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I may not vilely prostitute to those
Whose infants owe them less Than the poor caterpillar owes
Its gaudy parent fly. You were a mother! at your bosom fed The babes that loved you. You, with laughing
Without the mother's bitter groans:
By touch, or taste, by looks or tones
The mother of your infant's soul !
His chariot-planet round the goal of day,
A moment turned his awful face away;
New influences in your being rose,
Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
ODE TO TRANQUILLITY.
Than all the family of Fame i
To thee I gave my early youth,
Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
And dire remembrance interlope,
But me thy gentle nand will lead
And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,
The feeling heart, the searching soul,
Aloof, with hermit-eye 1 scan
The present works of present man-
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 colored lichens with slow oozing 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; Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be
guiled, Calm 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;
Till high o'er head 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 enamored sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims,
Tinged yellow with the rich departing light;
And haply, basoned in some unsunned cleft, A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, Sleeps sheltered there, scarce wrinkled by the gale!
Together thus the world's vain turmoil left, Stretched on the crag, and shadowed 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 fanned our temples toil-bedewed : Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the
mount, To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss Gives this the husband's, that the brother's kiss !
Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore,
To glad and fertilize the subject plains ;
Where Inspiration, his diviner strains
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
In word, or sigh, or tear-
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green: And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye ! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars ; Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen: Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; I see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel how beautiful they are !
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.
O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,