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Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,
As if to glean the ruddy tears it tried, From cruel parents, or relentless fair,
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem! O let me think it is not quite in vain
Haply it was the workings of its pride,
In strife to throw upon the shore a gem
Let me not see our country's honor fade!
Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain, Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade.
Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies ; From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed
Without that modest softening that enhances Beneath thy pinions canopy my head !
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
That its mild light creates to heal again; Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps and prancos, Great Liberty! how.great in plain attire!
E'en then my soul with exultation dances With the base purple of a court oppress'd,
For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain : Bowing her head, and ready to expire : But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender But let me see thee stoop froni Heaven on wings Heavens! how desperately do I adore That fill the skies with silver glitterings !
Thy winning graces ;—to be thy defender
I hoțly burn-to be a CalidoreAnd as, in sparkling majesty, a star
A very Red-Cross Knight-a stout LeanderGilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
Might I be loved by thee like these of yore. Brightening the half-veil'd face of heaven afar:
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair ; Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed,
Soft dimpled hands, while neck, and creamy breast Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.
Are things on which the dazzled senses rest Febrsiary, 1815.
Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare.
To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd
They be of what is worthy,—though not drest IMITATION OF SPENSER.
In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.
Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark; Now Morning from her orient chamber came,
These lures I straight forget,-. e'en ere I dine,
Or thrice my palate moisten : bur when I mark And her first Tootstep touch'd a verdant hill:
Such charms with mild intelligences shine, Crowning its lavny crest with amber flame, Silvering the untainted gushes of its rill;
My ear is open like a greedy shark. Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distil,
To catch the tunings of a voice divine. And, after parting beds of simple flowers,
Ah! who can e'er forget so fair a being? By many streams a little lake did fill,
Who can forget her half-retiring sweets ? Which round its marge reflected woven bowers,
God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.
For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing, There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright,
Who joys to see us with his gists agreeing,
Will never give him pinions, who entreats Vying with fish of brilliant dye below;
Such innocence to ruin — who vilely cheats Whose silken fins' and golden scales' light
A dove-like bosom. In truth, there is no freeing Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow: There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,
One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear And oar'd himself along with majesty ;
A lay that once I saw her hand awake,
Her form seems floating palpable, and near : Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show
Had I e'er seen her from an arbor take Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony,
A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously
And o'er iny eyes the trembling moisture shako
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
1. Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye:
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Of the bright waters; or as when on high,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the cerulean
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk sky.
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,And all around it dipp'd luxuriously
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,
In some melodious plot Which, as it were in gentle amity,
Of beechen green, and shadow's numberless Rippled delighted up the flowery side;
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
home, Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn; Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth!
The same that oft-times hath O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
Of perilous seas, in fairy-lands forlorn.
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades What thou among the leaves hast never known,
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Up the hill-side; and now 't is buried deep Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
In the next valley-glades : Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Fled is that music :-Do I wake or sleep? Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness ! Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express Though the dull brain perplexes and retards :
A Howery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : Already with thee! tender is the night,
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth: Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy! ways.
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeier; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Wherewith the seasonable month endows
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ;
Bold Lover, never; never canst thou kiss, White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Though winning near the goal-yet, do not griere Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, And mid-May's eldest child,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of Mies on summer eves.
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 6.
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time
And, happy relodist, unwearied,
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting and for ever young; To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
All breathing human passion far above, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, In such an ecstasy!
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vainTo thy high requiem become a sod.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 7.
To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, No hungry generations tread thee down;
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? The voice I hear this passing night was heard What litle town by river or sea-shore, In ancient days by emperor and clown : Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, tan e'er return.
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swinged censer teeming ;
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
In some untrodden region of my mind, Of marble men and maidens overwrought, Where branched thoughts, new-grown with pleasant With forest branches and the trodden weed;
pain, Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral !
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees When old age shall this generation waste,
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; “ Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"—that is all And in the midst of this wide quietness Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!
The winged Psyche wiih awaken'd eyes !
Ever let the Fancy roam,
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Mid hushid, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
Then let winged Fancy wander They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass ;
Through the thoughts still spread beyond her Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
Open wide the mind's cage-door, Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
O sweet Fancy' let her loose; And ready still past kisses to outnumber
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming :
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting : What do then? O latest-horn and loveliest vision far
Sit thee by the ingle, when Oi all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
The sear fagot blazes bright, Fairer than Phæbe's sapphire-region'd star,
Spirit of a winter's night; Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the plow boy's heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky. From chain-swung censer teeming ;
Sit thee there, and send abroad, No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
With a mind sell-overaw'd, Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.
Fancy, high commission'd: send her!
She has vassals to attend her: O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
She will bring, in spite of frost, Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
Beauties that the earth hath lost; When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
She will bring thee, all together, Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
All delights of summer weather; Yet even in these days so far retired
All the buds and bells of May, From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
From dewy sward or thorny spray; Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
All the heaped Autumn's wealth, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
With a still, mysterious stealth:
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it :-thou shalt hear
With the noise of fountains wondrous,
Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights; of their passions and their spites, Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new!
LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN
O, sweet Fancy! let her loose ; Every thing is spoilt by use: Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new ? Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where's the face One would meet in every place? Where's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft? At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. Let, then, winged Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind : Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, Ere the God of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide ; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's when her zone Slipt its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid.-Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash ; Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she'll bring.--' Let the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of venison ? O generous food! Drest as though bold Robin Hood Would, with his maid Marian, Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day Mine host's sign-board flew away, Nobody knew whither, till An astrologer's old quill To a sheepskin gave the story, Said he saw you in your glory, Underneath a new-old sign Sipping beverage divine, And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ?
Honor to maid Marian,
TO A FRIEND.
No! those days are gone away,
TO AUTUMN. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run, To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel-shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
No, the bugle sounds no more, And the twanging bow no more ; Silent is the ivory shrill Past the heath and up the hill; There is no mid-forest laugh, Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight, amazed to hear Jesting, deep in forest drear
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair sofi-lified by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook ;
Thou walehest the last oozings, hours by hours
On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you ; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold ; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting dirty, while He doth his green way beguil To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent; For he left the merry tale Messenger for spicy ale.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies
Gone, the merry morris din; Gone, the song of Gamelyn; Gone, the tough-beled outlaw Idling in the “grené shawe;' All are gone away and past! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his tufteà grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze : He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dock-yard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; She would weep that her wild bees Sang not 10 her-strange! that honey Can't be got without hard money!
ODE ON MELANCHOLY. No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead 10 be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ;
Your mournful Psyche, rror the downy owl
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
So it is ; yet let us sing Honor to the old bow-string! Honor to the bugle-horn! Honor to the woods unshorn, Honor to the Lincoln green! Honor to the archer keen! Honor to tight little John, And the horse he rode upon! Honor to bold Robin Hood, Sleeping in the underwood !
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed fowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes 77