« AnteriorContinuar »
And starry river buds among the sedge,
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours
Within my hand,--and then, elate and gay, I hastened to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it !-Oh! to whom?
LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.
I ARISE from dreams of thee
The wandering airs they faint
O lift me from the grass !
WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES.
TAE sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent light The breath of the moist earth is light
Around its unexpanded buds; Like many a voice of one delight,
The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, The City's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's.
I see the Deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore,
Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
Arises from its measured motion,
Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
And walked with inward glory crowned-
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Smiling they live and call life pleasure ;-
Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are ; I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan; They might lament-for I am one
Whom men love not,-and yet regret, Unlike this day, which when the sun
Shall'on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
And the year
Of the dead cold year,
The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling,
For the year;
To his dwelling;
Of the dead cold year,