowse my
soul ? Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
The reason is, your spirits are attentive :
Which is the high condition of their blood;
savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze By the sweet power of music : therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and
floods ; Since nought so stockish, liard, and full of rage, But Music for the time doth change his nature : The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus ; Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.
Thou aged carle, so stern and grey ?
Or ponder how it pass’d away ?”
A LILY BY MOONLIGHT.
“ Know'st thou not me?" the deep voice cried,
“ So long enjoy’d, so oft misused ; Alternate, in thy fickle pride,
Desir'd, neglected, and accused ? Before my breath, like blazing flax,
Man and his marvels pass away ; And changing empires wane and wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay. Redeem mine hours ;—the space is brief,
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, And measureless thy joy or grief
When time and thou shall part for ever!”
TO A LILY FLOWERING BY MOONLIGHT.
Oh, why, thou lily pale, Lov'st thou to blossom in the wan moonlight, And shed thy rich perfume upon the night?
When all thy sisterhood,
In silken cowl and hood, Screen their soft faces from the sickly gale, Fair-hornèd Cynthia wooes thy modest flower,
And with her beaming lips
Thy kisses cold she sips,
Trick'd in celestial light,
Oh, ask thy vestal queen,
If she will thee advise,
Where in the blessed skies
[day, Who hung, like thee, her pale head through the Love-sick and pining for the evening ray;
And lived a maiden chaste amid the folly
Oh, tell me where she dwells !
So on thy mournful bells
thee tears to feed thy sorrowing.
In sleep and quiet rest,
That riseth in the east ;
Come help me now to sing ;
To praise the heav'nly King.
Or sickness doth suppress,
Or dolours do distress ;