Aloof, with hermit-eye I scan The present works of present man— A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, TO A YOUNG FRIEND, ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; 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 loneliness How 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; While west-winds fanned our temples toil-bedewed: Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount, To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, The Hill of Knowledge I essayed to trace; 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 them all so excellently fair, 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: 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 Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth, And from the soul itself must there be sent V. Ο 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, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, 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, 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, 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. |