X. TO J. H. REYNOLDS. THAT a week could be an age, and we Felt parting and warm meeting every week; Then one poor year a thousand years would be, The flush of welcome ever on the cheek: So could we live long life in little space, So a day's journey in oblivious haze To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate. O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind! To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant! In little time a host of joys to bind, And keep our souls in one eternal pant! This morn, my friend, and yester-evening taught Me how to harbor such a happy thought. ΤΟ XI. NIME'S sea hath been five years at its low ebb, Long hours and THE's sea h have to fid fro let creep the sand, Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web, And snared by the ungloving of thine hand. And yet I never look on midnight sky, But I behold thine eyes' well-memoried light; I cannot look upon the rose's dye, But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight; I cannot look on any budding flower, But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips, And hearkening for a love-sound, doth devour Its sweets in the wrong sense:- - Thou dost eclipse Every delight with sweet remembering, And grief unto my darling joys dost bring. *A lady whom he saw for some moments at Vauxhall. XII. TO SLEEP. SOFT embalmer of the still midnight! Enshaded in forgetfulness divine; O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, Then save me, or the passed day will shine Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength, for darkness burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul. 1819. XIII. ON FAME. FA AME, like a wayward girl, will still be coy To those who woo her with too slavish knees, But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy, And dotes the more upon a heart at ease. She is a Gipsey, will not speak to those Who have not learnt to be content without her; A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close, Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her; A very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born, Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar, Ye lovesick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn; 1819. XIV. ON FAME. "You cannot eat your cake and have it too."— Proverb. OW fever'd is the man, who cannot look HR Upon his mortal days with temperate blood, Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book, And robs his fair name of its maidenhood: It is as if the rose should pluck herself, Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom; As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf, Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom, But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed, And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire, The undisturbed lake has crystal space : Why then should man, teasing the world for grace, Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed? 1819. W XV. HY did I laugh to-night? No voice will tell; No God, no Demon of severe response, Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell: Then to my human heart I turn at once. Heart! Thou and I are here sad and alone; I say, why did I laugh? O mortal pain! O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan, To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain. Why did I laugh? I know this Being's lease, My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads; Yet would I on this very midnight cease, And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds; Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser Death is Life's high meed. 1819. A XVI. ON A DREAM. S Hermes once took to his feathers light, When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon'd and slept, So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright, So play'd, so charm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies, Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw Of rain and hailstones, lovers need not tell Their sorrows: pale were the sweet lips I saw, Pale were the lips I kiss'd, and fair the form I floated with, about that melancholy storm. 1819. XVII. IF F by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd, Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress Than Midas of his coinage, let us be Jealous of dead leaves in the bay-wreath crown • So, if we may not let the Muse be free, She will be bound with garlands of her own. 1819. XVIII. HE day is gone, and all its sweets are gone! Warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone, Faded the flower and all its budded charms, When the dusk holiday — or holinight 1819. XIX. CRY your mercy - pity- love ay, love!. One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love, breast, Yourself - your soul in pity give me all, 1819 |