By giving a faint foretaste of damnation
To Shakspeare, Sidney, Spenser and the rest Who made our land an island of the blest, When lamplike Spain, who now relumes her fire On Freedom's hearth, grew dim with Empire:- With thumbscrews, wheels, with tooth and spike and jag,
Which fishes found under the utmost crag Of Cornwall and the storm-encompass'd isles, Where to the sky the rude sea seldom smiles Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the morn When the exulting elements in scorn Satiated with destroy'd destruction, lay Sleeping in beauty on their mangled prey, As panthers sleep: and other strange and dread Magical forms the brick floor overspread- Proteus transform'd to metal did not make More figures, or more strange; nor did he take Such shapes of unintelligible brass, Or heap himself in such a horrid mass Of tin and iron not to be understood,
And forms of unimaginable wood,
To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood:
Near that a dusty paint-box, some old hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, Lie heap'd in their harmonious disarray Of figures,-disentangle them who may. Baron de Tott's Memoirs beside them lie, And some odd volumes of old chemistry. Near them a most inexplicable thing, With least in the middle--I'm conjecturing How to make Henry understand;-but-no, I'll leave, as Spenser says, with many mo, This secret in the pregnant womb of time, Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme.
And here like some weird Archimage sit I, Plotting dark spells, and devilish enginery, The self-impelling steam-wheels of the mind Which pump up oaths from clergymen, and grind The gentle spirit of our meek reviews Into a powdery foam of salt abuse, Ruffling the ocean of their self-content; I sit and smile or sigh as is my bent, But not for them--Libeccio rushes round With an inconstant and an idle sound;
Great screws, and cones, and wheels, and grooved I heed him more than them-the thunder-smoke
The elements of what will stand the shocks Of wave and wind and time.-Upon the table More knacks and quips there be than I am able To catalogize in this verse of mine:- A pretty bowl of wood-not full of wine, But quicksilver; that dew which the gnomes drink When at their subterranean toil they swink, Pledging the demons of the earthquake, who Reply to them in lava-cry, halloo!
And call out to the cities o'er their head,- Roofs, towns and shrines,-the dying and the dead Crash through the chinks of earth-and then all quaff Another rouse, and hold their sides and laugh. This quicksilver no gnome has drunk-within The walnut bowl it lies, veined and thin, In color like the wake of light that stains
The Tuscan deep, when from the moist moon rains The inmost shower of its white fire-the breeze Is still-blue Heaven smiles over the pale seas. And in this bowl of quicksilver-for I Yield to the impulse of an infancy Outlasting manhood-I have made to float A rude idealism of a paper boat-
A hollow screw with cogs-Henry will know The thing I mean and laugh at me,-if so He fears not I should do more mischief.-Next Lie bills and calculations much perplext, With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint Traced over them in blue and yellow paint. Then comes a range of mathematical Instruments, for plans nautical and statical, A heap of rosin, a green broken glass With ink in it;-a china cup that was What it will never be again, I think,
A thing from which sweet lips were wont to drink The liquor doctors rail at-and which I Will quaff in spite of them-and when we die We'll toss up who died first of drinking tea, And cry out,-heads or tails? where'er we be.
Is gathering on the mountains, like a cloak Folded athwart their shoulders broad and bare; The ripe corn under the undulating air Undulates like an ocean;-and the vines Are trembling wide in all their trellis'd lines- The empty pauses of the blast;—the hill The murmur of the awakening sea doth fill Looks hoary through the white electric rain, And from the glens beyond, in sullen strain The interrupted thunder howls; above One chasm of Heaven smiles, like the age of love How could one worth your friendship heed the war On the unquiet world;-while such things are, Of worms? The shriek of the world's carrion jays, Their censure, or their wonder, or their praise?
You are not here! the quaint witch Memory sees In vacant chairs, your absent images,
And points where once you sat, and now should be, But are not.-I demand if ever we Shall meet as then we met;-and she replies, Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes; "I know the past alone-but summon home My sister Hope, she speaks of all to come." But I, an old diviner, who know well Every false verse of that sweet oracle, Turn'd to the sad enchantress once again, And sought a respite from my gentle pain, In acting every passage o'er and o'er Of our communion.-How on the sea-shore We watch'd the ocean and the sky together, Under the roof of blue Italian weather; How I ran home through last year's thunder-storm, And felt the transverse lightning linger warm Upon my cheek:-and how we often made Treats for each other, where good-will outweigh'd The frugal luxury of our country cheer, As it well might, were it less firm and clear
Than ours must ever be ;-and how we spun A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun Of this familiar life, which seems to be But is not, or is but quaint mockery Of all we would believe; or sadly blame The jarring and inexplicable frame Of this wrong world :-and then anatomize The purposes and thoughts of men whose eyes Were closed in distant years;-or widely guess The issue of the earth's great business, When we shall be as we no longer are; Like babbling gossips safe, who hear the war Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not; or how You listen'd to some interrupted flow Of visionary rhyme-in joy and pain
Struck from the inmost fountains of my brain, With little skill perhaps ;-or how we sought Those deepest wells of passion or of thought Wrought by wise poets in the waste of years, Staining the sacred waters with our tears; Quenching a thirst ever to be renew'd! Or how I, wisest lady! then indued The language of a land which now is free, And, wing'd with thoughts of truth and majesty, Flits round the tyrant's sceptre like a cloud, And bursts the peopled prisons, and cries aloud, My name is Legion!"-that majestic tongue Which Calderon over the desert flung Of ages and of nations; and which found An echo in our hearts, and with the sound Startled oblivion ;-thou wert then to me As is a nurse-when inarticulately
A child would talk as its grown parents do. If living winds the rapid clouds pursue, If hawks chase doves through the aerial way, Huntsmen the innocent deer, and beasts their prey, Why should not we rouse with the spirit's blast Out of the forest of the pathless past These recollected pleasures?
In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow At once is deaf and loud, and on the shore Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for more. Yet in its depth what treasures! You will see
You will see C; he who sits obscure In the exceeding lustre and the pure Intense irradiations of a mind, Which with its own internal lustre blind, Flags wearily through darkness and despair- A cloud-encircled meteor of the air,
A hooded eagle among blinking owls. You will see H-t; one of those happy souls Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom This world would smell like what it is-a tomb; Who is, what others seem ;-his room no doubt Is still adorn'd by many a cast from Shout, With graceful flowers, tastefully placed about; And coronals of bay from riband hung, And brighter wreaths in neat disorder flung, The gifts of the most learn'd among some dozens Of female friends, sisters-in-law and cousins. And there is he with his eternal puns, Which beat the dullest brain for smiles, like duns
Thundering for money at a poet's door; Alas! it is no use to say, "I'm poor!" Or oft in graver mood, when he will look Things wiser than were ever said in book, Except in Shakspeare's wisest tenderness. You will see H-, and I cannot express His virtues, though I know that they are great, Because he locks, then barricades, the gate Within which they inhabit;-of his wit And wisdom, you'll cry out when you are bit. He is a pearl within an oyster-shell,
One of the richest of the deep. And there Is English P- with his mountain Fair Turn'd into a Flamingo,-that shy bird
That gleams i' the Indian air. Have you not heard When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo, His best friends hear no more of him? but you Will see him and will like him too, I hope, With the milk-white Snowdonian Antelope Match'd with this cameleopard; his fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it; A strain too learned for a shallow age, Too wise for selfish bigots;-let his page Which charms the chosen spirits of the age, Fold itself up for a serener clime
Of years to come, and find its recompense In that just expectation. Wit and sense, Virtue and human knowledge, all that might Make this dull world a business of delight, Are all combined in H. S.-And these, With some exceptions, which I need not tease Your patience by descanting on, are all You and I know in London.
My thoughts, and bid you look upon the night. As water does a sponge, so the moonlight Fills the void, hollow, universal air. What see you?-Unpavilion'd heaven is fair, Whether the moon, into her chamber gone, Leaves midnight to the golden stars, or wan Climbs with diminish'd beams the azure steep; Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse deep, Piloted by the many-wandering blast,
And the rare stars rush through them, dim and fast. All this is beautiful in every land.
But what see you beside? A shabby stand
Of hackney-coaches-a brick house or wall, Fencing some lonely court, white with the scrawl
Of our unhappy politics;-or worse
A wretched woman reeling by, whose curse Mix'd with the watchman's, partner of her trade, You must accept in place of serenade-
I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit Built round dark caverns, even to the root Of the living stems who feed them; in whose bowers There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowers ; Beyond, the surface of the unsickled corn Trembles not in the slumbering air, and borne In circles quaint, and ever-changing dance, Like winged stars the fire-flies flash and glance Pale in the open moonshine; but each one Under the dark trees seems a little sun, A meteor tamed; a fix'd star gone astray From the silver regions of the milky way. 451
Afar the Contadino's song is heard, Rude, but made sweet by distance;—and a bird Which cannot be a nightingale, and yet I know none else that sings so sweet as it At this late hour;-and then all is still :- Now Italy or London, which you will!
Next winter you must pass with me: I'll have My house by that time turn'd into a grave Of dead despondence and low-thoughted care, And all the dreams which our tormentors are. Oh that Hand were there, With every thing belonging to them fair!— We will have books; Spanish, Italian, Greek,
Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine, Yet let's be merry: we'll have tea and toast; Custards for supper, and an endless host Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies, And other such lady-like luxuries,— Feasting on which we will philosophize. Aud we'll have fires out of the Grand Duke's wood, To thaw the six weeks' winter in our blood. And then we'll talk ;-what shall we talk about? Oh! there are themes enough for many a bout Of thought-entangled descant;-as to nerves, With cones and parallelograms and curves, I've sworn to strangle them if once they dare To bother me,-when you are with me there. And they shall never more sip laud'num From Helicon or Himeros ;*-we'll come And in despite of *** and of the devil, Will make our friendly philosophic revel Outlast the leafless time;-till buds and flowers Warn the obscure, inevitable hours Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew ;- "To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new."
A SENSITIVE PLANT in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it open'd its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night.
And the Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant.
The snow-drop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mix'd with fresh odor, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.
* 'Iμepos, from which the river Himera was named, is, with some slight shade of difference, a synonyme of Love.
Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness;
And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green;
And the hyacinth, purple, and white, and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, It was felt like an odor within the sense;
And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, Which unveil'd the depth of her glowing breast Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare:
And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, As a Mænad, its moonlight-color'd cup, Till the fiery star, which is its eye, Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky;
And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, The sweetest flower for scent that blows; And all rare blossoms from every clime Grew in that garden in perfect prime.
And on the stream whose inconstant bosom Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom, With golden and green light, slanting through Their heaven of many a tangled hue,
Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, And starry river-buds glimmer'd by,
And around them the soft stream did glide and danc With a motion of sweet sound and radiance.
And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, Which led through the garden along and across, Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees,
Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells As fair as the fabulous asphodels, And flowers which drooping as day droop'd too, Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue, To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew.
And from this undefiled Paradise The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet Can first lull, and at last must awaken it),
When Heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun;
For each one was interpenetrated With the light and the odor its neighbor shed, Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear Wrapp'd and fill'd by their mutual atmosphere.
But the Sensitive Plant which could give small fruit Tended the garden from morn to even: Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, Received more than all, it loved more than ever,
And the meteors of that sublunar Heaven, Like the lamps of the air when night walks forth,
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver-Laugh'd round her footsteps up from the Earth!
She sprinkled bright water from the stream On those that were faint with the sunny beam; And out of the cups of the heavy flowers She emptied the rain of the thunder-showers.
She lifted their heads with her tender hands, And sustain'd them with rods and osier bands; If the flowers had been her own infants, she
And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were Could never have nursed them more tenderly.
In an ocean of dreams without a sound;
Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress The light sand which paves it, consciousness;
(Only overhead the sweet nightingale Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, And snatches of its Elysian chant
And things of obscene and unlovely forms, And all killing insects and gnawing worms,
She bore in a basket of Indian woof, Into the rough woods far aloof,
In a basket, of grasses and wild flowers full,
Were mix'd with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant.) The freshest her gentle hands could pull
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