I may not vilely prostitute to those Its gaudy parent fly. You were a mother! at your bosom fed The babes that loved you. eye, You, with laughing Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read, 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. TRANQUILLITY! thou better name 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 nand will lead At morning through the accustomed mead; 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, To thee I dedicate the whole! The greatness of some future race, II. A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, And its peculiar tint of yellow green : Those stars, that glide behind them or between, In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see, not feel how beautiful they are! III. My genial spirits fail: And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavor, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. IV. O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live: Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! And would we aught behold, of higher worth, Than that inanimate cold world allowed Enveloping the Earth And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! V. O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud— And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: For hope grew round me like the twining vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth: Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, For not to think of what I needs must feel, From my own nature all the natural man— Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, Reality's dark dream! I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out, That lute sent forth! without, Thou Wind, that ravest Bare craig, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! * Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the Stormwind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country. |