That veiling strove to deck your charms divine, Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine, Were yours unearn'd by toil; nor could you see The unenjoying toiler's misery. And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child, You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform wild, 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? And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife, Yet these delight to celebrate The doom of Ignorance and Penury! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! You were a Mother! That most holy name, I may not vilely prostitute to those Its gaudy Parent Fly. You were a Mother! at your bosom fed The Babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye, Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read, Which you yourself created. Oh! delight! A second time to be a Mother, Without the Mother's bitter groans: Another thought, and yet another, By touch, or taste, by looks or tones O'er the growing Sense to roll, The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides A moment turn'd his awful face away; "Twas thence you hail'd the Platform wild, Where once the Austrian fell O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. And left the bark, and blest the stedfast shore, 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 accustom'd mead; And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, The feeling heart, the searching soul, 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 AUTHOR. COMPOSED IN 1796. A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb: Such a green mountain 't were 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 't were 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; In social silence now, and now to unlock The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm, Save if the one, his muse's witching charm Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag; Till high o'erhead 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 enamour'd sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims, Tinged yellow with the rich departing light; And haply, basin'd in some unsunn'd cleft, A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale! Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left, Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd 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 fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd: 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, The Hill of Knowledge I essay'd to trace; That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour To glad and fertilize the subject plains; That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, And many a fancy-blest and holy sod, Where Inspiration, his diviner strains Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage! O meek retiring spirit! we will climb, And oft the melancholy theme supply), As neighboring fountains image, each the whole: Then, when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth, We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, Rekindling sober Joy's domestic flame. They whom I love shall love thee. Honor'd youth! Now may Heaven realize this vision bright! LINES TO W. L. ESQ. WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC. WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues, And if at death's dread moment I should lie Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died! ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE, HENCE that fantastic wantonness of woe, Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part heart Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) What Nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal! O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd, All effortless thou leave life's commonweal A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind. SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER. DEAR native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West! How many various-fated years have past, What happy, and what mournful hours, since last I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes I never shut amid the sunny ray, But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray, And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way, Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs: Ah! that once more I were a careless child! SONNET. COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-question'd in her sleep; and some have said* We lived, ere yet this robe of Flesh we wore. O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear), I think that I should struggle to believe Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve; Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve, While we wept idly o'er thy little bier! SONNET. TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first All I had been, and all my child might be! And hanging at her bosom (she the while Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm Impress'd a Father's kiss: and all beguiled Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, I seem'd to see an angel-form appear— "T was even thine, beloved woman mild! So for the Mother's sake the Child was dear, And dearer was the Mother for the Child. While others wish thee wise and fair, Thy Mother's name, a potent spell, Meek Quietness, without offence; Associates of thy name, sweet Child! So when, her tale of days all flown, Some hoary-headed Friend, perchance, Ev'n thus a lovely rose I view'd In summer-swelling pride; Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude Peep'd at the Rose's side. It chanced, I pass'd again that way And wond'ring saw the self-same spray Ah fond deceit! the rude green bud Had bloom'd, where bloom'd its parent stud, EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. ITs balmy lips the Infant blest Relaxing from its Mother's breast, How sweet it heaves the happy sigh Of innocent Satiety! And such my Infant's latest sigh! O tell, rude stone! the passer-by, That here the pretty babe doth lie, Death sang to sleep with Lullaby. MELANCHOLY. A FRAGMENT. STRETCH'D on a moulder'd Abbey's broadest wall, IMITATED FROM STOLBERG. MARK this holy chapel well! The Birth-place, this, of William Tell. Here first, an infant to her breast, And kiss'd the babe, and bless'd the day, "Vouchsafe him health, O God, and give God gave him reverence of laws, The eye of the Hawk, and the fire therein! To Nature and to Holy writ The straining oar and chamois chase He knew not that his chosen hand, She listen'd to the tale divine, And closer still the Babe she press'd; And while she cried, the Babe is mine! The milk rush'd faster to her breast: Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn; Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born. Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, Ọ why should this thy soul elate? Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story,-———— Did'st thou ne'er love to hear of Fame and Glory? And is not War a youthful King, Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail Their Friend, their Play-mate! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. "Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state! I am a woman poor and mean, And therefore is my Soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, That from the aged Father tears. his Child! "A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, He kills the Sire and starves the Son; The Husband kills, and from her board Steals all his Widow's toil had won; Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away All safety from the Night, all comfort from the Day. "Then wisely is my soul elate, That Strife should vanish, Battle cease: The Mother of the Prince of Peace. Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn : A CHRISTMAS CAROL. And now they check'd their eager tread, They told her how a glorious light, Streaming from a heavenly throng, Around them shone, suspending night! While, sweeter than a Mother's song, Blest Angels heralded the Savior's birth, Glory to God on high! and peace on Earth. HUMAN LIFE, ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY. Ir dead, we cease to be; if total gloom She form'd with restless hands unconsciously! If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy Hopes, thy Fears, *A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here de-The counter-weights!-Thy Laughter and thy Tears scribes is called the Hart's Tongue. Mean but themselves, each fittest to create, And to repay the other! Why rejoices But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue! Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good? Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, These costless shadows of thy shadowy self? How shall I yield you Due entertainment, Celestial Quire? Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale. With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms, Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught: KUBLA KHAN; OR, A VISION IN A DREAM. [The following fragment is here published at the request of a poet of great and deserved celebrity, and, as far as the Author's own opinions are concerned, rather as a psychological curiosity, than on the ground of any supposed poetic merits. In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following sentence, or words of the same substance, in Purchas's "Pilgrimage :" Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of up-"Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a buoyance Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance, O give me the Nectar! O fill me the Bowl! That Styx the detested no more he may view, Forbids me to die! ELEGY, IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANK VERSE NEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread, Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, Where "sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant O humbly press that consecrated ground! stately garden thereunto; and thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall." The author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines; if Then all the charm Come trembling back, unite, and now once more Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Author bed-has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been originally, as it were, given to him. Zapepov adiov acw: but the to-morrow is yet to come. For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain! Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide, As a contrast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a very different character, describing with equal fidelity the dream of pain and disease.-Note to the first Edition, 1816.] IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan |