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That veiling strove to deck your charms divine,
There crowd your finely-fibred frame,
You were a Mother! That most holy name,
Where once the Austrian sell
Beneath the shaft of Tell ! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! Thence leafrnt you that heroic measure.
ODE TO TRANQUILLITY.
TRANouillity thou better name Than all the family of Fame! • Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age To low intrigue, or factious rage; For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth, To thee I gave my early youth, And left the bark, and blest the stedfast shore, Ere yet the Tempest rose and scared me with its roar.
Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, On him but seldom, power divine, Thy spirit rests: Satiety And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope And dire Remembrance interlope, To 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 the accustom'd mead; And in the sultry summer's heat Will build me up a mossy seat; And when the gust of Autumn crowds 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,
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 IIIS PROPOSING To DomesTICATE WITH THE AUTHOR.
composed in 1796.
A MoUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep,
Such agreen mountain't were most sweet to climb, E’en while the bosom ached with loneliness— How 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 unsuin'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-bedev'd : Then downwards: slope, oft pausing, from the Indunt, To some lone mansion, in some woody dàle, 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,
LINES TO w. L. ESQ. while HE SANG A song To purch:LL's MUSIC.
WiiILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues,
ADDRESSED To A YouNG MAN of ForTUNE,
who abando NEd himself to AN INDole:NT AND CAUSELESS MELANCholy.
HENCE that fantastic wantonness of woe,
SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER.
DEAR native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West:
composed on A Journey IIoMEwARD; THE AUTHoR having RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE or the birtth of A son, sh;preyiber 20, 1796. Opt 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 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'
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
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, Poor, simple, and of low estate' That Strife should vanish, Battle cease, Q why should this thy soul elate Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story, Did'st thou ne'er love to hear of Fame and Glory?
And is not War a youthful King, A stately Hero clad in mail? Beneath his footsteps laurels spring; 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, To maids and youths in robes of state' I am a woman poor and mean, And therefore is my Soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, That from the aged Father tears his Child !
“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; rands away All safety from the Night, all comfort from the Day.
“Then wisely is my soul elate, That Strife should vanish, Battle cease: I'm poor and of a low estate; , 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!”
ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY.
If dead, we cease to be; if total gloom
And to repay the other! Why rejoices
THE VISIT OF THE GODS.
iMitATED FROM SciiiLLER.
NEver, believe me,
Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler,
With Divinities fills my
Terrestrial Hall !
How shall I yield you Due entertainment, - Celestial Quire 2 Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of upbuoyance Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance, That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre: Ha! we mount! on their pinions they walt up my Soul! O give me the Nectar! ... • O fill me the Bowl! Give him the Nectar! Pour out for the Poet, Hebe' pour free Quicken his eyes with celestial dew, That Styx the detested no more he may view, And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be ' Thanks, Hebe' I quaff it! Io Pean, I cry! The Wine of the Immortals Forbids me to die!
IMITATED from one of ARENside's BLANK verse INSCRIPTIONs.
NEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread,
Where “sleeps the moonlight” on von verdant bed—
For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain! And there his spirit most delights to rove:
Young Edmund ! famod for each harmonious strain, And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.
Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,
His manhood blossom'd : till the faithless pride
But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue 1
Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,
With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms, Amid the pomp of affluence she pined:
Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind.
Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught:
May hold it in remembrance; and be taught
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 cffects 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 palnce to be built, and a stately garden thereunto ; and thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed 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 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—als that phantom-world so fair Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, And each misshapes the other. Stay awhile, Poor youth who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes– The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon The visions will return And Jo, he stays, And soon the fragments (lim of lovely forms Come trembling back, unite, and now once more The pool becomes a mirror.
Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Author has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been originally, as it were, given to him. Saatpov advov age. 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
Down to a sunless sca.