Where once the Austrian fell Beneath the shaft of Tell! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure, There crowd your finely-fibred frame His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, A heart as sensitive to joy and fear? The sordid vices and the abject pains, The doom of ignorance and penury! Beneath the shaft of Tell! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! You were a mother! That most holy name, I may not vilely prostitute to those You were a mother! at your bosom fed The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye, Without the mother's bitter groans: By touch, or taste, by looks or tones O'er the growing sense to roll, The mother of your infant's soul! The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides All trembling gazes on the eye of God, A moment turned his awful face away; And as he viewed you, from his aspect sweet New influences in your being rose, Blest intuitions and communions fleet With living Nature, in her joys and woes! O beautiful! O Nature's child! Beneath the shaft of Tell! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure, ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. RANQUILLITY! thou better name Than all the family of Fame! Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age For oh dear child of thoughtful Truth, To thee I gave my early youth, And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore, Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar. Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, Thy spirit rests! Satiety And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: But me thy gentle hand will lead At morning through the accustomed mead; Will build me up a mossy seat; And when the gust of Autumn crowds, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, The feeling heart, the searching soul, And while within myself I trace The greatness of some future race, Aloof with hermit-eye I scan The present works of present man 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 HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE AUTHOR. COMPOSED IN 1796. A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, But a green mountain variously up-piled, Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep, Or coloured lichens with slow oosing weep; Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash Dance brightened the red clusters of the ash; [guiled, Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds beCalm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, That rustling on the bushy cliff above, With melancholy bleat of anxious love, Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb: Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb, E'en while the bosom ached with lonelinessHow 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 'twere 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; Shouts eagerly for haply there uprears The Hill of Knowledge I essayed to trace; Where Inspiration, his diviner strains Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks |