GJontell Mmuersitg SlibWS
Jltljaca, Neni Ifnrk
WORDSWORTH COLLECTION
MADE BY
CYNTHIA MORGAN ST.JOHN
ITHACA. N. Y.
THE GIFT OF
VICTOR EMANUEL
CLASS OF 1919
1925﻿﻿


‘


﻿FOUR POETS﻿*
4﻿FOUR POETS
POEMS FROM
WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE
SHELLEY, and KEATS
SELECTED BY
OSWALD CRAWFURD
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, Ltd.
1897﻿Richard Clay & Sons, Limited,
London & Bungay.﻿INTRODUCTION
From the days of Chaucer to our own, the river
of English Poetry has flowed in a stream whose
current has at times been intermittent, at others
has run with a generous flood that has carried
refreshment to the dwellers in our land. There
have now and again been seasons of seeming
drought and dearth of all poetic thought and
imagining, when these great and important things
have found no adequate utterance in verse, but it
is not to be supposed that the poetic current has
ever ceased entirely to flow, only that it has flowed
unseen, deep down in the souls of poets who have
been inarticulate—of men who have never attained
to the rank and fame of printed and published
poets.
During these dreary stretches of infertility the
river of English Poetry has kept its course, but
hidden and unseen, as with that famous English
stream that dives for a time beneath the Surrey
woodlands, and rises to the surface again a mile or
more away with a fuller and purer current—fed
v﻿INTRODUCTION
by underground springs and rills, and filtered
through subterranean sands and gravel-beds.
Just such a period of apparent cessation of our
national stream of poetry occurred towards the end
of the last century. There was silence, or worse
than silence in song, for a space of some thirty or
forty years, then the river suddenly burst forth
again with a fuller and purer current. This rising
of the waters was contemporaneous with the
publication of the famous	Ballads of Cole-
ridge and Wordsworth in the year 1798. Since
then the stream of English Poetry has never
again ceased or slackened. A few years after the
Lyrical Ballads saw the light, Shelley and Keats
wrote and published great and noble poetry, and
English critics at least will agree that the sixty
years during which these four master poets worked,
witnessed the birth, the growth, and the climax of
that which as a body of purely English poetry is
the most essentially sweet, full, sensuously passion-
ate, pure, thoughtful and inspiring that our nation
has yet known.
The above reference to English critics is inten-
tional, for foreign ones would, one may feel sure,
insist unanimously upon the inclusion of another
great English poet among those from whose works
these selections have been made.
We Englishmen, however, may be taken to
know our own requirements and to be able to
assess better than any foreigner the achievements
of English writers in the domain of poetry.
vi﻿INTRODUCTION
In that great modern movement in English
poetry which I have ventured to liken to a river,
Coleridge, Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats are
the main contributories. And this river flows con-
tinuously. Tennyson, Browning, Rossetti, Arnold,
and Swinburne have augmented the volume of its
waters. These writers have carried on the great
traditions of the four great masters, and the stream
yet runs full and limpid; but Byron’s verse has
filled a separate channel from the first. His verse
is a rush of rhetorical, passionate, sensuous, even
sensual, and melodramatic utterance, that echoed,
with nothing short of real genius, the manners,
modes of thought, and the temperament of a
vicious and vulgar age. His methods ended with
its author’s life, and no one in English verse has
ever carried on the traditions of Byron’s extra-
ordinary genius. Only in the lowest form of
modern popular prose fiction can his rhetoric be
said to survive. If the Byronic tradition has died
out, we may console ourselves with the fact that
Coleridge and Wordsworth, Shelley and Keats,
the first great masters of our modern school of
Poetry, still stand where they stood when they
were first praised and loved, and that their
traditions are daily being enlarged and sustained.
If readers find fault with the omission of any of
their favourite pieces from the present Selection,
they will please to bear in mind that the poets
quoted—with the exception of Coleridge—wrote
• •
Vll﻿INTRODUCTION
much, and that many pieces have of necessity to
be omitted in so limited a volume. The tolerant
reader will likewise not forget that while some
critics may thoroughly agree in holding the whole
work of a particular poet right, good and true,
hardly two in a hundred consent to give precisely
the same value to particular poems.
Oswald Crawfurd.
Vlll﻿Morbswovtb﻿﻿FOUR POETS
---o----
I.
LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray :
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary Child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
—The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door !
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green ;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
“To-night will be a stormy night—
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow.”
“ That, Father ! will I gladly do :
’Tis scarcely afternoon—
The Minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the Moon.”
3﻿FOUR POETS
At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band ;
lie plied his work ;—and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe :
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The snow came on before its time :
She wandered up and down ;
And many a hill did Lucy climb ;
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide ;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor ;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.
They wept—and, turning homeward, cried,
‘ In Heaven we all shall meet:”
—When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy’s feet.
Half breathless from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small ;
And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,
And by the long stone wall;
And then an open field they crossed :
The marks were still the same ;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the Bridge they came.
4﻿WORDSWORTH
They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank ;
And further there were none !
—Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child ;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.
O’er rough and smooth she trips along
And never looks behind ;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
---o----
II.
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ;
And a single small Cottage, a nest like a dove’s,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade :
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.
5﻿FOUR POETS
in.
HART-LEAP WELL.
Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from
Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads
from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remark-
able Chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments
spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, which
monuments do now exist as I have there described them.
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
With the slow motion of a summer’s cloud ;
lie turned aside towards a vassal’s door,
And “ Bring another horse ! ” he cried aloud.
“ Another horse ! ”—That shout the vassal heard
And saddled his best steed, a comely gray ;
Sir Walter mounted him ; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
Joy sparkled in the prancing courser’s eyes ;
The Horse and Horseman are a happy pair ;
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
There is a doleful silence in the air.
A rout this morning left Sir Walter’s Hall,
That as they galloped made the echoes roar ;
But horse and man are vanished, one and all;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain :
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.
The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern ;
But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one,
The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.﻿WORDSWORTH
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown ?
—This Chase it looks not like an earthly Chase j
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.
The poor Hart toils along the mountain side ;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died ;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn ;
He had no follower, Dog, nor Man, nor Boy :
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat;
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned ;
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.
Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched :
His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched
The waters of the spring were trembling still.
And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Never had living man such joyful lot!)
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west
And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.
And climbing up the hill—(it was at least
Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, “Till now
Such sight was never seen by living eyes :
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,
Down to the very fountain where he lies.
7﻿FOUR POETS
“ I’ll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot,
And a small Arbour, made for rural joy ;
’Twill be the traveller’s shed, the pilgrim’s cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.
“ A cunning artist will I have to frame
A basin for that Fountain in the dell !
And they who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Well.
‘£ And, gallant Stag ! to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised ;
Three several Pillars, each a rough-hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.
“ And, in the summer-time when days are long,
I will come hither with my Paramour ;
And with the dancers and the minstrel’s song
We will make merry in that pleasant Bower.
“ Till the foundations of the mountains fail
My Mansion with its Arbour shall endure ;—
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure ! ”
Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead,
With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring.
—Soon did the Knight perform what he had said,
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.
Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered,
A Cup of stone received the living Well ;
Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
And built a House of Pleasure in the dell.
And near the Fountain, flowers of stature tall
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,—
Which soon composed a little sylvan Hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
8﻿WORDSWORTH
And thither, when the summer-days were long,
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ;
And with the dancers and the minstrel’s song
Made merriment within that pleasant Bower.
The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.—
But there is matter for a second rhyme,
And I to this would add another tale.
PART SECOND.
The moving accident is not my trade :
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts :
’Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
Three Aspens at three corners of a square ;
And one, not four yards distant, near a Well.
What this imported I could ill divine :
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
I saw three Pillars standing in a line,
The last stone-Pillar on a dark hill-top.
The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head
Half-wasted the square Mound of tawny green ;
So that you just might say, as then I said,
Here in old time the hand of man hath been.”
I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey ;
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,
And Nature here were willing to decay.
9﻿FOUR POETS
I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
When one, who was in shepherd’s garb attired,
Came up the hollow :—Him did I accost,
And what this place might be I then enquired.
The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told
Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed.
“ A jolly place,” said he, “in times of old !
But something ails it now ; the spot is curst.
“ You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood—
Some say that they are beeches, others elms—
These were the Bower ; and here a Mansion stood,
The finest palace of a hundred realms !
“ The Arbour does its own condition tell;
You see the Stones, the Fountain, and the Stream ;
But as to the great Lodge ! you might as well
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
“There’s neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
Will wet his lips within that Cup of stone ;
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.
“ Some say that here a murder has been done,
And blood cries out for blood : but, for my part,
I’ve guessed, when I’ve been sitting in the sun,
That it was all for that unhappy Hart.
“ What thoughts must through the Creature’s brain have
passed !
Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep,
Are but three bounds—and look, Sir, at this last—
—O Master ! it has been a cruel leap.
“For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ;
And in my simple mind we cannot tell
What cause the Hart might have to love this place,
And come and make his deathbed near the Well.
io﻿WORDSWORTH
“ Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,
Lulled by the Fountain in the summer-tide ;
This water was perhaps the first he drank
When he had wandered from his mother’s side.
“ In April here beneath the scented thorn
He heard the birds their morning carols sing;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.
“Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;
The sun on drearier hollow never shone ;
So will it be, as I have often said,
Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain, all are gone.”
“ Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine :
This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell;
Ilis death was mourned by sympathy divine.
“The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care
For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.
“The Pleasure-house is dust :—behind, before,
This is no common waste, no common gloom ;
But Nature, in due course of time, once more
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.
“ She leaves these objects to a slow decay,
That what we are, and have been, may be known ;
But, at the coming of the milder day,
These monuments shall all be overgrown.
“ One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals,
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.”﻿FOUR POETS
IV.
THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET.
WHERE art thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead ?
Oh find me, prosperous or undone !
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same
That I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
Seven years, alas ! to have received
No tidings of an only child ;
To have despaired, and have believed,
And be for evermore beguiled ;
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss !
I catch at them, and then I miss;
Was ever darkness like to this ?
He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold ;
Well born, well bred ; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold :
If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base ;
And never blush was on my face.
Ah ! little doth the Young-one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power is in his wildest scream,
Heard by his Mother unawares !
lie knows it not, he cannot guess :
Years to a mother bring distress ;
But do not make her love the less.﻿WORDSWORTH
Neglect me ! no, I suffered long
From that ill thought ; and, being blind,
Said, “ Pride shall help me in my wrong
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed : ” and that is true ;
I’ve wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew.
My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh ! do not dread thy mother’s door ;
Think not of me with grief and pain ;
I now can see with better eyes ;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.
Alas ! the fowls of Heaven have wings,
And blasts of Heaven will aid their flight
They mount—how short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their delight !
Chains tie us down by land and sea ;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.
<
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the Lion’s den ;
Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.
I look for Ghosts ; but none will force
Their way to me :—’tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Between the living and the dead ;
13﻿FOUR POETS
For, surely, then I should have sight
Of Him I wait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite.
My apprehensions come in crowds ;
I dread the rustling of the grass ;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass :
I question things, and do not find
One that will answer to my mind ;
And all the world appears unkind.
Beyond participation lie
*
My troubles, and beyond relief:
If any chance to heave a sigh,
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to me, my Son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end ;
I have no other earthly friend !
«o
V.
THE BROTHERS.1
“ These Tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs must live
A profitable life : some glance along,
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted : some, as wise,
Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
1 This Poem was intended to conclude a series of pastorals, the
scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumberland and
Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise for the abruptness with
which the poem begins.
14﻿WORDSWORTH
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his neighbour’s corn.
But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder?—In our churchyard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,
Tombstone nor name—only the turf we tread
And a few natural graves.” To Jane, his wife,
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.
It was a July evening ; and he sate
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves
Of his old cottage,—as it chanced, that day,
Employed in winter’s work. Upon the stone
His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,
%
While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire,
He fed the spindle of his youngest Child,
Who turned her large round wheel in the open air
With back and forward steps. Towards the field
In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent
Many a long look of wonder : and at last,
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge
Of carded wool which the old man had piled
lie laid his implements with gentle care,
Each in the other locked ; and, down the path
That from his cottage to the churchyard led,
He took his way, impatient to accost
The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.
’Twas one well known to him in former days,
A Shepherd-lad ;—who ere his sixteenth year
Had left that calling, tempted to entrust
His expectations to the fickle winds
And perilous waters,—with the mariners
A fellow mariner,—and so had fared
15﻿FOUR POETS
Through twenty seasons ; but he had been reared
Among the mountains, and he in his heart
Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas.
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds
Of caves and trees :—and, when the regular wind
Between the tropics filled the steady sail,
And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,
Lengthening invisibly its weary line
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
Over the vessel’s side, and gaze and gaze ;
And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam
Flashed round him images and hues that wrought
In union with the employment of his heart,
He, thus by feverish passion overcome,
Even with the organs of his bodily eye,
Below him, in the bosom of the deep,
Saw mountains,—saw the forms of sheep that grazed
On verdant hills—with dwellings among trees,
And shepherds clad in the same country gray
Which he himself had worn.1
And now, at last,
From perils manifold, with some small wealth
Acquired by traffic ’mid the Indian Isles,
To his paternal home he is returned,
With a determined purpose to resume
The life he had lived there ; both for the sake
Of many darling pleasures, and the love
Which to an only brother he has borne
In all his hardships, since that happy time
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
Were brother Shepherds on their native hills.
1 This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect
recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of
“ The Hurricane.”
16﻿WORDSWORTH
—They were the last of all their race ; and now,
When Leonard had approached his home, his heart
Failed in him ; and, not venturing to enquire
Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved,
Towards the churchyard he had turned aside ;
That, as he knew in what particular spot
His family were laid, he thence might learn
If still his Brother lived, or to the file
Another grave was added.—He had found
Another grave,—near which a full half-hour
He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there grew
Such a confusion in his memory,
That he began to doubt; and hope was his
That he had seen this heap of turf before,—
That it was not another grave ; but one
He had forgotten. He had lost his path,
As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked
Through fields which once had been well known to
him :
And oh what joy the recollection now
Sent to his heart ! He lifted up his eyes,
And, looking round, imagined that he saw
Strange alteration wrought on every side
Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,
And everlasting hills themselves were changed.
By this the Priest, who down the field had come,
Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate
Stopped short,—and thence, at leisure, limb by limb
Perused him with a gay complacency.
Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself,
'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path
Of the world’s business to go wild alone :
His arms have a perpetual holiday;
The happy man will creep about the fields,
Following his fancies by the hour, to bring
17
C﻿FOUR POETS
Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles
Into his face, until the setting sun
Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus
Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate
Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appeared
The good Man might have communed with himself.
But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,
Approached ; he recognised the Priest at once,
And, after greetings interchanged, and given
By Leonard to the Vicar as to one
Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.
LEONARD.
You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life :
Your years make up one peaceful family ;
And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come
And welcome gone, they are so like each other,
They cannot be remembered ? Scarce a funeral
Comes to this churchyard once in eighteen months ;
And yet, some changes must take place among you :
And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks,
Can trace the finger of mortality,
And see, that with our threescore years and ten
We are not all that perish.--1 remember,
(For many years ago I passed this road)
There was a foot-way all along the fields
By the brook-side—’tis gone—and that dark cleft !
To me it does not seem to wear the face
Which then it had.
PRIEST.
Nay, Sir, for aught I know,
That chasm is much the same—
LEONARD.
18
But, surely, yonder﻿WORDSWORTH
PRIEST.
Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend
That does not play you false.—On that tall pike
(It is the loneliest place of all these hills)
There were two Springs which bubbled side by side,
As if they had been made that they might be
Companions for each other : the huge crag
Was rent with lightning—one hath disappeared ;
The other, left behind, is flowing still.1
For accidents and changes such as these,
We want not store of them ;—a water-spout
Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feast
For folks that wander up and down like you,
To see an acre’s breadth of that wide cliff
One roaring cataract !—a sharp May-storm
Will come with loads of January snow,
And in one night send twenty score of sheep
To feed the ravens ; or a Shepherd dies
By some untoward death among the rocks :
The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge—
A wood is felled :—and then for our own homes !
A Child is born or christened, a Field ploughed,
A Daughter sent to service, a Web spun,
The old House-clock is decked with a new face ;
And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates
To chronicle the time, we all have here
A pair of diaries,—one serving, Sir,
For the whole dale, and one for each fireside—
Yours was a strangers judgment: for historians,
Commend me to these valleys !
LEONARD.
Yet your Churchyard
Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,
1 This actually took place upon Kidstow Pike at the head of
Haweswater.
19﻿FOUR POETS
To say that you are heedless of the past :
An orphan could not find his mother’s grave :
Here’s neither head nor foot stone, plate of brass,
Cross-bones nor skull,—type of our earthly state
Nor emblem of our hopes : the dead man’s home
Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.
PRIEST.
Why, there, Sir, is a thought that’s new to me !
The Stone-cutters, ’tis true, might beg their bread
If every English Churchyard were like ours ;
Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth :
We have no need of names and epitaphs ;
We talk about the dead by our firesides.
And then, for our immortal part! we want
No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale :
The thought of death sits easy on the man
Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
LEONARD.
Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other’s thoughts
Possess a kind of second life : no doubt
You, Sir, could help me to the history
Of half these graves ?
TRIEST.
For eight-score winters past,
With what I’ve witnessed, and with what I’ve heard,
Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening,
If you were seated at my chimney’s nook,
By turning o’er these hillocks one by one,
We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round ;
Yet all in the broad highway of the world.
Now there’s a grave—your foot is half upon it,—
It looks just like the rest; and yet that Man
Died broken-hearted.﻿WORDSWORTH
LEONARD.
’Tis a common case.
We’ll take another : who is he that lies
Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves ?
It touches on that piece of native rock
Left in the churchyard wall.
# —
PRIEST.
That’s Walter Ewbank.
He had as white a head and fresh a cheek
As ever were produced by youth and age
Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.
Through five long generations had the heart
Of Walter’s forefathers o’erflowed the bounds
Of their inheritance, that single cottage—
You see it yonder!—and those few green fields.
They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son,
Each struggled, and each yielded as before
A little—yet a little—and old Walter,
They left to him the family heart, and land
With other burthens than the crop it bore.
Year after year the old man still kept up
A cheerful mind,—and buffeted with bond,
Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank,
And went into his grave before his time.
Poor Walter ! whether it was care that spurred him
God only knows, but to the very last
He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale :
His pace was never that of an old man :
I almost see him tripping down the path
With his two Grandsons after him :—but You,
Unless our Landlord be your host to-night,
Have far to travel,—and on these rough paths
Even in the longest day of midsummer—
21﻿FOUR POETS
LEONARD.
But those two Orphans !
PRIEST.
Orphans !—Such they were —
Yet not while Walter lived :—for, though their parents
Lay buried side by side as now they lie,
The old Man was a father to the boys,
Two fathers in one father : and if tears,
Shed when he talked of them where they were not,
And hauntings from the infirmity of love,
Are aught of what makes up a mother’s heart,
This old Man, in the day of his old age,
Was half a mother to them.—If you weep, Sir,
To hear a stranger talking about strangers,
Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred !
Ay—you may turn that way—it is a grave
Which will bear looking at.
LEONARD.
These Boys—I hope
They loved this good old Man?
PRIEST.
They did—and truly:
But that was what we almost overlooked,
They were such darlings of each other. For,
Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter,
The only kinsman near them, and though he
Inclined to them by reason of his age,
With a more fond, familiar tenderness,
They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare
And it all went into each other's hearts.
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,﻿WORDSWORTH
Was two years taller: ’twas a joy to see,
To hear, to meet them !—From their house the School
Is distant three short miles—and in the time
Of storm and thaw, when every water-course
And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed
Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,
Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,
Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps
Remained at home, go staggering through the fords,
Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him,
On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,
Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep,
Their two books lying both on a dry stone,
Upon the hither side : and once I said,
As I remember, looking round these rocks
And hills on which we all of us were born,
That God who made the great book of the world
Would bless such piety—
LEONARD.
It may be then—
PRIEST.
Never did worthier lads break English bread ;
The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,
Could never keep these boys away from church,
Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach.
Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner
Among these rocks, and every hollow place
Where foot could come, to one or both of them
Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.
Like Roe-bucks they went bounding o’er the hills ;
They played like two young Ravens on the crags :
Then they would write, ay and speak too, as well﻿FOUR POETS
As many of their betters—and for Leonard !
The very night before he went away,
In my own house I put into his hand
A Bible, and I’d wager house and field
That, if he is alive, he has it yet.
LEONARD.
It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be
A comfort to each other—
PRIEST.
That they might
Live to such end, is what both old and young
In this our valley all of us have wished,
And what, for my part, I have often prayed :
But Leonard—
LEONARD.
Then James still is left among you?
PRIEST.
’Tis of the elder Brother I am speaking :
They had an Uncle ;—he was at that time
A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas :
And, but for that same Uncle, to this hour
Leonard had never handled rope or shroud :
For the Boy loved the life which we lead here ;
And though of unripe years, a stripling only,
His soul was knit to this his native soil.
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak
To strive with such a torrent; when he died,
The Estate and House were sold; and all their Sheep
A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years :—
Well—all was gone, and they were destitute.
24﻿WORDSWORTH
And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother’s sake,
Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.
Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him.
If there were one among us who had heard
That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,
From the great Gavel,1 down by Leeza’s Banks,
And down the Enna, far as Egremont,
The day would be a very festival ;
And those two bells of ours, where there you see—
Hanging in the open air—but, O good Sir!
This is sad talk—they’ll never sound for him—
Living or dead.—When last we heard of him,
He was in slavery among the Moors
Upon the Barbary Coast.—’Twas not a little
That would bring down his spirit ; and no doubt,
Before it ended in his death, the Youth
Was sadly crossed—Poor Leonard ! when we parted,
He took me by the hand, and said to me,
If e’er he should grow rich, he would return,
To live in peace upon his father’s land,
And lay his bones among us.
LEONARD.
If that day
Should come’t would needs be a glad day for him ;
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then
As any that should meet him—
PRIEST.
Happy! Sir—
1 The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to
the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland
mountains; It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale,
Wastdale, and Borrowdale.
The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale : on
issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the End,
Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont-
25﻿FOUR POETS
LEONARD.
You said his kindred all were in their graves,
And that he had one Brother—
PRIEST.
That is but
A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth
James, though not sickly, yet was delicate ;
And Leonard being always by his side
Had done so many offices about him,
That, though he was not of a timid nature,
Yet still the spirit of a Mountain Boy
In him was somewhat checked ; and, when his Brother
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone,
The little colour that he had was soon
Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and
pined—
LEONARD.
But these are all the graves of full-grown men !
PRIEST.
Ay, Sir, that passed away : we took him to us ;
He was the Child of all the dale—he lived
Three months with one, and six months with another
And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love :
And many, many happy days were his.
But, whether blithe or sad, ’tis my belief
His absent Brother still was at his heart.
And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found
(A practice till this time unknown to him)
That often, rising from his bed at night,
He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping
He sought his Brother Leonard. — You are moved !
Forgive me, Sir : before I spoke to you,
I judged you most unkindly.﻿WORDSWORTH
LEONARD.
But this Youth,
How did he die at last?
PRIEST.
One sweet May morning,
(It will be twelve years since when Spring returns)
He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,
With two or three companions, whom their course
Of occupation led from height to height
Under a cloudless sun, till he, at length,
Through weariness, or, haply to indulge
The humour of the moment, lagged behind.
You see yon precipice ;—it wears the shape
Of a vast building made of many crags ;
And in the midst is one particular rock
That rises like a column from the vale,
Whence by our shepherds it is called The Pillar.
Upon its aery summit crowned with heath,
The Loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades,
Lay stretched at ease ; but, passing by the place
On their return, they found that he was gone.
No ill was feared ; but one of them by chance
Entering, when evening was far spent, the house
Which at that time was James’s home, there learned
That nobody had seen him all that day :
The morning came, and still he was unheard of:
The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook
Some hastened, some towards the lake : ere noon
They found him at the foot of that same rock
Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after
I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies !
LEONARD.
And that then is his grave !—Before his death
You say that he saw many happy years ?
27﻿FOUR POETS
PRIEST.
Ay, that he did—
LEONARD.
And all went well with him ?
PRIEST.
If he had one, the youth had twenty homes.
LEONARD.
And you believe, then, that his mind was easy ?—
PRIEST.
Yes, long before he died, he found that time
Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless
His thoughts were turned on Leonard’s luckless fortune,
He talked about him with a cheerful love.
LEONARD.
He could not come to an unhallowed end !
PRIEST.
Nay, God forbid !—You recollect I mentioned
A habit which disquietude and grief
Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
Upon the grass,—and waiting for his comrades,
He there had fallen asleep ; that in his sleep
He to the margin of the precipice
Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong.
And so, no doubt, he perished; at the time,
We guess, that in his hand he must have held
11 is Shepherd’s staff; for midway in the cliff
It had been caught; and there for many years
It hung—and mouldered there.
28﻿WORDSWORTH
The Priest here ended—
The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt
A gushing from his heart, that took away
The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence ;
And Leonard, when they reached the churchyard gate,
As the Priest lifted up the latch turned round,—
And, looking at the grave, he said, “ My Brother ! ”
The Vicar did not hear the words : and now,
Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated
That Leonard would partake his homely fare :
The Other thanked him with a fervent voice ;
But added, that, the evening being calm,
He would pursue his journey. So they parted.
It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove
That overhung the road ; he there stopped short,
And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed
All that the Priest had said : his early years
Were with him in his heart : his cherished hopes,
And thoughts which had been his an hour before,
All pressed on him with such a weight, that now,
This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed
A place in which he could not bear to live :
So he relinquished all his purposes.
He travelled on to Egremont : and thence,
That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest,
Reminding him of what had passed between them ;
And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,
That it was from the weakness of his heart
He had not dared to tell him who he was.
This done, he went on shipboard, and is now
A Seaman, a gray-headed Mariner.
29﻿FOUR POETS
VI.
MICHAEL.
A PASTORAL POEM.
If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage ! for around that boisterous Brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen ; but they
Who journey hither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude ;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones !
And to that place a story appertains,
Which, though it be ungarnished with events,
Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
Or for the summer shade. It was the first
Of those domestic tales that spake to me
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
Whom I already loved;—not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.
And hence this tale, while I was yet a Boy
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of Nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects led me on to feel
3°﻿WORDSWORTH
For passions that were not my own, and think
(At random and imperfectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human life.
Therefore, although it he a history
Homely and rude, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts ;
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful Poets, who among these Hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.
Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name ;
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen,
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his Shepherd’s calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone ; and, oftentimes,
When others heeded not, He heard the South
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills.
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would say,
‘ The winds are now devising work for me ! ”
And, truly, at all times, the storm—that drives
The traveller to a shelter—summoned him
Up to the mountains: he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
That came to him and left him on the heights.
So lived he till his eightieth year was past.
And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
That the green Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks,
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd’s thoughts.
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed
31﻿FOUR POETS
The common air; the hills, which he so oft
Had climbed with vigorous steps; which had impressed
So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ;
Which, like a book, preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts
The certainty of honourable gain ;
Those fields, those hills—what could they less? had laid
Strong hold on his affections, were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasure which there is in life itself.
His days had not been passed in singleness.
His Helpmate was a comely Matron, old—
Though younger than himself full twenty years.
She was a woman of a stirring life,
Whose heart was in her house : two wheels she had
Of antique form, this large for spinning wool,
That small for flax; and if one wheel had rest,
It was because the other was at work.
The Pair had but one inmate in their house,
An only Child, who had been born to them
When Michael, telling o’er his years, began
To deem that he was old,—in Shepherd’s phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only Son
With two brave Sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,
The one of an inestimable worth,
Made all their household. I may truly say,
That they were as a proverb in the vale
For endless industry. When day was gone,
And from their occupations out of doors
The Son and Father were come home, even then
Their labour did not cease; unless when all
Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there,
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,﻿WORDSWORTH
Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their
meal
Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)
And his old Father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ
Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card
Wool for the Housewife’s spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.
Down from the ceiling, by the chimney’s edge,
That in our ancient uncouth country style
Did with a huge projection overbrow
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a Lamp ;
An aged utensil, which had performed
Service beyond all others of its kind.
Early at evening did it burn and late,
Surviving comrade of uncounted Hours,
Which, going by from year to year, had found,
And left the couple neither gay perhaps
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,
Living a life of eager industry.
And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,
There by the light of this old lamp they sat,
Father and Son, while late into the night
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,
Making the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
This Light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public symbol of the life
That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect, North and South,
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,
jj
D﻿FOUR POETS
And westward to the village near the Lake ;
And from this constant light, so regular
And so far seen, the House itself, by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
Both old and young, was named The Evening Star.
Thus living on through such a length of years,
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael’s heart
This Son of his old age was yet more dear—
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
Blind spirit, which is in the blood of all—
Than that a child more than all other gifts,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
Idis Heart and his Heart’s joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
For pastime and delight, as is the use
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked
11 is cradle with a woman’s gentle hand.
And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love,
Albeit of a stern unbending mind,
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he
Had work by his own door, or when he sat
With sheep before him on his Shepherd’s stool,
Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door
Stood,—and, from its enormous breadth of shade
Chosen for the shearer’s covert from the sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was called
The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears.
34﻿WORDSWORTH
There, while they two were sitting in the shade,
With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.
And when by Heaven’s good grace the Boy grew up
A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old,
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect Shepherd’s Staff,
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ;
And, to his office prematurely called,
There stood the Urchin, as you will divine,
Something between a hinderance and a help ;
And for this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving from his Father hire of praise ;
Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.
But soon as Luke, full ten years old. could stand
Against the mountain blasts ; and to the heights,
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,
He with his Father daily went, and they
Were as companions, why should I relate
That objects which the Shepherd loved before
Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there came
Feelings and emanations—things which were
Light to the sun and music to the wind ;
And that the Old Man’s heart seemed born again ?﻿FOUR POETS
Thus in his Father’s sight the boy grew up :
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,
lie was his comfort and his daily hope.
While in this sort the simple Household lived
From day to day, to Michael’s ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before the time
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
In surety for his Brother’s Son, a man
Of an industrious life, and ample means,—
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had prest upon him,—and old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,
At the first hearing, for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost.
As soon as he had gathered so much strength
That he could look his trouble in the face,
It seemed that his sole refuge was to sell
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve ; he thought again,
And his heart failed him. “ Isabel,” said he,
Two evenings after he had heard the news,
I have been toiling more than seventy years,
And in the open sunshine of God’s love
Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours
Should pass into a stranger’s hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself
Has scarcely been more diligent than 1 ;
And I have lived to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil Man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and if he were not false,
36﻿WORDSWORTH
There are ten thousand to whom loss like tins
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him—but
’Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.
When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of remedies, and of a cheerful hope.
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ;
lie shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou know’st,
Another Kinsman—he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go,
And with his Kinsman’s help and his own thrift
lie quickly will repair this loss, and then
May come again to us. If here he stay,
What can be done? Where every one is poor,
What can be gained ? ” At this the Old Man paused,
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
Was busy, looking back into past times.
There’s Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
He was a Parish-boy—at the Church-cloor
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence,
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought
A basket, which they filled with pedlar’s wares ;
And, with this basket on his arm, the Lad
Went up to London, found a Master there,
Who, out of many, chose the trusty Boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas : where he grew wondrous rich,
And left estates and monies to the poor,
And, at his birth-place, built a Chapel floored
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brightened. The Old Man was glad,
And thus resumed : — “ Well, Isabel ! this scheme,
37﻿FOUR POETS
These two days, has been meat and drink to me.
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
We have enough—I wish indeed that I
Were younger,—but this hope is a good hope.
—Make ready Luke’s best garments, of the best
But for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night :
If he could go, the Boy should go to-night.”
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her son.
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work : for when she lay
By Michael’s side, she through the two last nights
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep :
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves
Were sitting at the door, “ Thou must not go :
We have no other Child but thee to lose,
None to remember—do not go away,
For if thou leave thy Father he will die.”
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice ;
And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.
With daylight Isabel resumed her work ;
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length
The expected letter from their Kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ;
33﻿WORDSWORTH
To which, requests were added, that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over ; Isabel
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round ;
Nor was there at that time on English land
A prouder heart than Luke’s. When Isabel
Had to her house returned, the Old Man said,
He shall depart to-morrow.” To this word
The Housewife answered, talking much of things
Which, if at such short notice he should go,
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.
Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
In that deep Valley, Michael had designed
To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he heard
The tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this same purpose he had gathered up
A heap of stones, which by the Streamlet’s edge
Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked ;
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped
And thus the Old Man spake to him :—“ My Son,
To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart
I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part
Of our two histories ; ’twill do thee good
When thou art from me, even if I should speak
Of things thou canst not know of.----After thou
First earnest into the world—as oft befalls
To new-born infants—thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy Father’s tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,
And still I loved thee with increasing love.
39﻿FOUR POETS
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside
First uttering, without words, a natural tune ;
When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy Mother’s breast. Month followed month,
And in the open fields my life was passed
And on the mountains; else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father’s knees.
But we were playmates, Luke : among these hills,
As well thou knowest, in us the old and young
Have played together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.”
Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words
lie sobbed aloud. The Old Man grasped his hand,
And said, “ Nay, do not take it so—I see
That these are things of which I need not speak.
—Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good Father : and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Received at others’ hands ; for, though now old
Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who loved me in my youth.
Both of them sleep together : here they lived,
As all their Forefathers had done ; and when
At length their time was come, they were not loth
To give their bodies to the family mould.
I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived.
But, ’tis a long time to look back, my Son,
And see so little gain from threescore years.
These fields were burthened when they came to me ;
Till I was forty years of age, not more
Than half of my inheritance was mine.
I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work,
And till these three weeks past the land was free.
—It looks as if it never could endure
Another Master. Pleaven forgive me, Luke,
40﻿WORDSWORTH
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
That thou shouldst go.” At this the Old Man
paused ;
Then, pointing to the Stones near which they stood,
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed :
This was a work for us ; and now, my Son,
It is a work for me. But, lay one stone—
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.
Nay, Boy, be of good hope ;—we both may live
To see a better day. At eighty-four
I still am strong and hale ;—do thou thy part ;
I will do mine.—I will begin again
With many tasks that were resigned to thee :
Up to the heights, and in among the storms,
Will I without thee go again, and do
All works which I was wont to do alone,
Before I knew thy face.—Heaven bless thee, Boy !
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast
With many hopes.—It should be so—Yes—yes —
I knew that thou couldst never have a wish
To leave me, Luke; thou hast been bound to me
Only by links of love : when thou art gone
What will be left to us !—But, I forget
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,
As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke,
When thou art gone away, should evil men
Be thy companions, think of me, my Son,
And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,
And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear
And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou
Mayst bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,
Who, being innocent, did for that cause
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well—
When thou returnest, thou in this place wilt see
A work which is not here : a covenant
’Twill be between us----But, whatever fate
4r﻿FOUR POETS
Befall lliee, I shall love thee to the last,
And bear thy memory with me to the grave.”
The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped down,
And, as his Father had requested, laid
The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight
The Old Man’s grief broke from him ; to his heart
lie pressed his son, he kissed him and wept ;
And to the house together they returned.
—Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace,
Ere the night fell:—with morrow’s dawn the Boy
Began his journey, and when he had reached
The public way, he put on a bold face ;
And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
That followed him till he was out of sight.
A good report did from their Kinsman come,
Of Luke and his well-doing : and the Boy
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout
‘ The prettiest letters that were ever seen.”
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
So, many months passed on : and once again
The Shepherd went about his daily work
With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour
He to that valley took his way, and there
Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began
To slacken in his duty ; and, at length,
He in the dissolute city gave himself
To evil courses : ignominy and shame
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.
There is a comfort in the strength of love ;
’Twill make a thing endurable, which else
-U﻿WORDSWORTH
Would overset the brain, or break the heart:
I	have conversed with more than one who well
Remember the Old Man, and what he was
Years after he had heard this heavy news.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
He went, and still looked up towards the sun,
And listened to the wind ; and, as before,
Performed all kinds of labour for his Sheep,
And for the land his small inheritance.
And to that hollow Dell from time to time
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which
II	is Hock had need. ’Tis not forgotten yet
The pity which was then in every heart
For the Old Man—and ’tis believed by all
That many and many a day he thither went,
And never lifted up a single stone.
There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen
Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog,
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years, from time to time,
lie at the building of this sheep-fold wrought,
And left the work unfinished when he died.
Three years, or little more, did Isabel
Survive her Husband : at her death the estate
Was sold, and went into a stranger s hand.
The cottage which was named the Evening Star
Is gone—the ploughshare has been through the ground
On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought
In all the neighbourhood :—yet the Oak is left
That grew beside their door; and the remains
Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.
43﻿FOUR POETS
VII.
MARGARET.
’TwAS summer, and the sun had mounted high :
Southward the landscape indistinctly glared
Through a pale steam ; but all the northern downs
In clearest air ascending, showed far off
A surface dappled o’er with shadows flung
From brooding clouds ; shadows that lay in spots
Determined and unmoved, with steady beams
Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed ;
Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss
Extends his careless limbs along the front
Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts
A twilight of its own, an ample shade,
Where the Wren warbles ; while the dreaming Man
Half conscious of the soothing melody,
With side-long eye looks out upon the scene,
By power of that impending covert thrown
To finer distance. Other lot was mine ;
Yet with good hope that soon I should obtain
As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy.
Across a bare wide common I was toiling
With languid steps that by the slippery ground
Were baffled ; nor could my weak arm disperse
The host of insects gathering round my face,
And ever with me as I paced along.
Upon that open level stood a Grove,
The wished-for port to which my course was bound.
Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom
Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms,
Appeared a roofless Hut; four naked walls
That stared upon each other ! I looked round,
44﻿WORDSWORTH
And to my wish and to my hope espied
Ilim whom I sought; a Man of reverend age,
But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired.
There was he seen upon the Cottage bench
Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep ;
An iron-pointed staff' lay at his side.
Unnoticed did I stand, some minutes’ space.
At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat
Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim
Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose,
And ere our lively greeting into peace
Had settled, “ ’Tis,” said I, “a burning day :
My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it seems,
Have somewhere found relief.” He, at the word,
Pointing towards a sweet-brier, bade me climb
The fence where that aspiring shrub looked out
Upon the public way. It was a plot
Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds
Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they passed,
The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips,
Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems
In scanty strings, had tempted to o’erleap
The broken wall. I looked around, and there,
Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs
Joined in a cool damp nook, espied a Well
Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern.
My thirst I slaked, and from the cheerless spot
Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned
Where sate the Old Man on the Cottage bench ;
And, while, beside him, with uncovered head,
I yet was standing, freely to respire,
And cool my temples in the fanning air,
Thus did he speak. “ I see around me here
Things which you cannot see : we die, my Friend,
Nor we alone, but that which each man loved
45﻿FOUR POETS
And prized in his peculiar nook of earth
Dies with him, or is changed ; and very soon
Even of the good is no memorial left.
—The Poets, in their elegies and songs
Lamenting the departed, call the groves,
They call upon the hills and streams to mourn,
And senseless rocks ; nor idly ; for they speak,
In these their invocations, with a voice
Obedient to the strong creative power
Of human passion. Sympathies there are
More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth,
That steal upon the meditative mind,
And grow with thought. Beside yon Spring I stood
And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel
One sadness, they and I. For them a bond
Of brotherhood is broken : time has been
When, every day, the touch of human hand
Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up
In mortal stillness : and they ministered
To human comfort. Stooping down to drink,
Upon the slimy footstone I espied
The useless fragment of a wooden bowl,
Green with the moss of years, and subject only
To the soft handling of the Elements :
There let the relic lie—fond thought—vain words !
Forgive them ;—never—never did my steps
Approach this door but she who dwelt within
A daughter’s welcome gave me, and I loved her
As my own child. Oh, Sir ! the good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket. Many a passenger
Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks,
When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn
From that forsaken Spring : and no one came
But he was welcome ; no one went away
But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead,﻿WORDSWORTH
The light extinguished of her lonely Hut,
The Hut itself abandoned to decay,
And She forgotten in the quiet grave !
“ I speak,” continued he, “of One whose stock
Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof.
She was a woman of a steady mind,
Tender and deep in her excess of love,
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy
Of her own thoughts : by some especial care
Her temper had been framed, as if to make
A being—who by adding love to peace
Might live on earth a life of happiness.
Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side
The humble worth that satisfied her heart :
Fru gal, affectionate, sober, and withal
Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell
That he was often seated at his loom,
In summer, ere the mower was abroad
Among the dewy grass,—in early spring,
Ere the last star had vanished.—They who passed
At evening, from behind the garden fence
Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply,
After his daily work, until the light
Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost
In the dark hedges. So their days were spent
In peace and comfort; and a pretty Boy
Was their best hope,—next to the God in Heaven.
“ Not twenty years ago, but you I think
Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came
Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left
With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add
A worse affliction in the plague of war;
This happy land was stricken to the heart !
A Wanderer then among the Cottages
47﻿FOUR POETS
T, with my freight of winter raiment, saw
The hardships of that season ; many rich
Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor ;
And of the poor did many cease to be,
And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged
Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled
To numerous self-denials, Margaret
Went struggling on through those calamitous years
With cheerful hope, until the second autumn,
When her life’s Helpmate on a sick-bed lay,
Smitten with perilous fever. In disease
He lingered long ; and when his strength returned,
He found the little he had stored, to meet
The hour of accident or crippling age,
Was all consumed. A second Infant now
Was added to the troubles of a time
Laden, for them and all of their degree,
With care and sorrow ; shoals of artisans
From ill-requited labour turned adrift
Sought daily bread from public charity,
They, and their wives and children—happier far
Coukl they have lived as do the little birds
That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite
That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks !
“ A sad reverse it was for him who long
Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace,
This lonely Cottage. At his door he stood,
And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes
That had no mirth in them ; or with his knife
Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks—
Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook
In house or garden, any casual work
Of use or ornament; and with a strange,
Amusing, yet uneasy novelty,
He blended, where he might, the various tasks
48﻿WORDSWORTH
Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring.
But this endured not; his good humour soon
Became a weight in which no pleasure was :
And poverty brought on a petted mood
And a sore temper : day by day he drooped,
And he would leave his work—and to the Town,
Without an errand, would direct his steps,
Or wander here and there among the fields.
One while he would speak lightly of his Babes,
And with a cruel tongue : at other times
He tossed them with a false unnatural joy :
And ’twas a rueful thing to see the looks
Of the poor innocent children. ‘ Every smile,’
Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees,
‘ Made my heart bleed.’ ”
At this the Wanderer paused ;
And, looking up to those enormous Elms,
He said, “ ’Tis now the hour of deepest noon.—
At this still season of repose and peace,
This hour when all things which are not at rest
Are cheerful ; while this multitude of flies
Is filling all the air with melody ;
Why should a tear be in an Old Man’s eye ?
Why should we thus, with an untoward mind,
And in the weakness of humanity,
From natural wisdom turn our hearts away,
To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears,
And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb
The calm of nature with our restless thoughts ? ”
He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone :
But, when he ended, there was in his face
Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,
That for a little time it stole away
All recollection, and that simple Tale
49	E﻿FOUR POETS
Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound.
A while on trivial things we held discourse,
To me soon tasteless. In my own despite,
I thought of that poor Woman as of one
Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed
Her homely tale with such familiar power,
With such an active countenance, an eye
So busy, that the things of which he spake
Seemed present; and, attention now relaxed,
A heart-felt chillness crept along my veins.
I rose ; and, having left the breezy shade,
Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun,
1 hat had not cheered me long—ere, looking round
Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned,
And begged of the Old Man that, for my sake,
Pie would resume his story.—
He replied,
“It were a wantonness, and would demand
Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts
Could hold vain dalliance with the misery
Even of the dead ; contented thence to draw
A momentary pleasure, never marked
By reason, barren of all future good.
But we have known that there is often found
In mournful thoughts, and always might be found,
A power to virtue friendly; were t not so,
I am a dreamer among men, indeed
An idle dreamer .' Tis a common tale,
An ordinary sorrow of Man’s life,
A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed
In bodily form.—But without further bidding
I will proceed.
“ While thus it fared with them,
To whom this Cottage, till those hapless years,
Had been a blessed home, it was my chance
To travel in a country far remote ;
50﻿WORDSWORTH
And when these lofty Elms once more appeared,
What pleasant expectations lured me on
O’er the flat Common !—With quick step I reached
The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch ;
But, when I entered, Margaret looked at me
A little while ; then turned her head away
Speechless,—and, sitting down upon a chair,
Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do,
Nor how to speak to her. Boor Wretch ! at last
She rose from off her seat, and then,—O Sir !
I cannot tell how she pronounced my name : —
With fervent love, and with a face of grief
Unutterably helpless, and a look
That seemed to cling upon me, she enquired
If I had seen her Husband. As she spake
A strange surprise and fear came to my heart,
Nor had I power to answer ere she told
That he had disappeared—not two months gone,
lie left his house : two wretched days had past,
And on the third, as wistfully she raised
Her head from off her pillow, to look forth,
Like one in trouble, for returning light,
Within her chamber-casement she espied
A folded paper, lying as if placed
To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly
She opened—found no writing, but beheld
Pieces of money carefully enclosed,
Silver and gold.—‘ I shuddered at the sight,’
Said Margaret, ‘ for I knew it was his hand
Which placed it there : and ere that day was ended,
That long and anxious day ! I learned from one
Sent hither by my Husband to impart
The heavy news,—that he had joined a Troop
Of Soldiers, going to a distant land.
—He left me thus—he could not gather heart
To take a farewell of me ; for he feared
51﻿FOUR POETS
Thai I should follow with my Babes, and sink
Beneath the misery of that wandering life.’
“ This tale did Margaret tell with many tears :
And, when she ended, I had little power
To give her comfort, and was glad to take
Such words of hope from her own mouth as served
To cheer us both :—but long we had not talked
Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts,
And with a brighter eye she looked around
As if she had been shedding tears of joy.
We parted.—’Twas the time of early spring ;
I left her busy with her garden tools ;
And well remember, o’er that fence she look'd,
And, while I paced aloDg the foot-way path,
Called out, and sent a blessing after me,
With tender cheerfulness ; and with a voice
That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts.
“ I roved o’er many a hill and many a dale.
With my accustomed load ; in heat and cold,
Through many a wood, and many an open ground,
In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair,
Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befal;
My best companions now the driving winds,
And now the ‘ trotting brooks ’ and whispering trees,
And now the music of my own sad steps,
With many a short-lived thought that passed between
And disappeared.—I journeyed back this way,
When, in the warmth of Midsummer, the wheat
Was yellow ; and the soft and bladed grass,
Springing afresh, had o’er the hay-field spread
Its tender verdure. At the door arrived,
I found that she was absent. In the shade,
Where now we sit, I waited her return,
ller Cottage, then a cheerful object, wore
52﻿WORDSWORTH
Its customary look,—only, it seemed,
The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch,
Ilung down in heavier tufts : and that bright weed,
The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root
Along the window’s edge, profusely grew,
Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside,
And strolled into her garden. It appeared
To lag behind the season, and had lost
Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift
Had broken their trim lines, and straggled o’er
The paths they used to deck :—Carnations, once
Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less
For the peculiar pains they had required,
Declined their languid heads, wanting support.
The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bell
Had twined about her two small rows of pease,
And dragged them to the earth.—Ere this an hour
Was wasted.—Back I turned my restless steps ;
A stranger passed ; and, guessing whom I sought,
He said that she was used to ramble far.—
The sun was sinking in the west; and now
I sate with sad impatience. From within
Her solitary Infant cried aloud ;
Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled,
The voice was silent. From the bench I rose ;
But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts.
The spot, though fair, was very desolate—
The longer I remained more desolate :
And, looking round me, now I first observed
The corner stones, on either side the porch,
With dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o’er
With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep,
That fed upon the common, thither came
Familiarly : and found a couching-place
Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell
From these tall elms ;—the Cottage-clock struck eight
53﻿FOUR POETS
I turned, and saw her distant a few steps.
Her face was pale and thin—her figure, too,
Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said,
1 It grieves me you have waited here so long,
But, in good truth, I’ve wandered much of late,
And, sometimes—to my shame I speak—have need
Of my best prayers to bring me back again.’
While on the board she spread our evening meal,
She told me—interrupting not the work
Which gave employment to her listless hands—
That she had parted with her elder Child ;
To a kind master on a distant farm
Now happily apprenticed. — ‘I perceive
You look at me, and you have cause ; to-day
I have been travelling far ; and many days
About the fields I wander, knowing this
Only, that what I seek I cannot find ;
And so I waste my time : for I am changed ;
And to myself,’ said she, ‘have done much wrong
And to this helpless Infant. I have slept
Weeping, and weeping have I waked ; my tears
Have flowed as if my body were not such
As others are; and I could never die.
But I am now in mind and in my heart
More easy ; and I hope,’ said she, ‘that God
Will give me patience to endure the things
Which I behold at home.’ It would have grieved
Your very soul to see her; Sir, I feel
The story linger in my heart; I fear
’Tis long and tedious : but my spirit clings
To that poor Woman : so familiarly
Do I perceive her manner, and her look,
And presence, and so deeply do I feel
Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks
A momentary trance comes over me ;
And to myself I seem to muse on One
54﻿WORDSWORTH
By sorrow laid asleep;—or borne away,
A human being destined to awake
To human life, or something very near
To human life, when he shall come again
For whom she suffered. Yes, it would have grieved
Your very soul to see her : evermore
Iler eyelids drooped, her eyes were downward cast ;
And, when she at her table gave me food,
She did not look at me. Her voice was low,
Her body was subdued. In every act
Pertaining to her house affairs, appeared
The careless stillness of a thinking mind
Self-occupied; to which all outward things
Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed,
But yet no motion of the breast was seen,
No heaving of the heart. While by the fire
We sate together, sighs came on my ear,
I knew not how, and hardly whence they came.
“ Ere my departure, to her care I gave,
For her son’s use, some tokens of regard,
Which with a look of welcome she received ;
And I exhorted her to place her trust
In God’s good love, and seek his help by prayer.
I took my staff, and when I kissed her babe
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then
With the best hope and comfort I could give;
She thanked me for my wish ;—but for my hope
Methought she did not thank me.
“ I returned,
And took my rounds along this road again
Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower
Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring.
I found her sad and drooping ; she had learned
No tidings of her husband ; if he lived,
She knew not that he lived ; if he were dead,﻿FOUR POETS
She knew not he was dead. She seemed the sa
In person and appearance ; but her house
Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence ;
The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth
Was comfortless, and her small lot of books,
Which, in the Cottage window, heretofore
Had been piled up against the corner panes
In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves
Lay scattered here and there, open or shut,
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe
Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief,
And sighed among its playthings. Once again
I turned towards the garden gate, and saw,
More plainly still, that poverty and grief
Were now come nearer to her : weeds defaced
The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass :
No ridges there appeared of clear black mould,
No winter greenness ; of her herbs and flowers,
It seemed the better part were gnawed away
Or trampled into earth ; a chain of straw,
Which had been twined about the slender stem
Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root,
The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep.
—Margaret stood near, her Infant in her arms,
And, noting that my eye was on the tree,
She said, ‘ I fear it will be dead and gone
Ere Robert come again.’ Towards the house
Together we returned ; and she enquired
If I had any hope :—but for her Babe
And for her little orphan Boy, she said,
She had no wish to live, that she must die
Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom
Still in its place ; his Sunday garments hung
Upon the self-same nail ; his very stall'
Stood undisturbed behind the door. And when
In bleak December, I retraced this way,
56﻿WORDSWORTH
She told me that her little Babe was dead,
And she was left alone. She now, released
From her maternal cares, had taken up
The employment common through these wilds, and
gained,
By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself:
And for this end had hired a neighbour’s boy
To give her needful help. That very time
Most willingly she put her work aside,
And walked with me along the miry road,
Heedless how far ; and in such piteous sort
That any heart had ached to hear her, begged
That, wheresoe’er I went, I still would ask
For him whom she had lost. We parted then—-
Our final parting ; for from that time forth
Did many seasons pass ere I returned
Into this tract again.
“ Nine tedious years;
From their first separation, nine long years,
She lingered in unquiet widowhood ;
A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been
A sore heart-wasting ! I have heard, my Friend,
That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate
Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath day ;
And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit
The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench
For hours she sate ; and evermore her eye
Was busy in the distance, shaping things
That made her heart beat quick. You see that path,
Now faint,—the grass has crept o’er its gray line ;
There, to and fro, she paced through many a day
Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp
That girt her waist, spinning the long drawn thread
With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed
A man whose garments showed the soldier’s red,
Or crippled mendicant in sailor’s garb,
57﻿FOUR POETS
The little Child who sate to turn the wheel
Ceased from his task; and she with faltering voice
Made many a fond enquiry ; and when they,
Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by,
Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate,
That bars the traveller’s road, she often stood,
And when a stranger Horseman came, the latch
Would lift, and in his face look wistfully :
Most happy, if, from ought discovered there
Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat
The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut
Sank to decay : for he was gone, whose hand,
At the first nipping of October frost,
Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw
Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived
Through the long winter, reckless and alone ;
Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain,
Was sapped ; and while she slept, the nightly damps
Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day
Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind,
Even at the side of her own fire. Vet still
She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds
Have parted hence ; and still that length of road,
And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared,
Fast rooted at her heart : and here, my Friend,
In sickness she remained ; and here she died,
Last human tenant of these ruined walls.”
The Old Man ceased : he saw that I was moved ;
From that low bench, rising instinctively,
I turned aside in weakness, nor had power
To thank him for the tale which he had told.
T stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall,
Reviewed that Woman’s sufferings ; and it seemed
To comfort me while with a brother’s love
I blessed her—in the impotence of grief.
At length towards the Cottage I returned
58﻿WORDSWORTH
Fondly,—and traced, with interest more mild,
That secret spirit of humanity
Which, mid the calm oblivious tendencies
Of nature, mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers,
And silent overgrowings still survived.
The Old Man, noting this, resumed, and said,
My Friend ! enough to sorrow you have given,
The purposes of wisdom ask no more ;
Be wise and cheerful ; and no longer read
The forms of things with an unworthy eye.
She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here.
I well remember that those very plumes,
Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall
By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o’er,
As once I passed, did to my heart convey
So still an image of tranquillity,
So calm and still, and looked so beautiful
Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind,
That what we feel of sorrow and despair
From ruin and from change, and all the grief
The passing shows of Being leave behind,
Appeared an idle dream, that could not live
Where meditation was. I turned away,
And walked along my road in happiness.”
He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot
A slant and mellow radiance, which began
To fall upon us, while beneath the trees,
We sate on that low bench : and now we felt
Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on.
A linnet warbled from those lofty elms,
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies,
At distance heard, peopled the milder air.
The Old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien
Of hopeful preparation, grasped his stafl :
Together casting then a farewell look
O	o
59﻿FOUR POETS
Upon those silent walls, we left the shade ;
And, ere the stars were visible, had reached
A village Inn,—our evening resting-place.
>
VIII.
TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.
Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies,
Let them live upon their praises ;
Long as there’s a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory ;
Long as there are Violets,
They will have a place in story :
There’s a flower that shall be mine,
’Tis the little Celandine.
Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star ;
Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout!
I’m as great as they, I trow,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little flower !—I'll make a stir,
Like a great astronomer.
Modest, yet withal an Elf
Hold, and lavish of thyself;
Since we needs must first have met
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
’Twas a face I did not know ;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.
6o﻿WORDSWORTH
Lie a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the Thrush
Has a thought about her nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless prodigal ;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we’ve little warmth, or none.
Poets, vain men in their mood !
Travel with the multitude :
Never heed them ; I aver
That they all are wanton wooers ;
But the thrifty Cottager,
Who stirs little out of doors,
Joys to spy thee near her home ;
Spring is coming, Thou art come !
Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming Spirit !
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane—there’s not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But ’tis good enough for thee.
Ill befall the yellow Flowers,
Children of the flaring hours !
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no ;
Others, too, of lofty mien ;
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine 1
61﻿FOUR POETS
Prophet of delight and mirth,
Scorned and slighted upon earth ;
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Singing at my heart’s command,
In the lanes my thoughts pursuing,
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love !
IX.
TO THE SAME FLOWER.
Pleasures newly found are sweet
When they lie about our feet:
February last, my heart
First at sight of thee was glad ;
All unheard of as thou art,
Thou must needs, I think, have had,
Celandine ! and long ago,
Praise of which I nothing know.
I have not a doubt but he,
Whosoe’er the man might be,
Who the first with pointed rays
(Workman worthy to be sainted)
Set the Sign-board in a blaze,
When the risen sun he painted,
Took the fancy from a glance
At thy glittering countenance.
Soon as gentle breezes bring
News of winter’s vanishing,
And the children build their bowers,
Sticking ’kerchief-plots of mould
62﻿WORDSWORTH
All about with full-blown flowers,
Thick as sheep in shepherd’s fold !
With the proudest thou art there,
Mantling in the tiny square.
Often have I sighed to measure
By myself a lonely pleasure,
Sighed to think, I read a book
Only read, perhaps, by me ;
Yet I long could overlook
Thy bright coronet and Thee,
And thy arch and wily ways,
And thy stn>-^ of other praise.
Blithe of heart, from week to week
Thou dost play at hide-and-seek ;
While the patient Primrose sits
Like a beggar in the cold,
Thou, a Flower of wiser wits,
Slipp’st into thy sheltering hold;
Bright as any of the train
When ye all are out again.
Thou art not beyond the moon,
But a thing “ beneath our slioon :'
Let the bold Adventurer thrid
In his bark the polar sea ;
Rear who will a pyramid ;
Praise it is enough for me,
If there be but three or four
Who will love my little Flower.﻿FOUR POETS
x.
“ I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD.”
I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden Daffodils ;
Beside the Lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee :—
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company ;
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.
64﻿WORDSWORTH
XI.
THE GREEN LINNET.
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring’s unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year’s friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion !
Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May ;
And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment:
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair :
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Amid yon tuft of hazel trees
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover :
65	F﻿FOUR POETS
There ! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A brother of the dancing leaves ;
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes ;
As if by that exulting strain
He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.
XII.
TO A SKY-LARK.
Up with me ! up with me into the clouds !
For thy song, Lark, is strong ;
Up with me, up with me into the clouds!
Singing, singing,
With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind !
I have walked through wildernesses dreary,
And to-day my heart is weary ;
Had I now the wings of a Faery,
Up to thee would I fly.
There’s madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine ;
Lift me, guide me high and high
To thy banqueting-place in the sky.
66﻿WORDSWORTH
Joyous as morning,
Thou art laughing and scorning ;
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark! thou would’st be loth
To be such a traveller as I.
Happy, happy Liver,
With a soul as strong as a mountain River,
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both !
Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
I, with my fate contented, will plod on,
And hope for higher raptures, when Life’s day Is done.
■o
XIII.
“ O NIGHTINGALE ! THOU SURELY ART.”
O Nightingale ! thou surely art
A Creature of a fiery heart ;—
These notes of thine—they pierce and pierce ;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce !
Thou sing’st as if the God of wine
Plad helped thee to a Valentine ;
A song in mockery and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night;
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.
6 7﻿k OUR POETS
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day ;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze :
lie did net cease; but cooed—and cooed ;
And somewhat pensively he wooed :
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending ;
Of serious faith, and inward glee ;
That was the Song—the Song for me !
XIV.
STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I
KNOWN.”
Strange fits of passion have I known :
And I will dare to tell,
But in the Lover’s ear alone,
What once to me befel.
When she I loved was strong and gay,
And like a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath the evening Moon.
Upon the Moon I fixed my eye,
All over the wide lea ;
My Horse trudged on—and we drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reached the orchard plot;
And, as we climbed the hill,
Towards the roof of Lucy’s cot
The Moon descended still.
68﻿WORDSWORTH
In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature’s gentlest boon !
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending Moon.
My Horse moved on ; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped :
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright Moon dropped.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a Lover’s head !
“ O mercy! ” to myself I cried,
“ If Lucy should be dead ! ”
<>-
XV.
“ THREE YEARS SHE GREW.’5
Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown ;
This Child I to myself will take ;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A Lady of my own.
“ Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse : and with me
The Girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
69
\﻿FOUR POETS
“ She shall be sportive as the Fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs ;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.
“ The floating Clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend ;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the Storm
Grace that shall mould the Maiden’s form
By silent sympathy.
“ The Stars of midnight shall be dear
To her ; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where Rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
“ And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy Dell.”
Thus Nature spake—The work was done—
How soon my Lucy’s race was ran !
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene ;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.
70﻿WORDSWORTH
XVI.
“ SHE DWELT AMONG THE
UNTRODDEN WAYS.”
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were ncjne to praise
And very few to love :
A Violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye !
—Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be ;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me !
o
XVII.
“A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL.”
A slumber did my spirit seal ;
I had no human fears :
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force ;
She neither hears nor sees,
Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
71﻿FOUR POETS
XVIII.
I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN
MEN.”
I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea ;
Nor, England ! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.
’Tis past, that melancholy dream !
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time ; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire ;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
The bowers where Lucy played ;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy’s eyes surveyed.
---o---
XIX.
TO THE CUCKOO.
0	blithe New-comer ! I have heard,
1	hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice ?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear ;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.
72﻿WORDSWORTH
Though babbling only, to the vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring !
Even yet thou art to me
No Bird : but an invisible Thing,
A voice, a mystery ;
The same whom in my School-boy days
I listened to ; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green ;
And thou wert still a hope, a love ;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet ;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place ;
That is fit home for Thee !
XX.
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
73﻿FOUR POETS
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ;
Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair ;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too !
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty ;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food ;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
jPraise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine ;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death ;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command ;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.
74﻿WORDSWORTH
TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.
AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.)
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower !
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head :
And these Grey Rocks; this household Law
These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn ;
This fall of water, that doth make
A murmur near the silent Lake ;
This little Bay, a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy abode ;
In truth together do ye seem
Like something fashioned in a dream ;
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep !
Yet, dream and vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart:
God shield thee to thy latest years !
Thee neither know I nor thy peers ;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away :
For never saw I mien, or face,
In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered like a random seed,
Remote from men, Thou dost not need
75﻿FOUR POETS
The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness :
Thou wear’st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a Mountaineer :
A face with gladness overspread !
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred !
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ;
With no restraint, but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech :
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life !
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull
For thee who art so beautiful?
O happy pleasure ! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways, and dress,
A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess !
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality :
Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea : and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighbourhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see !
Thy elder Brother I would be,
Thy Father, any thing to thee !
Now thanks to Fleaven ! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place.
76﻿WORDSWORTH
Joy have I had ; and going hence
I bear away my recompence.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes :
Then, why should I be loth to stir?
I feel this place was made for her ;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl ! from Thee to part
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the Cabin small,
The Lake, the Bay, the Waterfall;
And Thee, the Spirit of them all !
-o
XXII.
THE SOLITARY REAPER.
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass !
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass !
Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain ;
O listen ! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chant
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands :
77﻿FOUR POETS
A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.-
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago :
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day ?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again !
Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending ;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending ;—
I listened till I had my fill,
And when I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
<0*
XXIII.
AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS,
1803.
SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH.
I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold,
At thought of what I now behold :
As vapours breathed from dungeons cold
Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould
Where Burns is laid.
73﻿WORDSWORTH
And have I then thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear?
As if it were thyself that’s here
I shrink with pain ;
And botli my wishes and my fear
Alike are vain.
Off weight—nor press on weight!—away
Dark thoughts !—they came, but not to stay
With chastened feelings would I pay
The tribute due
To him, and aught that hides his clay
From mortal view.
Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth
He sang, his genius “glinted” forth,
Rose like a star that touching earth,
For so it seems,
Doth glorify its humble birth
With matchless beams.
The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,
The struggling heart, where be they now ?—
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,
The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low
And silent grave.
Well might I mourn that He was gone,
Whose light I hail’d when first it shone,
When, breaking forth as nature’s own,
It showed my youth
How Verse may build a princely throne
On humble truth.
79﻿FOUR POETS
Alas ! where’er the current tends,
Regret pursues and with it blends,—
Huge Criffel’s hoary top ascends
By Skiddaw seen,—
Neighbours we were, and loving friends
We might have been :
True friends though diversely inclined ;
But heart with heart and mind with mind,
Where the main fibres are entwined,
Through Nature’s skill,
May even by contraries be joined
More closely still.
The tear will start, and let it flow ;
Thou “poor Inhabitant below,”
At this dread moment—even so—
Might we together
Have sate and talked where gowans blow,
Or on wild heather.
What treasures would have then been placed
Within my reach ; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast !
But why go on ?—
Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,
His grave grass-grown,
There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)
Lies gathered to his Father’s side,
Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied
Some sad delight.
So﻿WORDSWORTH
For he is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead,
Harboured where none can be misled,
Wronged, or distrest;
And surely here it may be said
That such are blest.
And oh for Thee, by pitying grace
Checked oft-times in a devious race,
May He, who halloweth the place
Where Man is laid,
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace
For which it prayed !
Sighing I turned away ; but ere
Night fell, I heard, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not near,
A ritual hymn,
Chaunted in love that casts out fear
By Seraphim.
o
XXIV.
THOUGHTS
SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS
OF NITH, NEAR THE POET’S RESIDENCE.
Too frail to keep the lofty vow
That must have followed when his brow
Was wreathed—“ The Vision ” tells us how—
With holly spray,
He faultered, drifted to and fro,
And passed away.
81
G﻿FOUR POETS
Well might such thoughts, clear Sister, throng
Our minds when, lingering all too long,
Over the grave of Burns we hung
In social grief—
Indulged as if it were a wrong
To seek relief.
But, leaving each unquiet theme
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,
And prompt to welcome every gleam
Of good and fair,
Let us beside this limpid Stream
Breathe hopeful air.
Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight :
Think rather of those moments bright
When to the consciousness of right
His course was true,
When wisdom prospered in his sight
And virtue grew.
Yes, freely let our hearts expand,
Freely as in youth’s season bland,
When side by side, his Book in hand,
We wont to stray,
Our pleasure varying at command
Of each sweet Lay.
IIow oft inspired must he have trode
These pathways, yon far-stretching road !
There lurks his home ; in that Abode,
With mirth elate,
Or in his nobly-pensive mood,
The Rustic sate.
Proud thoughts that Image overawes.
Before it humbly let us pause,
82﻿WORDSWORTH
And ask of Nature, from what cause
And by what rules
She trained her Burns to win applause
That shames the Schools.
Through busiest street and loneliest glen
Are felt the flashes of his pen :
He rules mid winter snows, and when
Bees fill their hives :
Deep in the general heart of men
His power survives.
What need of fields in some far clime
Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,
And all that fetched the flowing rhyme
From genuine springs,
Shall dwell together till old Time
Folds up his wings ?
Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven ;
The rueful conflict, the heart riven
With vain endeavour,
And memory of Earth’s bitter leaven
Effaced for ever.
But why to Him confine the prayer,
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
On the frail heart the purest share
With all that live?—
The best of what we do and are,
Just God, forgive !﻿FOUR POETS
XXV.
YARROW UNVISITED.
(See the various Poems the Scene of which is laid upon the Banks
of the Yarrow ; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton,
beginning
16 Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow !”—)
From Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled ;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled ;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my “	winsome
“ Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.”
“ Let Yarrow Folk,frae Selkirk Town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own ;
Each Maiden to her Dwelling !
On Yarrow’s banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow !
But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
“ There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us ;
And Dryborough, where the chiming Tweed
The Lintwhites sing in chorus ;
There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow :
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow ?
84﻿WORDSWORTH
“ What’s Yarrow but a River bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.”
—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ;
My True-love sighed for sorrow ;
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow !
“ Oh! green,” said I, “are Yarrow’s Holms,
And sweet is Yarrow’s flowing !
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O’er hilly path, and open Strath,
We’ll wander Scotland thorough ;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the Dale of Yarrow.
“ Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ;
The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake
Float double, swan and shadow !
We will not see them ; will not go,
To-day nor yet to-morrow ;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There’s such a place as Yarrow.
“ Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown !
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own ;
Ah ! why should we undo it ?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow !
For when we’re there, although ’tis fair,
’Twill be another Yarrow.
35﻿FOUR POETS
“ If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,—
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy ;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
’Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny Holms of Yarrow ! ”
—o-----
XXVI.
YARROW VISITED,
SEPTEMBER, 1S14.
And is this—Yarrow?—This the Stream
Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dream ?
An image that hath perished !
O that some Minstrel’s harp were near,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness !
Yet why ?—a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings ;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
And, through her depths, Saint Mary’s Lai
Is visibly delighted ;
For not a feature of those hills
Is in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o’er Yarrow vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Ts round the rising sun diffused,
A tender hazy brightness ;
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Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes
All profitless dejection ;
Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding:
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The Water-wraith ascended thrice—
And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the Lay that sings
'Hie haunts of happy Lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers :
And Pity sanctifies the verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love ;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
But thou, that did’st appear so fair
To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation :
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy ;
The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.
That Region left, the Vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;
87﻿FOUR POETS
And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a Ruin hoary !
The shattered front of Newark’s Towers,
Renowned in Border story.
Fair scenes for childhood’s opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in ;
For manhood to enjoy his strength ;
And age to wear away in !
Yon Cottage seems a bower of bliss,
A covert for protection
Of tender thoughts that nestle there,
The brood of chaste affection.
How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my True-love’s forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather !
And what if I enwreathed my own !
’Twere no offence to reason ;
The sober Hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.
I see—but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ;
A ray of Fancy still survives—
Her sunshine plays upon thee !
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure ;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger around the Heights,
They melt—and soon must vanish ;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine—
Sad thought, which I would banish,
88﻿WORDSWORTH
But that I know, where’er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow !
Will dwell with me—to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.
XXVII.
LAODAMEIA.
“ With sacrifice, before the rising morn
Performed, my slaughtered Lord have I required ;
And in thick darkness, amid shades forlorn,
Him of the infernal Gods have I desired :
Celestial pity I again implore :—
Restore him to my sight—great Jove, restore ! ”
So speaking, and by fervent love endowed
With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands ;
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,
Her countenance brightens—and her eye expands ;
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ;
And she expects the issue in repose.
O terror ! what hath she perceived?—O joy !
What doth she look on?—whom doth she behold?
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy?
His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ?
It is—if sense deceive her not—’tis He !
And a God leads him, winged Mercury !
Mild Hermes spake—and touched her with his wand
That calms all fear: ‘1 Such grace hath crowned thy prayer,
Laodameia ! that at Jove’s command
Thy husband walks the paths of upper air :
He comes to tarry with thee three hours’ space :
Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! ”
S9﻿FOUR POETS
Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp
Again that consummation she essayed :
But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.
The Phantom parts—but parts to re-unite,
And re-assume his place before her sight.
‘ ‘ Protesilaos, lo! thy guide is gone !
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice :
This is our palace,—yonder is thy throne ;
Speak, and the floor thou tread’st on will rejoice.
Not to appal me have the Gods bestowed
This precious boon ; and blest a sad abode.”
‘'Great Jove, Laodameia ! doth not leave
His gifts imperfect: Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ;
But in reward of thy fidelity.
And something also did my wTorth obtain ;
For fearless virtue bringelh boundless gain.
“Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
Should die; but me the threat could not withhold :
A generous cause a victim did demand ;
And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ;
A self-devoted chief—by Hector slain.”
‘ ‘ Supreme of heroes—bravest, noblest, best !
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,
Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest,
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ;
Thou found’st—and I forgive thee—here thou art —
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.
“ But thou, though capable of sternest deed,
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ;
And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed
That thou should’st cheat the malice of the grave :
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Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair
As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.
‘ No Spectre greets me—no vain Shadow this ;
Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side !
Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss
To me, this day, a second time thy bride ! ”
Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious Parcce threw
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.
‘ This visage tells thee that my doom is past :
Know, virtue were not virtue, if the joys
Of sense were able to return as fast
And surely as they vanish.—Earth destroys
Those raptures duly—Erebus disdains :
Calm pleasures there abide—majestic pains.
‘ Be taught, O faithful consort, to control
Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ;
A fervent, not ungovernable, love.
Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn--”
c Ah, wherefore ?—Did not Hercules by force
Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb
Alcestis, a reanimated corse,
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ?
Medea’s spells dispersed the weight of years,
And Hison stood a youth ’mid youthful peers.
‘ The Gods to us are merciful—and they
Vet further may relent : for mightier far
Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway
Of magic potent over sun and star,
Is love, though oft to agony distrest,
And though his favourite seat be feeble woman’s breast.
91﻿FOUR POETS
‘ But if thou goest, I follow--” “ Feace ! ” he said.
She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ;
The ghastly colour from his lips had fled ;
In his deportment, shape, and mien appeared
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace,
Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
lie spake of love, such love as spirits feel
In worlds whose course is equable and pure ;
No fears to beat away—no strife to heal—
The past unsigh’d for, and the future sure ;
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood
Revived, with finer harmony pursued ;
Of all that is most beauteous—imaged there
In happier beauty : more pellucid streams,
An ampler ether, a diviner air,
And fields invested with purpureal gleams ;
Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.
Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned
That privilege by virtue.—“ 111,” said he,
The end of man’s existence I discerned,
Who from ignoble games and revelry
Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight,
While tears were thy best pastime, day and night ;
And while my youthful peers before my eyes
(Each hero following his peculiar bent)
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise
By martial sports,—or, seated in the tent,
Chieftains and kings in counsel were detained ;
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.
The wished-for wind was given :—I then revolved
The oracle, upon the silent sea ;
And, if no worthier led the way, resolved
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be
92﻿WORDSWORTH
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,—
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
‘ Vet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang
When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife !
On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
And on the joys we shared in mortal life,—
The paths which we have trod—these fountains, flowers
My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.
‘ But should suspense permit the foe to cry,
‘ Behold they tremble !—haughty their array,
Yet of their number no one dares to die ’ ?
In soul I swept the indignity away :
Old frailties then recurred :—but lofty thought,
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.
‘ And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak ;
In reason, in self-government too slow ;
I counsel thee by fortitude to seek
Our blest reunion in the shades below.
The invisible world with thee hath sympathised ;
Be thy affections raised and solemnised.
‘ Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend—
Towards a higher object.—Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ;
For this the passion to excess was driven—
That self might be annulled : her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to loveA----
Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reappears !
Round the dear Shade she would have clung—’tis vain
The hours are past—too brief had they been years—
And him no mortal effort can detain :
Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day,
He through the portal takes his silent way,
And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she lay.
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Ah, judge her gently who so deeply loved !
Her, who in reason’s spite, yet without crime,
Was in a trance of passion thus removed ;
Delivered from the galling yoke of time
And these frail elements—to gather flowers
Of blissful quiet ’mid unfading bowers.
—Yet tears to human suffering are due ;
And mortal hopes defeated and o’erthrown
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone,
As fondly he believes.—Upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she died ;
And ever, when such stature they had gained
That Ilium’s walls were subject to their view,
The trees’ tall summits withered at the sight:
A constant interchange of growth and blight !
XXVIII.
CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR.
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be ?
----It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought:
Whose high endeavours are an inward light
That makes the path before him always bright :
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,
But makes his moral being his prime care ;
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain,
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train !
94﻿WORDSWORTH
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ;
In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature’s highest dower ;
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good receives :
By objects, which might force the soul to abate
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ;
Is placable—because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice ;
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more ; more able to endure,
As more exposed to suffering and distress ;
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
—’Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends;
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He fixes good on good alone, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows :
—Who, if he rise to station of command.
Rises by open means ; and there will stand
On honourable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire ;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ;
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state ;
Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all :
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace ;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
95﻿FOUR POETS
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
Is happy as a lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a man inspired ;
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ;
Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need :
—He who though thus endued as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ;
Sweet images ! which, wheresoe’er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve ;
More brave for this, that he bath much to love : —
’Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high,
Conspicuous object in a Nation’s eye,
Or left unthought-of in obscurity,—
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,
Plays, in the many games of life, that one
Where what he most doth value must be won :
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray ;
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self-surpast:
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must go to dust without his fame,
And leave a dead unprofitable name,
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven’s applause:
This is the happy Warrior ; this is he
Whom every man in arms should wish to be.
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XXIX.
ODE TO DUTY.
am non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum
recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim.”
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God !
O Duty ! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove ;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe ;
From vain temptations dost set free ;
And calm’st the weary strife of frail humanity !
There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them ; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth :
Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot;
Who do thy work, and know it not:
Long may the kindly impulse last !
But Thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand
fast!
Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed ;
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried ;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust;
97
H﻿FOUR POETS
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray ;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control ;
But in the quietness of thought :
Me this unchartered freedom tires ;
I feel the weight of chance-desires :
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead’s most benignant grace ;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face :
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads ;
Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong ;
And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are
fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power !
I call thee : I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour ;
Oh, let my weakness have an end !
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice ;
The confidence of reason give ;
And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live !
O
98﻿WORDSWORTH
xxx.
ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF
IMMORTALITY.
FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.
I.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore ;—
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
• The things which I have seen I now can see no more
II.
The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose ;
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare ;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair ;
The sunshine is a glorious birth ;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.
III.
Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young Lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong :
99﻿FOUR POETS
The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay ;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday ;—
Thou child of joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happj
Shepherd-boy!
IV.
Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
Veto each other make ; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
O evil day ! if I were sullen
While the Earth herself is adorning
This sweet May-morning,
And the children are pulling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm.
And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm :—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
—But there’s a Tree, of many one,
A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone ;
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ?
ioo﻿WORDSWORTH
v.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting :
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar :
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home :
Heaven lies about us in our infancy !
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows
He sees it in his joy ;
The Youth, who daily farther from the East
Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended ;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
VI.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And even with something of a mother’s mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-child, her inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
VII.
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years’ darling of a pigmy size !
See, where ’mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his Mother’s kisses,
IOI﻿FOUR POETS
With light upon him from his Father’s eyes !
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral,
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song :
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his “ humorous stage
With all the persons, down to palsied age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage ;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
VIII.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul’s immensity ;
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—
Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest !
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ;
Thou, over whom thy immortality
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by ;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,﻿WORDSWORTH
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life !
IX.
O joy ! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive !
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction : not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest ;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise ;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings ;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realised,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
CD
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised :
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake,
103﻿FOUR POETS
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy !
Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
x.
Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song !
And let the young Lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound !
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May !
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind ;
Tn the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering,
Tn the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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XI.
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves
Think not of any severing of our loves !
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet ;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality ;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
XXXI.
ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE
VENETIAN REPUBLIC.
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee ;
And was the safeguard of the West : the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.
She was a Maiden City, bright and free ;
No guile seduced, no force could violate ;
And, when She took unto herself a Mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay :
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Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day :
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
Of that which once was great, is passed away. «;

XXXII.
TO TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE.
Toussaini', the most unhappy Man of Men !
Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon’s earless den ;—
O miserable Chieftain ! where and when
Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow :
Though fallen Thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies ;
There’s not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and Man’s unconquerable mind.
---o---
XXXIII.
THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUB-
JUGATION OF SWITZERLAND.
Two Voices are there ; one is of the Sea,
One of the Mountains ; each a mighty Voice :
In both from age to age Thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen Music, Liberty !
106﻿WORDSWORTH
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought’st against Him ; but hast vainly striven
Thou from the Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft :
JL
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That mountain Floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee !
O
XXXIV.
WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER 180
O Friend ! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our Life is only drest
For show ; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
Or groom !—We must run glittering like a Brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest :
The wealthiest man among us is the best :
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry ; and these we adore :
Plain living and high thinking are no more :
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.

107﻿FOUR POETS
XXXV.
The world is too much with us ; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon !
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ;
It moves us not.—Great God ! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
XXXVI.
LONDON, iS02.
Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour :
England hath need of thee : she is a fen
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ;
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart :
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life’s common way,
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
ioS
• #\﻿WORDSWORTH
XXXVII.
It is not to be thought of that the Flood
Of British freedom, which to the open Sea
Of the world’s praise from dark antiquity
Hath (lowed, “ with pomp of waters, unwithstood,’
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,
That this most famous Stream in Bogs and Sands
Should perish ; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our Halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old :
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakspeare spake ; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.—In every thing we are sprung
Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.
---o---
XXXVIII.
Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours ; with this key
Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch’s wound ;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ;
Camoens soothed with it an exile’s grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet, whence he blew
Soul-animating strains—alas, too few !
109﻿FOUR POETS
XXXIX.
CATHERINE WORDSWORTH.
(Died June 4, 1812.)
Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport—Oh ! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—
But how could I forget thee ? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss ?—That thought’s return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more ;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
o
XL.
PERSONAL TALK.
I AM not One who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk,—
Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight :
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like forms with chalk
Tainted on rich men’s floors for one feast-night.
110﻿WORDSWORTH
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire ;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.
xli.—Continued.
Wings have we,—and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.
Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know
Are a substantial world, both pure and good :
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
There find I personal themes, a plenteous store,
Matter wherein right voluble I am,
To'which I listen with a ready ear ;
Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear,—
The gentle Lady married to the Moor;
And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.
---O----
xlii.—Concluded.
Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote
From evil-speaking ; rancour, never sought,
Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie.
Lienee have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought﻿FOUR POETS
And thus from day to day my little boat
Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.
Blessings be with them—and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares—
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays !
Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs,
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
----o---
XLIII.
COMPOSED UPON THE BEACH NEAR
CALAIS, 1802.
It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free ;
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea :
Listen ! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear’st untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine :
Thou best in Abraham's bosom all the year ;
And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
O
I 12﻿WORDSWORTH
XLIV.
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER
BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 1803.
Earth has not anything to show more fair :
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty :
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky ;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep !
The river glideth at his own sweet will :
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ;
And all that mighty heart is lying still !
o
XLV.
ADMONITION.
Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may have
happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat,
in the Country of the Lakes.
Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye !
—The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
Hath stirred thee deeply ; with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky !
But covet not the Abode ;—forbear to sigh,
As many do, repining while they look ;
Intruders—who would tear from Nature’s book
This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.﻿FOUR POETS
Think what the Home must be if it were thine,
Even thine, though few thy wants !—Roof, window, door,
The very flowers are sacred to the Toor ;
The roses to the porch which they entwine.
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day
On which it should be touched, would melt away.
----O-----
XLVI.
Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued,
Even when a child, the Streams—unheard, unseen ;
Through tangled woods, impending rocks between ;
Or, free as air, with flying inquest viewed
The sullen reservoirs whence their bold brood,
Pure as the morning, fretful, boisterous, keen,
Green as the salt-sea billows, white and green,
Toured down the hills, a choral multitude ?
Nor have I tracked their course for scanty gains ;
They taught me random cares and truant joys,
That shield from mischief and preserve from stains
Vague minds, while men are growing out of boys ;
Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise
Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile reins.
O
XLVI I.
Most sweet is it with un-uplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon ;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty eoming and the beauty gone.
114﻿WORDSWORTH
If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse,
With Thought and Love companions of our way,
Whate’er the senses take or may refuse,
The Mind’s internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
o
XLVIII.
ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER
SCOTT FROM ABBOTSFORD, FOR
NAPLES.
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun’s pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o’er Eildon’s triple height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might
Of the whole world’s good wishes with him goes
Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope !
V# •﻿FOUR POETS
XLIX.
DEATH.
Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed ;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Ever put on : a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
Thou art our king, O Death ! to thee we groan.”
I seem’d to mount those steps ; the vapours gave
Smooth way : and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven ; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone ;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave !

L.
YEW-TREES.
There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Yale,
Which to this day stands single, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore,
Not loth to furnish weapons for the Bands
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched
To Scotland’s heaths ; or those that crossed the sea
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Of vast circumference and gloom profound
This solitary Tree !—a living thing
Produced too slowly ever to decay ;
Of form and aspect too magnificent
116﻿WORDSWORTH
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note
Are those fraternal Four of Barrowdale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ;
Huge trunks !—and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved,—
Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane ;—a pillared shade,
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,
By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged
Perennially—beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs as if for festal purpose decked
With unrejoicing berries—ghostly shapes
May meet at noontide ; Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and Foresight, Death the Skeleton
And Time the Shadow ; there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship ; or in mute repose
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves.
o
LI.
LINES
COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON
REVISITING TIIE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR.
JULY 13, 179S.
Five years have past ; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters ! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a sweet inland murmur.—Once again
117﻿FOUR POETS
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees !
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit’s cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.
These beauteous Forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye :
But oft, in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration : —feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
II is little, nameless, unrcmembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
I iS﻿WORDSWORTH
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened :—that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,—
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul :
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft,
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
IIow oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
0	sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer thro’ the woods,
IIow often has my spirit turned to thee !
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again :
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
1	came among these hills ; when like a roe
I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led : more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
119﻿FOUR POETS
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite ; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed, for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt •
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts : a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man :
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains ; and of all that we behold
From this green earth ; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half create,
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
120﻿WORDSWORTH
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay :
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her ; ’tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy : for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ;
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee : and in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
I 2 I﻿FOUR POETS
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance,
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together ; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service : rather say
With warmer love, oh ! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake !
o
LII.
THE SMALL CELANDINE.
There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine,
That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain ;
And, the first moment that the sun may shine,
Bright as the sun itself, 'tis out again !
When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
Or blasts the green field and the trees distressed,
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm,
In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed
And recognised it, though an altered form,
Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
122﻿WORDSWORTH
I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice,
It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold :
This neither is its courage nor its choice,
But its necessity in being old.
The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew ;
It cannot help itself in its decay ;
%
Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue. ”
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
To be a Prodigal’s Favourite—then, worse truth,
A Miser’s Pensioner—behold our lot !
O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth
Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
LI II.
THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.
We walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun ;
And Matthew stopped, he looked and said,
“ The will of God be done ! ”
A village Schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering gray ;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass
And by the streaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.
“ Our work,” said I, “ was well begun ;
Then, from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought ? ”﻿FOUR POETS
A second time did Matthew stop ;
And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply :
“ Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this which I have left
Full thirty years behind.
“ And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn,
Of this the very brother.
“ With i*od and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,
And, coming to the church, stopped short
Beside my daughter’s grave.
“ Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
The pride of all the vale ;
And then she sang ;—she would have been
A very nightingale.
“ Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
And yet I loved her more,
For so it seemed, than till that day
I e’er had loved before.
“ And, turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the churchyard yew,
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.
“ A basket on her head she bare ;
Iler brow was smooth and white :
To see a child so very fair.
It was a pure delight !
124﻿WORDSWORTH
" No fountain from its rocky cave
E’er tripped with foot so free ;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.
“ There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine ;
I looked at her, and looked again :
—And did not wish her mine.”
Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
Methinks, I see him stand,
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.
LIV.
THE FOUNTAIN.
A CONVERSATION.
We talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,
A pair of Friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.
We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat ;
And from the turf a fountain broke,
And gurgled at our feet.
Now, Matthew ! ” said I, “ let us match
This water’s pleasant tune
With some old Border-song, or Catch,
That suits a summer’s noon ;
125﻿FOUR POETS
Or of the Church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made !”
In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree ;
And thus the dear old man replied,
The gray-haired man of glee :
Down to the vale this water steers,
How merrily it goes !
’Twill murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.
xVnd here, on this delightful day,
I cannot choose but think
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this Fountain’s brink.
My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.
Thus fares it still in our decay :
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away
Than what it leaves behind.
The Blackbird in the summer trees,
The Lark upon the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please
Are quiet when they will.
With Nature never do they wage
A foolish strife ; they see
A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free :
126﻿WORDSWORTH
■' But we are pressed by heavy laws ;
And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.
“ If there be one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that were his own,
It is the man of mirth.
“ My days, my Friend, are almost gone,
My life has been approved,
And many love me ; but by none
Am I enough beloved/’
Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus complains !
I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains,
“And, Matthew, for thy Children dead
I’ll be a son to thee ! ”
At this he grasped my hand, and said,
“ Alas ! that cannot be.”
We rose up from the fountain-side ;
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide ;
And through the wood we went;
And, ere we came to Leonard’s-rock,
He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewildered chimes.
o-
127﻿FOUR POETS
LV.
LINES
Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening, after a stormy
day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the
dissolution of Mr. Fox was hourly expected.
Loud is the Vale ! the Voice is up
With which she speaks when storms are gone ;
A mighty Unison of Streams !
Of all her Voices, One !
Loud is the Vale ;—this inland Depth
In peace is roaring like the Sea;
Yon star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.
Sad was I, even to pain deprest,
Importunate and heavy load !
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road ;
And many thousands now are sad —
Wait the fulfilment of their fear ;
For he must die who is their stay,
Their glory disappear.
A Power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature’s dark abyss ;
But when the Mighty pass away
What is it more than this,
That Man, who is from God sent forth.
Doth yet again to God return ?—
Such ebb and flow must ever be,
Then wherefore should we mourn ?
12S﻿WORDSWORTH
LVI.
ELEGIAC STANZAS,
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN
A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.
I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile !
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee :
I saw thee every day ; and all the while
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
So like, so very like, was day to day !
Whene’er I looked, thy Image still was there ;
It trembled, but it never passed away.
How perfect was the calm ! it seemed no sleep ;
No mood, which season takes away, or brings :
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.
Ah, then, if mine had been the Painter’s hand,
To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam,
The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the Poet’s dream ;
I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile,
Amid a world how different from this !
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ;
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
A Picture had it been of lasting ease,
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ;
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze.
Or merely silent Nature’s breathing life.
129
K﻿FOUR POETS
Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
Such Picture would I at that time have made :
And seen the soul of truth in every part,
A stedfast peace that might not be betrayed.
So once it would have been,—’tis so no more ;
I have submitted to a new control :
A power is gone, which nothing can restore ;
A deep distress hath humanised my Soul.
Not for a moment could I now behold
A smiling sea, and be what I have been :
The feeling of my loss will ne’er be old ;
This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been
the Friend,
If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,
This work of thine I blame not, but commend ;
This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
0	’tis a passionate Work—yet wise and well,
Well chosen is the spirit that is here ;
That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear !
And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
1	love to see the look with which it braves,
Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,
The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
Housed, in a dream, at distance from the Kind !
Such happiness, wherever it be known,
Is to be pitied ; for ’tis surely blind.
But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
And frequent sights of what is to be borne !
Such sights, or worse, as are before me here.—
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
130﻿WORDSWORTH
LVII.
TO MARY WORDSWORTH.
O dearer far than light and life are dear,
Full oft our human foresight I deplore ;
Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more !
Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control,
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest ;
While all the future, for thy purer soul,
With “ sober certainties ” of love is blest.
If a faint sigh, not meant for human ear,
Tell that these words thy humbleness offend,
Cherish me still—else faltering in the rear
Of a steep march : uphold me to the end.
Peace settles where the Intellect is meek,
And love is dutiful in thought and deed ;
Through Thee communion with that Love I seek ;
The faith Heaven strengthens where //nnouldsthecreed.
O
LVIII.
EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE
DEATH OF JAMES HOGG.
NOVEMBER, 1835.
When first, descending from the moorlands,
I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide
Along a bare and open valley,
The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.
131﻿FOUR POETS
When last along its banks I wandered,
Through groves that had begun to shed
Their golden leaves upon the pathways,
My steps the Border-minstrel led.
#
The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer,
Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ;
And death upon the braes of Yarrow,
Has closed the Shepherd-poet’s eyes :
Nor has the rolling year twice measured,
From sign to sign, its stedfast course,
Since every mortal power of Coleridge
Was frozen at its marvellous source ;
The rapt One, of the godlike forehead,
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth ;
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle,
Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
lake clouds that rake the mountain-summits,
Or waves that own no curbing hand,
How fast has brother followed brother,
From sunshine to the sunless land !
Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber
Were earlier raised, remain to hear
A timid voice, that asks in whispers,
Who next will drop and disappear ?”
Our haughty life is crowned with darkness,
Like London with its own black wreath,
On which with thee, O Crabbe ! forth-lookin
I gazed from Hampstead’s breezy heath.
As if but yesterday departed,
Thou too art gone before ; but why,
O’er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered,
Should frail survivors heave a sigh ?
132﻿WORDSWORTH
Mourn rather for that holy Spirit,
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ;
For Her who, ere her summer faded,
Has sunk into a breathless sleep.
No more of old romantic sorrows,
For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid !
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten,
And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead.
133﻿﻿ColeiH&ge﻿﻿I.
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.
Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care ;
The opening bud to heaven convey’d,
And bade it blossom there.
o
II.
TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY.
AN ALLEGORY.
On the wide level of a mountain’s head,
(I knew not where, but ’twas some faery place)
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread,
Two lovely children run an endless race,
A sister and a brother !
That far outstripp’d the other;
Yet ever runs she with reverted face,
And looks and listens for the boy behind :
For he, alas ! is blind !
O’er rough and smooth with even step he pass’d,
And knows not whether he be first or last.
o
137﻿FOUR POETS
in.
“FROM CATULLUS.”
I.
Viva//ins, mea Lesbia, atque amemus.
My Lesbia, let us love and live,
And to the winds, my Lesbia, give
Each cold restraint, each boding fear
Of age, and all its saws severe !
Yon sun, now posting to the main,
Will set, —but ’tis to rise again ;
But we, when once our little light
Is set, must sleep in endless night.
Then come, with whom alone I’ll live,
A thousand kisses take and give !
Another thousand !—to the store
Add hundreds—then a thousand more
And when they to a million mount,
Let confusion take the account;
That you, the number never knowing,
May continue still bestowing ;
That I for joys may never pine,
Which never can again be mine !
II.
Lagete, O Veneres,
Pity, mourn in plaintive tone
The lovely starling dead and gone!
Pity mourns in plaintive tone
The lovely starling dead and gone.
Weep, ye Loves ! and Venus, weep
The lovely starling fall’n asleep !
Venus sees with tearful eyes—
In her lap the starling lies,
While the Loves all in a ring
Softly stroke the stiffen’d wing.
138﻿COLERIDGE
IV.
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.
IN SEVEN PARTS.
“Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in
rerum universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enar-
rabit, et gradus et cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera ?
Quid agunt? quae loca habitant? Harum rerum notitiam semper
ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit. Juvat, interea, non
diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in tabula, majoris et melioris
mundi imaginem contemplari: ne mens assuefacta hodiernse vitae
minutiis se contrahat nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes.
Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa
ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus.”—T. Burnet: Archceol.
Phil. p. 68.
PART I.
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
“By thy long grey beard and glittering
eye,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me ?
An ancient
Mariner
meeteth
three gal-
lants bidden
to a wedding-
feast, and de-
tained! one.
‘! The bridegroom’s doors are open’d wide,
And I am next of kin ;
The guests are met, the feast is set :
May’st hear the merry din.”
He holds him with his skinny hand,
“There was a ship,” quoth he.
‘ ‘ Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon ! ’ ’
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
He holds him with his glittering eye—
The wedding-guest stood still,
And listens like a three years’ child :
The Mariner hath his will.
The wed-
ding-guest is
spell-bound
by the eye
of the old
seafaring
man, and
constrained to hear his tale.
139﻿FOUR POETS
The Mariner
tells how the
ship sailed
southward
with a good
wind and fair
weather, till
it reached
the Line.
The wed-
ding-guest
heareth the
bridal music,
but the
Mariner con-
tinueth his
tale.
The ship
drawn by a
storm toward
the south
pole.
The wedding-guest sat on a stone :
He cannot choose but hear ;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.
“ The ship was cheer’d, the harbour clear’d,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.
The sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he !
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.
Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon—”
The wedding-guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.
The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she ;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.
The wedding-guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear ;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.
“And now the storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong :
He struck with his o’ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.
With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
140﻿COLERIDGE
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roar’d the blast,
And southward aye we fled.
And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold ;
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald ;
And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen :
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—
The ice was all between.
The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around :
The land of
ice, and of
fearful
sounds,
where no
living thing
was to be
seen.
It crack’d and growl’d, and roar’d and howl’d,
Like noises in a svvound !
At length did cross an Albatross :
Thorough the fog it came :
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hail’d it in God’s name.
It ate the food it ne’er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ;
The helmsman steer’d us through !
Till a great
sea-bird,
called the
Albatross,
came
through the
snow-fog,
and was
received with
great joy and
hospitality.
And a good south wind sprung up behind ;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariners’ hollo !
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perch’d for vespers nine ;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke
white,
Glimmer’d the white moon-shine.’’
141
And lo ! the
Albatross
proveth a
bird of good
omen, and
followeth the
ship as it
returned
northward,
through fog
and floating
ice.﻿FOUR POETS
The ancient
Mariner
inhospitably
killeth the
pious bird
of good
omen.
“ God save thee, ancient Mariner !
From the fiends, that plague thee thus !—
Why look’st thou so?”—“With my cross-
bow
I shot the Albatross ! ”
PART IJ.
“ The sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.
His ship-
mates cry
out against
the ancient
Mariner for
killing the
bird of good
luck.
But when the
fog cleared
off, they jus-
tify the same
and thus
make them-
selves ac-
complices in
the crime.
The fair
breeze con-
tinues ; the
ship enters
the Pacific
Ocean, and
sails north-
ward, even till
And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day, for food or play,
Came to the mariners’ hollo !
And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work ’em woe ;
For all averr’d, I had kill’d the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay
That made the breeze to blow !
Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head,
The glorious sun uprist :
Then all averr’d, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
’Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.
The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow follow’d free :
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.
it reaches the Line.
142﻿COLERIDGE
Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
’Twas sad as sad could be ;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea !
The ship
hath been
suddenly
becalmed,
All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the moon.
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink ;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.
The very deep did rot : O Christ !
That ever this should be !
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.
And the
Albatross
begins to be
avenged.
About, about, in reel and rout,
The death-fires danced at night ;
The water, like a witch’s oils,
Burnt green, and blue and white.
And some in dreams assured were
Of the spirit that plagued us so :
Nine fathom deep he had follow’d us,
From the land of mist and snow.
A spirit had
followed
them ; one of
the invisible
inhabitants
of thisplanet,
neither de-
parted souls
nor angels ; concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the
Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted.
They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without
one or more.
143﻿FOUR POETS
And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was wither’d at the root ;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.
Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks
Had I from old and young !
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.
The ship-
mates, in
their sore
distress,
would fain
throw the
whole guilt
on the ancient Mariner : in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird
round his neck.
PART III.
The ancient
Mariner be-
holdeth a
sign in the
element afar
off.
“ There pass’d a weary time. Each throat
Was parch’d, and glazed each eye.
A weary time ! A weary time !
How glazed each weary eye !
When looking westward I beheld
A something in the sky.
At first it seem’d a little speck,
And then it seem’d a mist :
It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.
A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it near’d and near’d :
As if it dodged a water-sprite,
It plunged and tack’d and veer’d.
At its nearer
approach, it
seemeth him
to be a ship ;
and at a dear
ransom he
freeth his
speech from
the bonds of
thirst.
With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
We could nor laugh nor wail ;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood !
I bit my arm, I suck’d the blood,
And cried ! A sail ! a sail!
144﻿COLERIDGE
With throats unslakecl, with black lips baked,
Agape they heard me call :
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin,
And all at once their breath drew in,
As they were drinking all.
See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more !
Hither to work us weal ;
Without a breeze, without a tide,
She steadies with upright keel !
The western wave was all allame :
The day was well nigh done :
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bright sun ;
When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the sun.
And straight the sun was fleck’d with bars,
(Heaven’s Mother send us grace !)
As if through a dungeon grate he peer’d,
With broad and burning face.
Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she nears and nears !
Are those her sails that glance in the sun,
Like restless gossameres ?
Are those her ribs through which the sun
Did peer, as through a grate ?
And is that Woman all her crew ?
Is that a Death ? and are there two?
Is Death that woman’s mate ?
Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold :
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The night-mare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man’s blood with cold.
H5
A flash of
joy;
And horror
follows. For
can it be a
ship that
comes on-
ward with-
out wind or
tide ?
It seemeth
him but the
skeleton of a
ship.
And its ribs
are seen as
bars on the
face of the
setting sun.
The spect re -
woman and
her death-
mate, and no
other on
board the
skeleton ship.
Like vessel,
like crew !
L﻿FOUR POETS
Death, and
Life-in -
Death, have
diced for the
ship’s crew,
and she (the
latter) win-
neth the an-
cient Mari-
ner.
No twilight
within the
courts of the
sun.
At the rising
of the moon,
One after
another,
His ship-
mates drop
down dead.
But Life-in-
Death begins
her work on
the ancient
Mariner.
The naked hulk alongside came.
And the twain were casting dice ;
‘ The game is done ! I’ve won, I’ve won ! ’
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.
The sun’s rim dips ; the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark ;
With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea,
Off shot the spectre-bark.
We listen’d and look’d sideways up !
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seem’d to sip !
The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman’s face by his lamp gleam’d
white ;
From the sails the dew did drip—
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The horned moon, with one bright star
Within the nether tip.
One after one, by the star-dogg’d moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turn’d his face with a ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye.
Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropp’d down one by one.
The souls did from their bodies fly,—
They lied to bliss or woe !
And every soul, it pass’d me by,
Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! ”
146﻿COLERIDGE
PART IV.
*‘ I fear thee, ancient Mariner !
I fear thy skinny hand !
And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
As is the ribb’d sea-sand.
I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand, so brown.’’—
“ Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest !
This body clropt not down.
Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea !
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
The many men, so beautiful !
And they all dead did lie :
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on ; and so did I.
I look’d upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away ;
I look’d upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.
I look’d to Heaven, and tried to pray ;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.
I closed my lids, and kept them close,
And the balls like pulses beat;
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the
sky,
Lay like a load on my weary eye,
And the dead were at my feet.
147
The wecl-
ding-guest
feareth that
a spirit is
talking to
him.
But the an-
cient Mari-
ner assureth
him of his
bodily life
and proceed-
ed! to relate
his horrible
penance.
He despiseth
the creatures
of the calm,
And envieth
that they
should live,
and so many
lie dead.﻿FOUR POETS
Butthecurse The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
liveth for	,
him in the	X or rot nor reek did they :
eye ni the	The i00]c with which they look’d on me
dead men.	7
Had never pass’d away.
An orphan’s curse would drag to hell
A spirit from on high ;
But oh ! more horrible than that
Is the curse in a dead man’s eye !
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
And yet I could not die.
In his loneli- The moving moon went up the sky,
fixedness he And n0 where did abide :
yearneth Softly she was going up,
towards the	/	,	/
journeying And a star or two beside—
moon, and
the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward ; and everywhere
the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their
native country, and their own natural homes, which they enter unan-
nounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a
silent joy at their arrival.
Her beams bemock’d the sultry main,
Like April hoar-frost spread ;
But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,
The charmed water burnt ahvay
A still and awful red.
By the light
of the moon
he beholdeth
God’s crea-
tures of the
great calm.
Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watch’d the water-snakes :
They moved in tracks of shining white,
And when they rear’d, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.
Within the shadow of the ship
I watch’d their rich attire :
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coil'd and swam ; and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.
148﻿COLERIDGE
O happy living things ! no tongue
Their beauty might declare :
A spring of love gush’d from my heart,
And I bless’d them unaware !
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I bless’d them unaware.
The selfsame moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.
PART V.
“ Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole !
To Mary Queen the praise be given !
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
That slid into my soul.
The silly buckets on the deck,
That had so long remain’d,
I dreamt that they were filled with dew ;
And when I awoke, it rain’d.
My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments all were dank ;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
And still my body drank.
I moved, and could not feel my limbs :
I was so light—almost
I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a blessed ghost.
Their beauty
and their
happiness.
He blesseth
them in his
heart.
The spell
begins to
break.
By grace of
the holy
Mother, the
ancient Ma-
riner is re-
freshed with
rain.
149﻿FOUR POETS
He heareth
sounds and
seeth strange
sights and
commotions
in the sky
and the
element.
The bodies
of the ship’s
crew are in-
spirited, and
the ship
moves on ;
And soon I heard a roaring wind :
It did not come anear ;
But with its sound it shook the sails,
That were so thin and sere.
The upper air burst into life !
And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
To and fro they were hurried about;
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.
And the coming wind did roar more loud,
And the sails did sigh like sedge ;
And the rain pour’d down from one black
cloud ;
The moon was at its edge.
The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
The moon was at its side :
Like waters shot from some high crag,
The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.
The loud wind never reach’d the ship,
Yet now the ship moved on !
Beneath the lightning and the moon
The dead men gave a groan.
They groan'd, they stirr’d, they all uprose,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ;
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise.
The helmsman steer’d, the ship moved on ;
Yet never a breeze up-blew ;
The mariners all ’gan work the ropes,
Where they were wont to do :
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—
We were a ghastly crew.
150﻿COLERIDGE
The body of my brother’s son
Stood by me, knee to knee :
The body and I pull’d at one rope,
But he said nought to me.”
“ I fear thee, ancient Mariner !”
“ Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest !
’Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
Which to their coi'ses came again,
But a troop of spirits blest :
For when it dawn’d—they dropp’d their arms,
And cluster’d round the mast ;
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their
mouths,
And from their bodies pass’d.
But not by
the souls of
the men, nor
by demons of
earth or mid-
dle air, but
by a blessed
troop of an-
gelic spirits,
sent down by
the invoca-
tion of the
guardian
saint.
Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the sun ;
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mix’d, now one by one.
Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the skylark sing ;
Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seem’d to fill the sea and air
With their sweet jargoning !
And now ’twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute ;
And now it is an angel’s song,
That makes the heavens be mute.
It ceased ; yet still the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon,
A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune.
151﻿FOUR POETS
The lone-
some spirit
from the
south pole
carries on
the ship as
far as the
Line, in obe-
dience to the
angelic
troop, but
still requir-
eth venge-
ance.
The Polar
Spirit’s fel-
low demons,
the invisible
inhabitants
of the ele-
ment, take
part in his
wrong ; and
two of them
relate, one to
the other,
that penance
long and
heavy for the
ancient Mari-
ner hath
been accord-
ed to the
Polar Spirit,
who return-
eth south-
ward.
Till noon we quietly sail’d on,
Vet never a breeze did breathe :
Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
Moved onward from beneath.
Under the keel nine fathom deep,
From the land of mist and snow,
The spirit slid ; and it was he
That made the ship to go.
The sails at noon left off their tune,
And the ship stood still also.
The sun, right up above the mast,
Had fix’d her to the ocean ;
But in a minute she ’gan stir,
With a short uneasy motion—
Backwards and forwards half her length
With a short uneasy motion.
Then like a pawing horse let go,
She made a sudden bound :
It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swound.
How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare ;
But ere my living life return’d,
I heard, and in my soul discern’d
Two voices in the air.
‘ Is it he ? ’ quoth one, ‘ is this the man
By Him who died on the cross,
With his cruel bow he laid full low
The harmless Albatross.
‘ The spirit who bideth by himself
In the land of mist and snow,
Pie loved the bird that loved the man
Who shot him with his bow. ’
152﻿COLERIDGE
The other was a softer voice,
As soft as honey-dew :
Quoth he, ‘ The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do.’
PART VI.
First Voice.
‘ But tell me, tell me ! speak again,
Thy soft response renewing—
What makes that ship drive on so fast ?
What is the ocean doing?’
Second Voice.
1 Still as a slave before his lord,
The ocean hath no blast ;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the moon is cast—
If he may know which way to go ;
For she guides him, smooth or grim.
See, brother, see ! how graciously
She looketh down on him.’
First Voice.
‘ But why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind ? ’
Second Voice.
‘ The air is cut away before,
And closes from behind.
Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high !
Or we shall be belated :
For slow and slow that ship will go,
When the Mariner’s trance is abated.’
153
The Mariner
hath been
cast into a
trance; for
the angelic
power caus-
eth the vessel
to drive
northward,
faster than
human life
could en-
dure.﻿FOUR POETS
The super-
natural mo-
tion is re-
tarded ; the
Mariner
awakes, and
his penance
begins anew.
The curse
is finally
expiated,
I woke, and we were sailing on,
As in a gentle weather :
’Twas night, calm night, the moon was high
The dead men stood together.
All stood together on the deck,
For a charnel-dungeon fitter :
All fix’d on me their stony eyes,
That in the moon did glitter.
The pang, the curse, with which they died,
Had never pass’d away :
I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
Nor turn them up to pray.
And now this spell was snapt : once more
I view’d the ocean green,
And look’d far forth, yet little saw
Of what had else been seen—
Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turn’d round, walks on,
And turns no more his head ;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
But soon there breathed a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made :
Its path was not upon the sea,
In ripple or in shade.
It raised my hair, it fann’d my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring—
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a welcoming.
154﻿COLERIDGE
Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sail’d softly too :
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—
On me alone it blew.
Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed
The lighthouse top I see?
Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ?
Is this mine own countree ?
We drifted o’er the harbour-bar,
And I with sobs did pray—
‘ O let me be awake, my God !
Or let me sleep alway.’
The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn !
And on the bay the moonlight lay,
And the shadow of the moon.
The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
That stands above the rock :
The moonlight steep’d in silentness
The steady weathercock.
And the bay was white with silent light,
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
In crimson colours came.
A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were :
I turn’d my eyes upon the deck—
Oh, Christ ! what saw I there !
Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
And, by the holy rood !
A man all light, a seraph-man,
On every corse there stood.
155
And the an-
cient Mari-
ner behold-
eth his na-
tive country.
The angelic
spirits leave
the dead
bodies,
And appear
in their own
forms of
light.﻿FOUR POETS
The Hermit
of the Wood
This seraph-band, each waved his hand
It was a heavenly sight !
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light:
This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
No voice did they impart—
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank
Like music on my heart.
But soon I heard the dash of oars,
I heard the pilot’s cheer ;
My head was turn’d perforce away,
And I saw a boat appear.
The pilot, and the pilot’s boy,
I heard them coming fast:
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.
I saw a third—I heard his voice :
It is the Hermit good !
He singeth loud his godly hymns
That he makes in the wood,
lie’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away
The Albatross’s blood.
TART VII.
“This Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears !
He loves to talk with marineres
That come from a far countree.
156﻿COLERIDGE
He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve—
lie hath a cushion plump :
It is the moss that wholly hides
The rotted old oak-stump.
The skiff-boat near’d : I heard them talk,
‘ Why, this is sti-ange, I trow !
Where are those lights so many and fair,
That signal made but now?’
‘ Strange, by my faith ! ’ the Hermit said—
‘ And they answer’d not our cheer !
The planks look warp’d ! and see those sails,
How thin they are and sere !
I never saw aught like to them
Unless perchance it were
Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
My forest-brook along :
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
That eats the she-wolf’s young.’
‘ Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look ’—
(The pilot made reply)
‘ I am a-fear’d ’—‘ Push on, push on ! ’
Said the Hermit cheerily.
The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirr’d ;
The boat came close beneath the ship,
And straight a sound was heard.
Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread :
It reach’d the ship, it split the bay ;
The ship went down like lead.
157
Approacheth
the ship with
wonder.
The ship
suddenly
sinketh.﻿FOUR POETS
The ancient
Mariner is
saved in the
pilot’s boat.
The ancient
Mariner
earnestly
entreateth
the Hermit
to shrieve
him ; and
the penance
of life falls
on him.
Stunn’d by that loud and dreadful sound,
Which sky and ocean smote,
Like one that hath been seven days drown’d,
My body lay afloat;
But swift as dreams, myself I found
Within the pilot’s boat.
Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
The boat spun round and round;
And all was still, save that the hill
Was telling of the sound.
I moved my lips—the pilot shriek’d,
And fell down in a fit;
The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
And pray’d where he did sit.
I took the oars : the pilot’s boy,
Who now doth crazy go,
Laugh’d loud and long, and all the while
His eyes went to and fro.
‘ Ha ! ha ! ’ quoth he, ‘ full plain I see,
The Devil knows how to row.’
And now, all in my own countree,
I stood on the firm land !
The Hermit stepp’d forth from the boat,
And scarcely he could stand.
‘ O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !'
The Hermit cross’d his brow.
1 Say quick, ’ quoth he, ‘ I bid thee say—
What manner of man art thou? ’
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench’d
With a woeful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale ;
And then it left me free.
158﻿COLERIDGE
Since then at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns ;
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.
I pass, like night, from land to land:
I have strange power of speech ;
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me :
To him my tale I teach.
What loud uproar bursts from that door !
The wedding-guests are there ;
But in the garden-bower the bride
And bride-maids singing are ;
And hark the little vesper bell,
Which biddeth me to prayer !
O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea :
So lonely ’twas, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.
O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
’Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company !—
To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,
While each to his great Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay !
Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
159
And ever
and anon
throughout
his future life
an agony
constraineth
him to travel
from land to
land :
And to teach,
by his own
example,
love and
reverence to
all things
that God
made and
loveth.﻿FOUR POETS
Pie prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
Pie made and loveth all.”
The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone ; and now the Wedding-Guest
Turn’d from the bridegroom’s door.
Pie went like one that hath been stunn’d,
And is of sense forlorn :
A sadder and a wiser man
He rose the morrow morn.
---c>--
V.
CHRISTABEL.
PREFACE.
The first part of the following poem was written in the year 1797, at
Stowey, in the county of Somerset. The second part, after my return
from Germany, in the year 1800, at Keswick, Cumberland. It is
probable, that if the poem had been finished at either of the former
periods, or if even the first and second part had been published in
the year 1800, the impression of its originality would have been much
greater than I dare at present expect. But for this, I have only my
own indolence to blame. The dates are mentioned for the exclusive
purpose of precluding charges of plagiarism or servile imitation from
myself. For there is amongst 11s a set of critics, who seem to hold,
that every possible thought and image is traditional ; who have no
notion that there are such things as fountains in the world, small as
well as great ; and who would therefore charitably derive every rill
they behold flowing, from a perforation made in some other man’s
tank. I am confident, however, that as far as the present poem is
concerned, the celebrated poets whose writings I might be suspected
of having imitated, either in particular passages, or in the tone and
the spirit of the whole, would be among the first to vindicate me from
the charge, and who, on any striking coincidence, would permit me
160﻿COLERIDGE
to address them in this doggrel version of two monkish Latin hexa-
meters :—
Tis mine and it is likewise yours;
But an if this will not do ;
Let it be mine, good friend ! for I
Am the poorer of the two.
I have only to add, that the metre of the ChrLstabel is not, properly
speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its being founded
on a new principle : namely, that of counting in each line the accents,
not the syllables. Though the latter may vary from seven to twelve,
yet in each line the accents will be found to be only four. Neverthe-
less this occasional variation in the number of syllables is not intro-
duced wantonly, or for the mere ends of convenience, but in corre-
spondence with some transition, in the nature of the imagery or
passion.
PART I.
’Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awaken’d the crowing cock ;
Tu-whit !—Tu-whoo !
And hark, again ! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ;
From her kennel beneath the rock
She maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour ;
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud ;
Some say, she sees my lady’s shroud.
Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray :
’Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
l6l	M﻿FOUR POETS
The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate ?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight ;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that’s far away.
She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak,
But moss and rarest misletoe :
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.
The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel!
It moan’d as near, as near can be,
But what it is she cannot tell.—
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The night is chill; the forest bare ;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady’s cheek—
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sk
Hush, beating heart of Christabel !
Jesu, Maria, shield her well !
162﻿COLERIDGE
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there ?
There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone :
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck, and arms were bare ;
Her blue-vein’d feet unsandal’d were ;
And wildly glitter’d here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, ’twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she—
Beautiful exceedingly !
Mary mother, save me now ! ”
(Said Christabel,) “ and who art thou ? ”
The lady strange made answer meet,
And her voice was faint and sweet :—
Have pity on my sore distress,
I scarce can speak for weariness :
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! ”
Said Christabel, “ How earnest thou here ? ”
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet
Did thus pursue her answer meet:—
My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine :
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn :
They choked my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind.
They spurr’cl amain, their steeds were white :
And once we cross’d the shade of night.﻿FOUR POETS
As sure as heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be ;
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced, I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey’s back,
A weary woman, scarce alive.
Some mutter’d words his comrades spoke :
lie placed me underneath this oak ;
He swore they would return with haste ;
Whither they went I cannot tell—
I thought I heard, some minutes past,
Sounds as of a castle bell.
Stretch forth thy hand ” (thus ended she,)
And help a wretched maid to flee.”
Then Christabel stretch’d forth her hand,
And comforted fair Geraldine :
O well, bright dame, may )7ou command
The service of Sir Leoline ;
And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth, and friends withal,
To guide and guard you safe and free
Home to your noble father’s hall.”
She rose : and forth with steps they pass’d
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest,
And thus spake on sweet Christabel :
All our household are at rest,
The hall as silent as the cell ;
Sir Leoline is weak in health,
And may not well awaken’d be,
But we will move as if in stealth ;
And I beseech your courtesy,
This night, to share your couch with me.”﻿COLERIDGE
They cross’d the moat, and Christabel
Took the key that fitted well ;
A little door she open’d straight,
And in the middle of the gate ;
The gate that was iron’d within and without,
Where an army in battle array had march’d out.
The lady sank, belike through pain,
And Christabel with might and main
Lifted her up, a weary weight,
Over the threshold of the gate :
Then the lady rose again,
And moved, as she were not in pain.
So, free from danger, free from fear,
They cross’d the court: right glad they were.
And Christabel devoutly cried
To the Lady by her side ;
Praise we the Virgin all divine,
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! ”
Alas, alas ! ” said Geraldine,
I cannot speak for weariness. ”
So, free from danger, free from fear,
They cross’d the court: right glad they were.
Outside her kennel the mastiff old
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
The mastiff old did not awake,
Yet she an angry moan did make.
And what can ail the mastiff bitch ?
Never till now she utter’d yell
Beneath the eye of Christabel.
Perhaps it is the owlet’s scritch :
For what can ail the mastiff bitch ?
They pass’d the hall, that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will.﻿FOUR POETS
The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying ;
But when the lady pass’d, there came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame ;
And Christabel saw the lady’s eye,
And nothing else saw she thereby,
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
O softly tread,” said Christabel,
My father seldom sleepeth well.”
Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
And, jealous of the listening air,
They steal their way from stair to stair,
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
And now they pass the Baron’s room,
As still as death, with stifled breath!
And now have reach’d her chamber door ;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.
The moon shines dim in the open air,
And not a moonbeam enters here.
But they without its light can see
The chamber carved so curiously,
Carved with figures strange and sweet,
All made out of the carver’s brain,
For a lady’s chamber meet:
The lamp with twofold silver chain
Is fasten’d to an angel’s feet.
The silver lamp burns dead and dim ;
But Christabel tbe lamp will trim.
She trimm’d the lamp, and made it bright,
And left it swinging to and fro,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.
166﻿COLERIDGE
0	weary lady, Geraldine,
1	pray you, drink this cordial wine !
It is a wine of virtuous powers ;
My mother made it of wild flowers.”
And will your mother pity me,
Who am a maiden most forlorn ? ”
Christabel answer’d—“ Woe is me !
She died the hour that I was born.
I have heard the grey-hair’d friar tell,
How on her death-bed she did say,
That she should hear the castle-bell
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
0	mother dear ! that thou wert here ! ”
1	would,” said Geraldine, “she were ! ”
But soon, with alter’d voice, said she—
Off, wandering mother ! Peak and pine !
I have power to bid thee flee.”
Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine?
Why stares she with unsettled eye ?
Can she the bodiless dead espy ?
And why with hollow voice cries she,
Off, woman, off! this hour is mine—
Though thou her guardian spirit be,
Off, woman, off! ’tis given to me.”
Then Christabel knelt by the lady’s side,
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue—
Alas ! ” said she, “ this ghastly ride—
Dear lady ! it hath wilder’d you ! ”
The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, “ ’Tis over now ! ”
Again the wild-flower wine she drank :
Iler fair large eyes ’gan glitter bright,
And from the floor, whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright :
167﻿FOUR POETS
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a lady of a far countree.
And thus the lofty lady spake—
All they, who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel!
And you love them, and for their sake,
And for the good which me befell,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden, to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself; for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.”
Quoth Christabel, “ So let it be ! ”
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.
But through her brain, of weal and woe
So many thoughts moved to and fro,
That vain it were her lids to close ;
So half-way from the bed she rose,
And on her elbow did recline,
To look at the lady Geraldine.
Beneath the lamp the lady bow’d,
And slowly roll’d her eyes around ;
Then drawing in her breath aloud,
Like one that shudder’d, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast:
Her silken robe, and inner vest,
Dropt to her feet, and full in view,
Behold ! her bosom and half her side—
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her ! shield sweet Christabel!
Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs :
Ah ! what a stricken look was hers !
J 68﻿COLERIDGE
Deep from within she seems half-way
To lift some weight with sick assay,
And eyes the maid and seeks delay ;
Then suddenly, as one defied,
Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the maiden’s side !—
And in her arms the maid she took,
Ah wel-a-day !
And with low voice and doleful look
These words did say :
“ In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is the lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow ;
But vainly thou warrest,
For this is alone in
Thy power to declare,
That in the dim forest
Thou heard’st a low moaning,
And found’st a bright lady, surpassingly fair :
And didst bring her home with thee, in love and in
charity,
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.”
THE CONCLUSION TO PART I.
It was a lovely sight to see
The lady Christabel, when she
Was praying at the old oak tree.
Amid the jagged shadows
Of mossy leafless boughs,
Kneeling in the moonlight,
To make her gentle vows ;
Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
169﻿FOUR POETS
Her face resign’d to bliss or bale—
Pier face, oh call it fair, not pale,
And both blue eyes, more bright than clear,
Each about to have a tear.
With open eyes (ah woe is me !)
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis,
Dreaming that alone, which is—
O sorrow and shame ! Can this be she
The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
And lo ! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild,
As a mother with her child.
A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine ! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady’s prison.
O Geraldine ! one hour was thine—
Thou’st had thy will! By tairn and rill,
The night-birds all that hour were still.
But now they are jubilant anew,
From cliff and tower, tu-whoo ! tu-whoo !
Tu-whoo ! tu-whoo ! from wood and fell!
And, see ! the lady Christabel
Gathers herself from out her trance ;
Her limbs relax, her countenance
Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids
Close o’er her eyes ; and tears she sheds—
Large tears, that leave the lashes bright !
And oft the while she seems to smile
As infants at a sudden light!
170﻿COLERIDGE
Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep
Like a youthful hermitess,
Beauteous in a wilderness,
Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
And, if she move unquietly,
Perchance, ’tis but the blood so free,
Comes back and tingles in her feet.
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
What if her guardian spirit ’twere ?
What if she knew her mother near ?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call :
For the blue sky bends over all!
PART II.
Each matin bell,” the Baron saith,
Knells us back to a world of death.”
These words Sir Leoline first said,
When he rose and found his lady dead :
These words .Sir Leoline will say
Many a morn to his dying day !
And hence the custom and law began,
That still at dawn the sacristan,
Who duly pulls the heavy bell,
Five and forty beads must tell
Between each stroke—a warning knell,
Which not a soul can choose but hear
From Bratha Head to Windermere.
Saith Bracy the Bard, “So let it knell !
And let the drowsy sacristan
Still count as slowly as he can !
There is no lack of such, I ween,
As well fill up the space between.”
171﻿FOUR POETS
In Langdale Pike and Witch’s Lair,
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,
With ropes of rock and bells of air
Three sinful sextons’ ghosts are pent,
Who all give back, one after t’other,
The death-note to their living brother ;
And oft too, by the knell offended,
Just as their one ! two ! three ! is ended,
The devil mocks the doleful tale
With a merry peal from Borrowdale.
The air is still! through mist and cloud
That merry peal comes ringing loud ;
And Geraldine shakes off her dread,
And rises lightly from the bed ;
Puts on her silken vestments white,
And tricks her hair in lovely plight,
And, nothing doubting of her spell,
Awakens the lady Christabel.
‘ Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel ?
I trust that you have rested well.”
And Christabel awoke and spied
The same who lay down by her side—
O rather say, the same whom she
Raised up beneath the old oak tree !
Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair !
For she belike hath drunken deep
Of all the blessedness of sleep !
And while she spake, her looks, her air,
Such gentle thankfulness declare,
That (so it seem’d) her girded vests
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts.
‘ Sure I have sinn’d ! ” said Christabel,
‘ Now heaven be praised if all be well ! ”
172﻿COLERIDGE
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,
Did she the lofty lady greet,
With such perplexity of mind
As dreams too lively leave behind.
So quickly she rose, and quickly array’d
Her maiden limbs, and having pray’d
That He, who on the cross did groan,
Might wash away her sins unknown,
She forthwith led fair Geraldine
To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.
The lovely maid and the lady tall
Are pacing both into the hall,
And pacing on through page and groom
Enter the Baron’s presence-room.
The Baron rose, and while he prest
His gentle daughter to his breast,
With cheerful wonder in his eyes
The lady Geraldine espies,
And gave such welcome to the same,
As might beseem so bright a dame.
But when he heard the lady’s tale,
And when she told her father’s name,
Why wax’d Sir Leoline so pale,
Murmuring o’er the name again,
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ?
Alas ! they had been friends in youth ;
But whispering tongues can poison truth
And constancy lives in realms above ;
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ;
And to be wroth with one we love
173﻿FOUR POETS
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart’s best brother :
They parted—ne’er to meet again !
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining—
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ;
A dreary sea now flows between ;—
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.
Sir Leoline, a moment’s space,
Stood gazing on the damsel’s face :
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine
Came back upon his heart again.
0	then the Baron forgot his age,
His noble heart swell’d high with rage ;
He swore by the wounds in Jesu’s side,
He would proclaim it far and wide,
With trump and solemn heraldry,
That they who thus had wrong’d the dame,
Were base as spotted infamy !
And if they dare deny the same,
My herald shall appoint a week,
And let the recreant traitors seek
My tourney court—that there and then
1	may dislodge their reptile souls
From the bodies and forms of men ! ”
He spake : his eye in lightning rolls !
For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and he kenn’d
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend.
174﻿COLERIDGE
And now the tears were on his face,
And fondly in his arms he took
Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace,
Prolonging it with joyous look.
Which when she view’d, a vision fell
Upon the soul of Christabel,
The vision of fear, the touch and pain !
She shrunk and shudder’d, and saw again
(Ah ! woe is me ! -Was it for thee,
Thou gentle maid ! such sights to see ?)
Again she saw that bosom old,
Again she felt that bosom cold,
And drew in her breath with a hissing sound
Whereat the Knight turn’d wildly round,
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid
With eyes upraised, as one that pray’d.
The touch, the sight, had pass’d away,
And in its stead that vision blest,
Which comforted her after-rest,
While in the lady’s arms she lay,
Had put a rapture in her breast,
And on her lips and o’er her eyes
Spread smiles like light !
With new surprise
What ails then my beloved child? ”
The Baron said—His daughter mild
Made answer, “ All will yet be well ! ”
I ween, she had no power to tell
Aught else : so mighty was the spell.
Yet he, who saw this Geraldine,
Had deem’d her sure a thing divine,
Such sorrow with such grace she blended,
As if she fear’d she had offended
175﻿FOUR POETS
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid !
And with such lowly tones she pray’d,
She might be sent without delay
Home to her father’s mansion.
“ Nay !
Nay, by my soul ! ” said Leoline.
“ Ho ! Bracy, the bard, the charge be thine !
Go thou, with music sweet and loud,
And take two steeds with trappings proud,
And take the youth whom thou lov’st best
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song,
And clothe you both in solemn vest,
And over the mountains haste along,
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,
Detain you on the valley road.
And when he has cross’d the Irthing flood,
My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes,
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood,
And reaches soon that castle good
Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes.
“ Bard Bracy ! bard Bracy ! your horses are fleet,
Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet,
More loud than your horses’ echoing feet !
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call,
‘ Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall !
Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free—
Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me.
He bids thee come without delay,
With all thy numerous array ;
And take thy lovely daughter home :
And he will meet thee on the way
With all his numerous array,
White with their panting palfreys’ foam : ’
And, by mine honour ! I will say,
That I repent me of the day
176﻿COLERIDGE
When I spake words of fierce disdain
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine !
For since that evil hour hath flown,
Many a summer’s sun hath shone ;
Yet ne’er found I a friend again
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.”
The lady fell, and clasp'd his knees,
Her face upraised, her eyes o’erflowing ;
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,
His gracious hail on all bestowing !—
Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,
Are sweeter than my harp can tell ;
Yet might I gain a boon of thee,
This day my journey may not be,
So strange a dream hath come to me ;
That I had vow’d with music loud
To clear yon wood from thing unblest,
Warn’d by a vision in my rest !
For in my sleep I saw that dove,
That gentle bird, whom thou dost love,
And call’st by thy own daughter’s name—
Sir Leoline ! I saw the same
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan,
Among the green herbs in the forest alone.
Which when I saw and when I heard,
I wonder’d what might ail the bird ;
For nothing near it could I see,
Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old
tree.
‘ And in my dream me thought I went
To search out what might there be found ;
And what the sweet bird’s trouble meant
That thus lay fluttering on the ground.
I went and peer’d, and could descry
No cause for her distressful cry ;
177
N﻿FOUR POETS
But yet for her dear lady’s sake
I stoop’d, methought, the dove to take,
When lo ! I saw a bright green snake
Coil’d around its wings and neck.
Green as the herbs on which it couch’d,
Close by the dove’s its head it crouch’d ;
And with the dove it heaves and stirs,
Swelling its neck as she swell’d hers !
I woke ; it was the midnight hour,
The clock was echoing in the tower ;
But though my slumber was gone by,
This dream it would not pass away—
It seems to live upon my eye !
And thence I vow’d this self-same day,
With music strong and saintly song,
To wander through the forest bare,
Lest aught unholy loiter there.”
Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while,
Half-listening heard him with a smile ;
Then turn’d to Lady Geraldine,
His eyes made up of wonder and love ;
And said in courtly accents fine,
“Sweet maid, Lord Roland’s beauteous dove,
With arms more strong than harp or song,
Thy sire and I will crush the snake ! ”
He kiss’d her forehead as he spake,
And Geraldine, in maiden wise,
Casting down her large bright eyes,
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine
She turn’d her from Sir Leoline ;
Softly gathering up her train,
That o’er her right arm fell again ;
And folded her arms across her chest,
And crouch’d her head upon her breast,
173﻿COLERIDGE
And look’d askance at Christabel—
Jesu Maria, shield her well!
A snake’s small eye blinks dull and shy,
And the lady’s eyes they shrunk in her head,
Each shrunk up to a serpent’s eye,
xVnd with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,
At Christabel she look’d askance !—
One moment—and the sight was fled !
But Christabel in dizzy trance
Stumbling on the unsteady ground,
Shudder’d aloud, with a hissing sound ;
And Geraldine again turn’d round,
And like a thing that sought relief,
Full of wonder and full of grief,
She roll’d her large bright eyes divine
Wildly on Sir Leoline.
The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone,
She nothing sees—no sight but one !
The maid, devoid of guile and sin,
I know not how, in fearful wise,
So deeply had she drunken in
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
That all her features were resign’d
To this sole image in her mind ;
And passively did imitate
That look of dull and treacherous hate.
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,
Still picturing that look askance,
With forced unconscious sympathy,
Full before her father’s view—
As far as such a look could be,
In eyes so innocent and blue !
And, when the trance was o’er, the maid
Paused awhile, and inly pray’d:
179﻿FOUR POETS
Then falling at the Baron’s feet,
By my mother’s soul do I entreat
That thou this woman send away ! ”
She said : and more she could not say :
For what she knew she could not tell,
O’er-master’d by the mighty spell.
Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,
Sir Leoline? Thy only child
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride,
So fair, so innocent, so mild ;
The same, for whom thy lady died !
O by the pangs of her dear mother
Think thou no evil of thy child !
For her, and thee, and for no other,
She pray’d the moment ere she died :
Pray’d that the babe for whom she died,
Might prove her dear lord’s joy and pride !
That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,
Sir Leoline !
And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,
Her child and thine?
Within the Baron’s heart and brain
If thoughts like these had any share,
They only swell’d his rage and pain,
And did but work confusion there.
His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quiver’d, his eyes were wild,
Dishonour’d thus in his old age ;
Dishonour’d by his only child,
And all his hospitality
To the wrong’d daughter of his friend
By more than woman’s jealousy
Brought thus to a disgraceful end—
lie roll’d his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
I So﻿COLERIDGE
And said in tones abrupt, austere—
“ Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here?
I bade thee hence ! ” The bard obey’d ;
And turning from his own sweet maid,
The aged knight, Sir Leoline,
Led forth the lady Geraldine !
THE CONCLUSION TO PART II.
A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds, and never seeks,
Makes such a vision to the sight
As fills a father’s eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last
Must needs express his love’s excess
With words of unmeant bitterness.
Perhaps ’tis pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm.
Perhaps ’tis tender too and pretty
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.
And what, if in a world of sin
(O sorrow and shame should this be true !)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it’s most used to do.
1S1﻿FOUR POETS
VI.
LOVE.
Quas humilis tenero stylus olim efl'udit in sevo,
Perlegis hie Iacrymas, et quod pharetratus acuta
IIle puer puero fecit mihi cuspide vulnus.
Omnia paulatim consumit longior setas,
Vivendoque simid morimur, rapimurque manendo.
Ipse mihi collatus enim non ille videbor:
Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis imago,
Voxque aliud sonat—
Pectore nunc gelido calidos miseremur amantes,
Jamque arsisse pudet. Veteres tranquilla tumultus
Mens horret, relegensque alium putat ista locutum.”
Petrarch.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o’er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruin’d tower.
The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve ;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve !
She lean’d against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight ;
She stood and listen’d to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve !
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.
182﻿COLERIDGE
I play’d a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story—
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.
She listen’d with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace ;
For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand ;
And that for ten long years he woo’d
The Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined ; and ah !
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another’s love,
Interpreted my own.
She listen’d with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace ;
And she forgave me that I gazed
Too fondly on her face !
But when I told the cruel scorn,
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
•And that he cross’d the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night ;
That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,—
There came and look’d him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight !
183﻿FOUR POETS
And that, unknowing what he did,
lie leap’d amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land ;—
And how she wept, and clasp’d his knees
And how she tended him in vain ;
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain ;—
And that she nursed him in a cave ;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest leaves
A dying man he lay ;—
His dying words—but when I reach’d
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturb’d her soul with pity !
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrill’d my guileless Genevieve ;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve ;
And hopes, and feai's that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes, long subdued,
Subdued and cherish’d long !
She wept with pity and delight,
She blush’d with love, and virgin shame ;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved—she stepp’d aside ;
As conscious of my look she stept;
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She lied to me and wept.
184﻿COLERIDGE
She half enclosed me with her arms,
She press’d me with a meek embrace ;
And bending back her head, look’d up,
And gazed upon my face.
’Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly ’twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.
I calm’d her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride ;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.
■o
VII.
DEJECTION.
AN ODE.
“ Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon,
With the old moon in her arms ;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear !
We shall have a deadly storm.”
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.
I.
Well ! if the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy hakes,
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this Eolian lute,
Which belter far were mute.
185﻿FOUR POETS
For lo ! the new moon, winter-bright !
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o’erspread,
But rimm’d and circled by a silver thread !)
I see the old moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming on of rain and squally blast.
And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast !
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they
awed,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live !
II.
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion’d grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear,—
0	Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo’d,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
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 bedimm’d, but always seen ;
Yon crescent moon, as fix’d as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ;
1	see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel how beautiful they are !
186﻿COLERIDGE
iii.
My genial spirits fail ;
And what can these avail,
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavour,
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 allow’d
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth,
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
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
What this strong music in the soul may be !
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful, and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous Lady ! joy that ne’er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,﻿FOUR POETS
Life, and Life’s effluence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,
A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud ;
Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud ;—
We in ourselves rejoice !
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.
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, seem’d mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth :
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth,
But oh ! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can ;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man ;—
This was my sole resource, my only plan :
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
VII.
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
188﻿COLERIDGE
Of agony by torture lengthen’d out
That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that ravest without,
Bare crag, 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 !
Thou mighty Poet, e’en to frenzy bold !
What tell’st thou now about ?
’Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,
With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds:—
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold !
But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence !
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings,—all is over !
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud !
A tale of less affright,
And temper’d with delight,
As Otway’s self had framed the tender lay ;—
’Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way :
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.
VIII.
Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep :
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep !
Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth ;
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watch’d the sleeping Earth !
189﻿FOUR POETS
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes ;
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice :
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,—
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
---o----
V III.
KUBLA KHAN : OR, A VISION IN A
DREAM.
I
A FRAGMENT.
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 anod}rne had been prescribed, from the effect
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 : ” “Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be
built, and a 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 that
indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up
before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent
expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort. On
awaking he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the
whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly
wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he
was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock,
and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room,
found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he
still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport
of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered
lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on
the surface of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas !
without the after restoration of the latter :
I90﻿COLERIDGE
“ Then all the charm
Is broken,—all that phantom-world so fair
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile,
Poor youth ! who scarcely dar st lift up thine eyes :—
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon
The visions will return ! And lo ! he stays,
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
The pool becomes a mirror.”
Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the author has
frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been originally, as
it were, given to him. Aupioy <xSior acroa : but the to-morrow is yet
to come.
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. —1816.
KUBLA KHAN.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girded round :
All there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossom’d many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
191﻿FOUR POETS
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail :
And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reach’d the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she play’d,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And nil should cry, Beware ! Beware !
Ilis flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a cirele round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
192﻿COLERIDGE
IX.
SONG.
FROM “ REMORSE.”
Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell,
Lest a blacker charm compel !
So shall the midnight breezes swell
With thy deep long-lingering knell.
And at evening evermore,
In a chapel on the shore,
Shall the chaunter, sad and saintly,
Yellow tapers burning faintly,
Doleful masses chaunt for thee,
Miserere, Domine!
Hark ! the cadence dies away
On the quiet moonlight sea :
The boatmen rest their oars and say,
Miserere, Domine !

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X.
NAMES.
I ask’d my fair one happy day,
What I should call her in my lay ;
By what sweet name from Rome or Greece ;
Lai age, Neeera, Chloris,
Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris,
Arethusa or Lucrece.
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O﻿FOUR POETS
“ All! ”replied my gentle fair,
“Beloved, what are names but air?
Choose thou whatever suits the line ;
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris,
Call me Lalage or Doris,
Only, only call me thine.”
O
XI.
YOUTH AND AGE.
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee,—
Both were mine ! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young !
When I was young ?—Ah. woful when !
Ah ! for the change ’twixt Now and Then !
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flash'd along :—
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide !
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in’t together.
Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ;
Friendship is a sheltering tree ;
O ! the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old !
194﻿COLERIDGE
Ere I was old ? Ah woful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth’s no longer here !
0	Youth ! for years so many and sweet,
’Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
I’ll think it but a fond conceit,—
It cannot be, that Thou art gone !
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll’d :—
And thou wert aye a masker bold !
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe, that Thou art gone ?
1	see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this alter’d size :
But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! '
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve !
Where no hope is, life’s a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old :
That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist;
Yet hath outstay’d his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.
---o--
XII.
“WHAT AN EPIGRAM IS.”
What is an Epigram? a dwarfish whole,—
Its body brevity, and wit its soul.
195﻿﻿©belles﻿﻿I.
HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY.
The awful shadow of some unseen Power
Floats tho’ unseen amongst us,—visiting
This various world with as inconstant wing
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower,—
Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower,
It visits with inconstant glance
Each human heart and countenance ;
Like hues and harmonies of evening,—
Like clouds in starlight widely spread,—
Like memory of music fled,—
Like aught that for its grace may be
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.
Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate
With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon
Of human thought or form,—where art thou gone ?
Why dost thou pass away and leave our state,
This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate ?
Ask why the sunlight not for ever
Weaves rainbows o’er yon mountain river,
Why aught should fail and fade that once is shewn,
Why fear and dream and death and birth
Cast on the davlight of this earth
Such gloom,—why man has such a scope
For love and hate, despondency and hope?
No voice from some sublimer world hath ever
To sage or poet these responses given—
Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Ileaven,
Remain the records of their vain endeavour,
Frail spells—whose uttered charm might not avail to sever,
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From all we hear and all we see,
Doubt, chance, and mutability.
Thy light alone—like mist o’er mountains driven,
Ox music by the night wind sent,
Thro’ strings of some still instrument,
Or moonlight on a midnight stream,
Gives grace and truth to life’s unquiet dream.
Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds depart
And come, for some uncertain moments lent.
Man were immortal, and omnipotent,
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art,
Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his heart.
Thou messenger of sympathies,
That wax and wane in lovers’ eyes—
Thou—that to human thought art nourishment,
Like darkness to a dying flame !
Depart not as thy shadow came,
Depart not—lest the grave should be,
Like life and fear, a dark reality.
While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped
Thro’ many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.
I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed,
I was not heard—I saw them not—
When musing deeply on the lot
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing
All vital things that wake to bring
News of birds and blossoming,—
Sudden, thy shadow fell on me ;
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy !
I vowed that I would dedicate my powers
To thee and thine—have I not kept the vow?
With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours
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Each from his voiceless grave : they have in visioned
bowers
Of studious zeal or love’s delight
Out watched with me the envious night—
They know that never joy illumed my brow
Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free
This world from its dark slavery,
That thou—O awful Loveliness,
Wouldst give whate’er these words cannot express.
The day becomes more solemn and serene
When noon is past—there is a harmony
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky,
Which thro’ the summer is not heard or seen,
As if it could not be, as if it had not been !
Thus let thy power, which like the truth
Of nature on my passive youth
Descended, to my onward life supply
Its calm—to one who worships thee,
And every form containing thee,
Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind
To fear himself, and love all human kind.
i S16.
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II.
ALASTOR.
“ Nondam amabam, et amare amabam, quaerebam quid amarem,
anians amarer.”—Confess. St. Augustine.
The poem entitled “ Alastor ” may be considered as allegorical of
one of the most interesting situations of the human mind. It repre-
sents a youth of uncorrupted feelings and adventurous genius, led
forth, by an imagination inflamed and purified through familiarity
with all that is excellent and majestic, to the contemplation of the
universe. He drinks deep of the fountains of knowledge, and is still
insatiate. The magnificence and beauty of the external world sinks
201﻿FOUR POETS
profoundly into the frame of his conceptions, and affords to their
modifications a variety not to be exhausted. So long as it is possible
for his desires to point towards objects thus infinite and unmeasured,
he is joyous and tranquil and self-possessed. But the period arrives
when these objects cease to suffice. His mind is at length suddenly
awakened, and thirsts for intercourse with an intelligence similar to
itself. He images to himself the Being whom he loves. Conversant
with speculations of thesublimest and most perfect natures, the vision
in which he embodies his own imaginations unites all of wonderful or
wise or beautiful which the poet, the philosopher, or the lover, could
depicture. The intellectual faculties, the imagination, the functions
of sense, have their respective requisitions on the sympathy of corre-
sponding powers in other human beings. The’Poet is represented as
uniting these requisitions, and attaching them to a single image. He
seeks in vain for a prototype of his conception. Blasted by his dis-
appointment, he descends to an untimely grave.
The picture is not barren of instruction to actual men. The Poet’s
self-centred seclusion was avenged by the Furies of an irresistible
passion pursuing him to speedy ruin. But that power which strikes
the luminaries of the world with sudden darkness and extinction, by
awakening them to too exquisite a perception of its influences, dooms
to a slow and poisonous decay those meaner spirits that dare to abjure
its dominion. Their destiny is more abject and inglorious, as their
delinquency is more contemptible and pernicious. They who, deluded
by no generous error, instigated by no sacred thirst of doubtful know-
ledge, duped by no illustrious superstition, loving nothing on this
earth, and cherishing no hopes beyond, yet keep aloof from sympa-
thies with their kind, rejoicing neither in human joy nor mourning
with human grief; these, and such as they, have their apportioned
curse. They languish, because none feel with them their common
nature. They are morally dead. They are neither friends, nor
lovers, nor fathers, nor citizens of the world, nor benefactors of their
country. Among those who attempt to exist without human sympathy,
the pure and tender-hearted perish, through the intensity and passion
of their search after its communities when the vacancy of their spirit
suddenly makes itself felt. All else, selfish, blind, and torpid, are
those unforeseeing multitudes who constitute, together with their
own, the lasting misery and loneliness of the world. Those who love
not their fellow-beings live unfruitful lives, and prepare for their old
age a miserable grave.
“ The good die first,
And those whose hearts are dry as summer-dust,
Burn to the socket ! ”
Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood !
If our great Mother lias imbued my soul
202﻿SHELLEY
With aught of natural piety to feel
Your love, and recompense the boon with mine ;
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even,
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers,
And solemn midnight’s tingling silentness ;
If autumn’s hollow sighs in the sere wood,
And winter robing with pure snow and crowns
Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs ;
If spring’s voluptuous pantings when she breathes
Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me ;
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast
I consciously have injured, but still loved
And cherished these my kindred ; then forgive
This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw
No portion of your wonted favour now !
Mother of this unfathomable world !
Favour my solemn song, for I have loved
Thee ever, and thee only ; I have watched
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps,
And my heart ever gazes on the depth
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed
In charnels and on coffins, where black death
Keeps record of the trophies won from thee,
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost
Thy messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours,
When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness,
I .ike an inspired and desperate alchymist
Staking his very life on some dark hope,
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks
With my most innocent love, until strange tears
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made
Such magic as compels the charmed night
To render up thy charge : . . . and, though ne’er yet
203﻿FOUR POETS
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,
Enough from incommunicable dream,
And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought,
lias shone within me, that serenely now
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some mysterious and deserted fane,
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain
May modulate with murmurs of the air,
And motions of the forests and the sea,
And voice of living beings, and woven hymns
Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.
There was a Poet whose untimely tomb
No human hands with pious reverence reared,
But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds
Built o’er his mouldering bones a pyramid
Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness :—
A lovely youth,—no mourning maiden decked
With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath,
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep :—
Gentle, and brave, and generous, no lorn bard
Breathed o’er his dark fate one melodious sigh :
He lived, he died, he sung, in solitude.
Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes,
And virgins, as unknown he passed, have pined
And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes.
The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn,
And Silence, too enamoured of that voice,
Locks its mute music in her rugged cell.
By solemn vision, and bright silver dream,
11 is infancy was nurtured. Every sight
And sound from the vast earth and ambient air,
Sent to his heart its choicest impulses.
204﻿SHELLEY
The fountains of divine philosophy
Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of great,
Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past
In truth or fable consecrates, he felt
And knew. When early youth had past, he left
His cold fireside and alienated home
To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands.
Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness
Has lured his fearless steps ; and he has bought
With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men,
Ilis rest and food. Nature’s most secret steps
He like her shadow has pursued, where’er
The red volcano overcanopies
Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice
With burning smoke, or where bitumen lakes
On black bare pointed islets ever beat
With sluggish surge, or where the secret caves
Rugged and dark, winding among the springs
Of fire and poison, inaccessible
To avarice or pride, their starry domes
Of diamond and of gold expand above
Numberless and immeasurable halls,
Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines
Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysolite.
Nor had that scene of ampler majesty
Than gems or gold, the varying roof of heaven
And the green earth lost in his heart its claims
To love and wonder; he would linger long
In lonesome vales, making the wuld his home,
Until the doves and squirrels would partake
From his innocuous hand his bloodless food,
Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks,
And the wild antelope, that starts whene’er
The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend
Fler timid steps to gaze upon a form
More graceful than her own.
205﻿FOUR POETS
His wandering step
Obedient to high thoughts, has visited
The awful ruins of the days of old :
Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the waste
Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers
Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids,
Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe’er of strange
Sculptured on alabaster obelisk,
Or jasper tomb, or mutilated sphinx,
Dark ^Ethiopia in her desert hills
Conceals. Among the ruined temples there,
Stupendous columns, and wild images
Of more than man, where marble daemons watch
The Zodiac’s brazen mystery, and dead men
Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls around,
He lingered, poring on memorials
Of the world’s youth, through the long burning day
Gazed on those speechless shapes, nor, when the moon
Filled the mysterious halls with floating shades
Suspended he that task, but ever gazed
And gazed, till meaning on his vacant mind
Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw
The thrilling secrets of the birth of time.
Meanwhile an Arab maiden brought his food,
Her daily portion, from her father’s tent,
And spread her matting for his couch, and stole
From duties and repose to tend his steps :—
Enamoured, yet not daring for deep awe
To speak her love :—and watched his nightly sleep,
Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips
Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath
Of innocent dreams arose : then, when red morn
Made paler the pale moon, to her cold home
Wildered, and wan, and panting, she returned.
The Poet wandering on, through Arabie
206﻿SHELLEY
And Persia, and the wild Carmanian waste,
And o’er the aerial mountains which pour down
Indus and Oxus from their icy caves,
In joy and exultation held his way ;
Till in the vale of Cashmire, far within
Its-loneliest dell, where odorous plants entwine
Beneath the hollow rocks a natural bower,
Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched
His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep
There came, a dream of hopes that never yet
Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a veiled maid
Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones.
Her voice was like the voice of his own soul
Heard in the calm of thought; its music long,
Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, held
His inmost sense suspended in its web
Of many-coloured woof and shifting hues.
Knowledge and truth and virtue were her theme,
And lofty hopes of divine liberty,
Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy,
Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood
Of her pure mind kindled through all her frame
A permeating fire : wild numbers then
She raised, with voice stifled in tremulous sobs
Subdued by its own pathos : her fair hands
Were bare alone, sweeping from some strange harp
Strange symphony, and in their branching veins
The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale.
The beating of her heart was heard to fill
The pauses of her music, and her breath
Tumultuously accorded with those fits
Of intermitted song. Sudden she rose,
As if her heart impatiently endured
Its bursting burthen : at the sound he turned
And saw by the warm light of their own life
Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous veil
207﻿FOUR POETS
Of woven wind, her outspread arms now bare,
Her dark locks floating in the breath of night,
Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips
Outstretched, and pale, and quivering eagerly.
His strong heart sunk and sickened with excess
Of love. He reared his shuddering limbs and quelled
His gasping breath, and spread his arms to meet
Her panting bosom : . . . she drew back awhile,
Then, yielding to the irresistible joy,
With frantic gesture and short breathless cry
Folded his frame in her dissolving arms.
Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and night
Involved and swallowed up the vision ; sleep,
Like a dark flood suspended in its course,
Rolled back its impulse on his vacant brain.
Roused by the shock he started from his trance—
The cold white light of morning, the blue moon
Low in the west, the clear and garish hills,
The distinct valley and the vacant woods,
Spread round him where he stood. Whither have fled
The hues of heaven that canopied his bower
Of yesternight ! The sounds that soothed his sleep,
The mystery and the majesty of Earth,
The joy, the exultation? His wan eyes
Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly
As ocean’s moon looks on the moon in heaven.
The spirit of sweet human love has sent
A vision to the sleep of him who spurned
Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues
Beyond the realms of dream that fleeting shade ;
lie overleaps the bound. Alas ! alas !
Were limbs, and breath, and being intertwined
Thus treacherously? Lost, lost, for ever lost,
In the wide pathless desert of dim sleep,
That beautiful shape ! Does the dark gate of death
20S﻿SHELLEY
Conduct to thy mysterious paradise,
O Sleep ? Does the bright arch of rainbow clouds,
And pendent mountains seen in the calm lake,
Lead only to a black and watery depth,
While death’s blue vault, with loathliest vapours hung,
Where every shade which the foul grave exhales
Hides its dead eye from the detested day,
Conduct, O Sleep, to thy delightful realms ?
This doubt with sudden tide flowed on his heart,
The insatiate hope which it awakened, stung
His brain even like despair.
While daylight held
The sky, the Poet kept mute conference
With his still soul. At night the passion came,
Like the fierce fiend of a distempered dream,
And shook him from his rest, and led him forth
Into the darkness.—As an eagle grasped
In folds of the green serpent, feels her breast
Burn with the poison, and precipitates
Through night and day, tempest, and calm, and cloud,
Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind flight
O’er the wide aery wilderness : thus driven
By the bright shadow of that lovely dream,
Beneath the cold glare of the desolate night,
Through tangled swamps and deep precipitous dells,
Startling with careless step the moon-light snake,
He fled. Red morning dawned upon his flight,
Shedding the mockery of its vital hues
Upon his cheek of death. He wandered on
Till vast Aornos seen from Petra’s steep
Hung o’er the low horizon like a cloud ;
Through Balk, and where the desolated tombs
Of Parthian kings scatter to every wind
Their wasting dust, wildly he wandered on,
Day after day, a weary waste of hours,
209
P﻿FOUR POETS
Bearing within his life the brooding care
That ever fed on its decaying flame.
And now his limbs were lean ; his scattered hair
Sered by the autumn of strange suffering
Sung dirges in the wind ; his listless hand
Hung like dead bone within its withered skin ;
Life, and the lustre that consumed it, shone
As in a furnace burning secretly
From his dark eyes alone. The cottagers,
Who ministered with human charity
His human wants, beheld with wondering awe
Their fleeting visitant. The mountaineer,
Encountering on some dizzy precipice
That spectral form, deemed that the Spirit of wind
With lightning eyes, and eager breath, and feet
Disturbing not the drifted snow, had paused
In its career : the infant would conceal
His troubled visage in his mother’s robe
In terror at the glare of those wild eyes,
To remember their strange light in many a dream
Of after-times ; but youthful maidens, taught
By nature, would interpret half the woe
That wasted him, would call him with false names,
Brother, and friend, would press his pallid hand
At parting, and watch, dim through tears, the path
Of his departure from their father’s door.
At length upon the lone Chorasmian shore
He paused, a wide and melancholy waste
Of putrid marshes. A strong impulse urged
His steps to the sea-shore. A swan was there,
Beside a sluggish stream among the reeds.
It rose as he approached, and with strong wings
Scaling the upward sky, bent its bright course
High over the immeasurable main.
His eyes pursued its flight.—“ Thou hast a home,
210﻿SHELLEY
Beautiful bird ; thou voyagest to thine home,
Where thy sweet mate will twine her downy neck
With thine, and welcome thy return with eyes
Bright in the lustre of their own fond joy.
And what am I that I should linger here,
With voice far sweeter than thy dying notes,
Spirit more vast than thine, frame more attuned
To beauty, wasting these surpassing powers
In the deaf air, to the blind earth, and heaven
That echoes not my thoughts?” A gloomy smile
Of desperate hope wrinkled his quivering lips.
For sleep, he knew, kept most relentlessly
Its precious charge, and silent death exposed,
Faithless perhaps as sleep, a shadowy lure,
With doubtful smile mocking its own strange charms.
Startled by his own thoughts he looked around.
There was no fair fiend near him, not a sight
Or sound of awe but in his own deep mind.
A little shallop floating near the shore
Caught the impatient wandering of his gaze.
It had been long abandoned, for its sides
Gaped wide with many a rift, and its frail joints
Swayed with the undulations of the tide.
A restless impulse urged him to embark
And meet lone Death on the drear ocean’s waste ;
For well he knew that mighty Shadow loves
The slimy caverns of the populous deep.
The day was fair and sunny, sea and sky
Drank its inspiring radiance, and the wind
Swept strongly from the shore blackening the waves.
Following his eager soul, the wanderer
Leaped in the boat, he spread his cloak aloft
On the bare mast, and took his lonely seat,
And felt the boat speed o’er the tranquil sea
Like a torn cloud before the hurricane.
211﻿FOUR POETS
As one that in a silver vision floats
Obedient to the sweep of odorous winds
Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly
Along the dark and ruffled waters fled
The straining boat.—A whirlwind swept it on,
With fierce gusts and precipitating force,
Through the white ridges of the chafed sea.
The waves arose. Higher and higher still
Their fierce necks writhed beneath the tempest’s scourge
Like serpents struggling in a vulture’s grasp.
Calm and rejoicing in the fearful war
Of wave running on wave, and blast on blast
Descending, and black flood on whirlpool driven
With dark obliterating course, he sate :
As if their genii were the ministers
Appointed to conduct him to the light
Of those beloved eyes, the Poet sate
Holding the steady helm. Evening came on,
The beams of sunset hung their rainbow hues
High ’mid the shifting domes of sheeted spray
That canopied his path o’er the waste deep ;
Twilight, ascending slowly from the east,
Entwined in duskier wreaths her braided locks
O’er the fair front and radiant eyes of day;
Night followed, clad with stars. On every side
More horribly the multitudinous streams
Of ocean’s mountainous waste to mutual war
Rushed in dark tumult thundering, as to mock -
The calm and spangled sky. The little boat
Still fled before the storm ; still fled, like foam
Down the steep cataract of a wintry river ;
Now pausing on the edge of the riven wave ;
Now leaving far behind the bursting mass
That fell, convulsing ocean : safely fled—
As if that frail and wasted human form,
Had been an elemental god.
212﻿SHELLEY
At midnight
The moon arose : and lo ! the ethereal cliffs
Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone
Among the stars like sunlight, and around
Whose caverned base the whirlpools and the waves
Bursting and eddying irresistibly
Rage and resound for ever.—Who shall save ?—
The boat fled on,—the boiling torrent drove,
The crags closed round with black and jagged arms,
The shattered mountain overhung the sea,
And faster still, beyond all human speed,
Suspended on the sweep of the smooth wave,
The little boat was driven. A cavern there
Yawned, and amid its slant and winding depths
Ingulphed the rushing sea. The boat fled on
With unrelaxing speed. — “ Vision and Love ! ”
The Poet cried aloud, “ I have beheld
The path of thy departure. Sleep and death
Shall not divide us long ! ”
The boat pursued
The windings of the cavern. Day-light shone
At length upon that gloomy river’s flow ;
Now, where the fiercest war among the waves
Is calm, on the unfathomable stream
The boat moved slowly. Where the mountain, riven,
Exposed those black depths to the azure sky,
Ere yet the flood’s enormous volume fell
Even to the base of Caucasus, with sound
That shook the everlasting rocks, the mass
Filled with one whirlpool all that ample chasm ;
Stair above stair the eddying waters rose,
Circling immeasurably fast, and laved
With alternating dash the gnarled roots
Of mighty trees, that stretched their giant arms
In darkness over it. T the midst was left,
213﻿FOUR POETS
Reflecting, yet distorting every cloud,
A pool of treacherous and tremendous calm.
Seized by the sway of the ascending stream,
With dizzy swiftness, round, and round, and round,
Ridge after ridge the straining boat arose,
Till on the verge of the extremest curve,
Where, through an opening of the rocky bank,
The waters overflow, and a smooth spot
Of glassy quiet mid those battling tides
Is left, the boat paused shuddering.—Shall it sink
Down the abyss ?—Shall the reverting stress
Of that resistless gulf embosom it ?
Now shall it fall?—A wandering stream of wind,
Breathed from the west, has caught the expanded sail,
And, lo ! with gentle motion, between banks
Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream,
Beneath a woven grove it sails, and, hark !
The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar,
With the breeze murmuring in the musical woods.
Where the embowering trees recede, and leave
A little space of green expanse, the cove
Is closed by meeting banks, whose yellow flowers
For ever gaze on their own drooping eyes,
Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave
Of the boat’s motion marred their pensive task,
Which nought but vagrant bird, or wanton wind,
Or falling spear-grass, or their own decay
Had e'er disturbed before. The Poet longed
To deck with their bright hues his withered hair,
But on his heart its solitude returned,
And he forbore. Not the strong impulse hid
In those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and shadowy frame
Had yet performed its ministry : it hung
Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud
Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the floods
Of night close over it.
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The noonday sun
Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass
Of mingling shade, whose brown magnificence
A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves,
Scooped in the dark base of their aery rocks
Mocking its moans, respond and roar for ever.
The meeting boughs and implicated leaves
Wove twilight o’er the Poet’s path, as led
By love, or dream, or god, or mightier Death,
He sought in Nature’s dearest haunt, some bank
Her cradle, and his sepulchre. More dark
And dark the shades accumulate. The oak,
Expanding its immense and knotty arms,
Embraces the light beech. The pyramids
Of the tall cedar overarching, frame
Most solemn domes within, and far below,
Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky,
The ash and the acacia floating hang
Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents, clothed
In rainbow and in fire, the parasites,
Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around
The gray trunks, and, as gamesome infants’ eyes,
With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles,
Fold their beams round the hearts of those that love,
These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs
Uniting their close union ; the woven leaves
Make net-work of the dark blue light of day,
And the night’s noontide clearness, mutable
As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns
Beneath these canopies extend their swells,
Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms
Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen
Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with jasmine
A soul-dissolving odour, to invite
To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell,
Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep
215﻿FOUR POETS
Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades,
Like vaporous shapes half-seen ; beyond, a well,
Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave,
Images all the woven boughs above,
And each depending leaf, and every speck
Of azure sky, darting between their chasms ;
Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves
Its portraiture, but some inconstant star
Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair,
Or, painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon,
Or gorgeous insect floating motionless,
Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings
Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon.
Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld
Their own wTan light through the reflected lines
Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth
Of that still fountain ; as the human heart,
Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave,
Sees its own treacherous likeness there. He heard
The motion of the leaves, the grass that sprung
Startled and glanced and trembled even to feel
An unaccustomed presence, and the sound
Of the sweet brook that from the secret springs
Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit seemed
To stand beside him—clothed in no bright robes
Of shadowy silver or enshrining light,
Borrowed from aught the visible world affords
Of grace, or majesty, or mystery ;—
But, undulating woods, and silent well,
And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom
Now deepening the dark shades, for speech assumin
Held commune with him, as if he and it
Were all that was,—only . . . when his regard
Was raised by intense pensiveness, . . . two eyes,
Two starry eyes hung in the gloom of thought,
216﻿SHELLEY
And seemed with their serene and azure smiles
To beckon him.
Obedient to the light
That shone within his soul, he went, pursuing
The windings of the dell.—The rivulet
Wanton and wild, through many a green ravine
Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it fell
Among the moss with hollow harmony
Dark and profound. Now on the polished stones
It danced ; like childhood laughing as it went:
Then, through the plain in tranquil wanderings crept,
Reflecting every herb and drooping bud
That overhung its quietness.— O stream !
Whose source is inaccessibly profound,
Whither do thy mysterious waters tend ?
Thou imagest my life. Thy darksome stillness,
Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulfs,
Thy searchless fountain, and invisible course
Have each their type in me : and the wide sky,
And measureless ocean may declare as soon
What oozy cavern or what wandering cloud
Contains thy waters, as the universe
Tell where these living thoughts reside, when stretched
Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall waste
I’ the passing wind ! ”
Beside the grassy shore
Of the small stream he went; he did impress
On the green moss his tremulous step, that caught
Strong shuddering from his burning limbs. As one
Roused by some joyous madness from the couch
Of fever, he did move ; yet, not like him,
Forgetful of the grave, where, when the flame
Of his frail exultation shall be spent,
He must descend. With rapid steps he went
Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow
217﻿FOUR POETS
Of the wild babbling rivulet; and now
The forest’s solemn canopies were changed
For the uniform and lightsome evening sky.
Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, and stemmed
The struggling brook : tall spires of windlestrae
Threw their thin shadows down the rugged slope,
And nought but gnarled roots of ancient pines
Branchless and blasted, clenched with grasping roots
The unwilling soil. A gradual change was here,
Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow away,
The smooth brow gathers, and the hair grows thin
And white, and where irradiate dewy eyes
Had shone, gleam stony orbs :—so from his steps
Bright dowers departed, and the beautiful shade
Of the green groves, with all their odorous winds
And musical motions. Calm, he still pursued
The stream, that with a larger volume now
Rolled through the labyrinthine dell; and there
Fretted a path through its descending curves
With its wintry speed. On every side now rose
Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms,
Lifted their black and barren pinnacles
In the light of evening, and its precipice
Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above,
’Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and yawning caves,
Whose windings gave ten thousand various tongues
To the loud stream. Lo ! where the pass expands
Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks,
And seems, with its accumulated crags,
To overhang the world : for wide expand
Beneath the wan stars and descending moon
Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams,
Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous gloom
Of leaden-coloured even, and fiery hills
Mingling their flames with twilight, on the verge
Of the remote horizon. The near scene,
218﻿SHELLEY
In naked and severe simplicity,
Made contrast with the universe. A pine,
Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the vacancy
Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast
Yielding one only response, at each pause
In most familiar cadence, with the howl
The thunder and the hiss of homeless streams
Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad river,
Foaming and hurrying o’er its rugged path,
Fell into that immeasurable void
Scattering its waters to the passing winds.
Yet the gray precipice and solemn pine
And torrent, were not all ; one silent nook
Was there. Even on the edge of that vast mountain
Upheld by knotty roots and fallen rocks,
It overlooked in its serenity
The dark earth, and the bending vault of stars.
It was a tranquil spot, that seemed to smile
Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped
The fissured stones with its entwining arms,
And did embower with leaves for ever green,
And berries dark, the smooth and even space
Of its inviolated floor, and here
The children of the autumnal whirlwind bore,
In wanton sport, those bright leaves, whose decay,
Red, yellow, or ethereally pale,
Rivals the pride of summer. ’Tis the haunt
Of every gentle wind, whose breath can teach
The wilds to love tranquillity. One step,
One human step alone, has ever broken
The stillness of its solitude :—one voice
Alone inspired its echoes ;—even that voice
Which hither came, floating among the winds,
And led the loveliest among human forms
To make their wild haunts the depository
219﻿FOUR POETS
Of all the grace and beauty that endued
Its motions, render up its majesty,
Scatter its music on the unfeeling storm,
And to the damp leaves and blue cavern mould,
Nurses of rainbow flowers and branching moss,
Commit the colours of that varying cheek,
That snowy breast, those dark and drooping eyes.
The dim and horned moon hung low, and poured
A sea of lustre on the horizon’s verge
That overflowed its mountains. Yellow mist
Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and drank
Wan moonlight even to fulness : not a star
Shone, not a sound was heard ; the very winds,
Danger’s grim playmates, on that precipice
Slept, clasped in his embrace.—O, storm of death !
Whose sightless speed divides this sullen night:
And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still
Guiding its irresistible career
In thy devastating omnipotence,
Art king of this frail world, from the red field
Of slaughter, from the reeking hospital,
The patriot’s sacred couch, the snowy bed
Of innocence, the scaffold and the throne,
A mighty voice invokes thee. Ruin calls
His brother Death. A rare and regal prey
He hath prepared, prowling around the world ;
Glutted with which thou mayst repose, and men
Go to their graves like flowers or creeping worms,
Nor ever more offer at thy dark shrine
The unheeded tribute of a broken heart.
When on the threshold of the green recess
The wanderer’s footsteps fell, he knew that death
Was on him. Yet a little, ere it fled,
Did he resign his high and holy soul
220﻿SHELLEY
To images of the majestic past,
That paused within his passive being now,
Like winds that bear sweet music, when they breathe
Through some dim latticed chamber. lie did place
H is pale lean hand upon the rugged trunk
Of the old pine. Upon an ivied stone
Reclined his languid head, his limbs did rest
Diffused and motionless, on the smooth brink
Of that obscurest chasm ;—and thus he lay,
Surrendering to their final impulses
The hovering powers of life. Hope and despair,
The torturers, slept; no mortal pain or fear
Marred his repose, the influxes of sense,
And his own being unalloyed by pain,
Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fed
The stream of thought, till he lay breathing there
At peace, and faintly smiling :—his last sight
Was the great moon, which o’er the western line
Of the wide world her mighty horn suspended,
With whose dun beams inwoven darkness seemed
To mingle. Now upon the jagged hills
It rests, and still as the divided frame
Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet’s blood,
That ever beat in mystic sympathy
With nature’s ebb and flow, grew feebler still :
And when two lessening points of light alone
Gleamed through the darkness, the alternate gasp
Of his faint respiration scarce did stir
The stagnate night:—till the minutest ray
Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in his heart.
It paused—it fluttered. But when heaven remained
Utterly black, the murky shades involved
An image, silent, cold, and motionless,
As their own voiceless earth and vacant air.
Even as a vapour fed with golden beams
That ministered on sunlight, ere the west
221﻿FOUR POETS
Eclipses it, was now that wondrous frame—
No sense, no motion, no divinity—
A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings
The breath of heaven did wander—a bright stream
Once fed with many-voiced waves—a dream
Of youth, which night and time have quenched for ever,
Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered now.
O, for Medea’s wondrous alchemy,
Which wheresoe’er it fell made the earth gleam
With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs exhale
From vernal blooms fresh fragrance ! O, that God,
Profuse of poisons, would concede the chalice
Which but one living man has drained, who now,
Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels
No proud exemption in the blighting curse
He bears, over the world wanders for ever,
Lone as incarnate death ! O, that the dream
Of dark magician in his visioned cave,
Raking the cinders of a crucible
For life and power, even when his feeble hand
Shakes in its last decay, were the true law
Of this so lovely world ! But thou art fled
Like some frail exhalation ; which the dawn
Robes in its golden beams,—ah ! thou hast fled !
The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful,
The child of grace and genius. Heartless things
Are done and said i’ the world, and many worms
And beasts and men live on, and mighty Earth
From sea and mountain, city and wilderness,
In vesper low or joyous orison,
Lifts still its solemn voice :—but thou art fled—
Thou canst no longer know or love the shapes
Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee
Been purest ministers, who are, alas!
Now thou art not. Upon those pallid lips
222﻿SHELLEY
So sweet even in their silence, on those eyes
That image sleep in death, upon that form
Yet safe from the worm’s outrage, let no tear
Be shed—not even in thought. Nor, when those hues
Are gone, and those divinest lineaments,
Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone
In the frail pauses of this simple strain,
Let not high verse, mourning the memory
Of that which is no more, or painting’s woe
Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery
Their own cold powers. Art and eloquence,
And all the shows o’ the world are frail and vain
To weep a loss that turns their lights to shade.
It is a woe too “ deep for tears,” when all
Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit,
Whose light adorned the world around it, leaves
Those who remain behind, not sobs or groans,
The passionate tumult of a clinging hope :
But pale despair and cold tranquillity,
Nature’s vast frame, the web of human things,
Birth and the grave, that are not as they were.
1815.
o
III.
THE TWO SPIRITS.
Jin JUUgorj).
First Spirit.
O thou, who plumed with strong desire
Wouklst float above the earth, beware !
A Shadow tracks thy flight of fire—
Night is coming!
223﻿FOUR POETS
Bright are the regions of the air,
And among the winds and beams
Tt were delight to wander there—
Night is coming !
Second Spirit.
The deathless stars are bright above ;
If I would cross the shade of night,
Within my heart is the lamp of love,
And that is day !
And the moon will smile with gentle light
On my golden plumes where’er they move;
The meteors will linger round my flight,
And make night day.
First Spirit.
But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken
Hail, and lightning, and stormy rain ;
See, the bounds of the air are shaken—
Night is coming !
The red swift clouds of the hurricane
Yon declining sun have overtaken,
The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain—•
Night is coining !
Second Spirit.
I see the light, and I hear the sound ;
I’ll sail on the flood of the tempest dark,
With the calm within and the light around
Which makes night day':
And thou, when the gloom is deep and stark,
Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound,
My moon-like flight thou then may’st mark
On high, far away.
224﻿SHELLEY
Some say there is a precipice
Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin
O’er piles of snow and chasms of ice
’Mid Alpine mountains ;
And that the languid storm pursuing
That winged shape, for ever flies
Round those hoar branches, aye renewing
Its aery fountains.
. Some say when nights are dry and clear,
And the death-dews sleep on the morass,
Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller,
Which make night day :
And a silver shape like his early love doth pass
Upborne by her wild and glittering hair,
And when he awakes on the fragrant grass,
He finds night day.
1820.
---o----
IV.
TO WORDSWORTH.
Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return ;
Childhood and youth, friendship and love’s first glow,
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine
Which thou too feel’st, yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter’s midnight roar :
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude :
In honoured poverty thy voice did weave
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty,—
Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve,
Tims having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.
225	1815*﻿FOUR POETS
v.
THE MASK OF ANARCHY.
WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF THE MASSACRE
AT MANCHESTER.
As I lay asleep in Italy
There came a voice from over the Sea,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.
I met Murder on the way—
He had a mask like Castlereagh—
Very smooth he looked, yet grim ;
Seven blood-hounds followed him :
All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.
Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Lord E., an ermined gown ;
Plis big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.
And the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by them.
Clothed with the Bible, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by.
226﻿SHELLEY
And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.
Last came Anarchy : he rode
On a white horse, splashed with blood ;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.
And he wore a kingly crown ;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone ;
On his brow this mark I saw —
I am God, and King, and Law !
With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he past,
Trampling to a mire of blood
The adoring multitude.
And a mighty troop around,
With their trampling shook the ground
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord.
And with glorious triumph, they
Rode thro’ England proud and gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of desolation.
O’er fields and towns, from sea to sea,
Past the Pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down ;
Till they came to London town.
And each dweller, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror sicken
Hearing the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy.
227﻿FOUR POETS
For with pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
The hired murderers, who did sing
‘ Thou art God, and Law, and King.
‘We have waited, weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One !
Our purses are empty, our swords are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.”
Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed ;
Like a bad prayer not over loud,
Whispering—“ Thou art Law and God.”—
Then all cried with one accord,
‘ Thou art King, and God, and Lord ;
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now ! ”
And Anarchy, the Skeleton,
Bowed and grinned to every one,
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.
For he knew the Palaces
Of our Kings were nightly his ;
Plis the sceptre, crown, and globe,
And the gold-inwoven robe.
So he sent his slaves before
To seize upon the Bank and Tower,
And was proceeding with intent
To meet his pensioned Parliament
When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was Hope, she said :
But she looked more like Despair,
And she cried out in the air :
228﻿SHELLEY
‘ My father Time is weak and gray
With waiting for a better clay ;
See how idiot-like he stands,
Fumbling with his palsied hands !
‘ He has had child after child,
And the dust of death is piled
Over every one but me—
Misery, oh, Misery ! ”
Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses’ feet,
Expecting, with a patient eye,
Murder, Fraud and Anarchy.
When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose,
Small at first, and weak, and frail
Like the vapour of a vale :
Till as clouds grow on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in thunder to the sky,
It grew—a Shape arrayed in mail
Brighter than the viper’s scale,
And upborne on wings whose grain
Was as the light of sunny rain.
On its helm, seen far away,
A planet, like the Morning’s, lay;
And those plumes its light rained thro’
Like a shower of crimson dew.
With step as soft as wind it past
O’er the heads of men—so fast
That they knew the presence there,
And looked,—and all was empty air.
229﻿FOUR POETS
As flowers beneath May’s footstep waken,
As stars from Night’s loose hair are shaken,
As waves arise when loud winds call,
Thoughts sprung where’er that step did fall.
And the prostrate multitude
Looked—and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien :
And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,
Lay dead earth upon the earth ;
The Horse of Death tameless as wind
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust, the murderers thronged behind.
A rushing light of clouds and splendour,
A sense awakening and yet tender
Was heard and felt—and at its close
These words of joy and fear arose
As if their own indignant Earth
Which gave the sons of England birth
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And shuddering with a mother's throe
Had turned every drop of blood
By which her face had been bedewed
To an accent unwithstood,—
As if her heart had cried aloud :
“ Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother.
Hopes of her, and one another ;
230﻿SHELLEY
“ Rise like Lions after slumber
In u nvan qu i shable nu m ber—
Shake your chains to earth like clew
Which in sleep had fallen on you—
Ye are many—they are few.”
1S19
---O---
VI.
OZYMANDIAS.
I MET a traveller from an antique land
Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed
And on the pedestal these words appear :
u My name is Ozymandias, king of kings :
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair ! ”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
1817
---o---
VII.
LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE
EUGANEAN HILLS.
Many a green isle needs must be
In the deep wide sea of misery,
Or the mariner, worn and wan,
Never thus could voyage on﻿FOUR POETS
Day and night, and night and day,
Drifting on his dreary way,
With the solid darkness black
Closing round his vessel’s track ;
Whilst above the sunless sky,
Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
And behind the tempest fleet
Hurries on with lightning feet,
Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
Till the ship has almost drank
Death from the o’er-brimming deep ;
And sinks down, down, like that sleep
When the dreamer seems to be
Weltering through eternity;
And the dim low line before
Of a dark and distant shore
Still recedes, as ever still
Longing with divided will,
But no power to seek or shun,
He is ever drifted on
O’er the unreposing wave
To the haven of the grave.
What, if there no friends will greet;
What, if there no heart will meet
His with love’s impatient beat;
Wander wheresoe’er he may,
Can he dream before that day
To find refuge from distress
In friendship’s smile, in love’s caress?
Then ’twill wreak him little woe
Whether such there be or no :
Senseless is the breast, and cold,
Which relenting love would fold ;
Bloodless are the veins and chill
Which the pulse of pain did fill ;
Every little living nerve﻿SHELLEY
That from bitter words did swerve
Round the tortured lips and brow,
Are like sapless leaflets now
Frozen upon December’s bough.
On the beach of a northern sea
Which tempests shake eternally,
As once the wretch there lay to sleep,
Lies a solitary heap,
One white skull and seven dry bones,
On the margin of the stones,
Where a few gray rushes stand,
Boundaries of the sea and land :
Nor is heard one voice of wail
But the sea-mews, as they sail
O’er the billows of the gale ;
Or the whirlwind up and down
Howling, like a slaughtered town,
When a king in glory rides
Through the pomp of fratricides :
Those unburied bones around
There is many a mournful sound ;
There is no lament for him,
Like a sunless vapour, dim,
Who once clothed with life and thought
What now moves nor murmurs not.
Aye, many flowering islands lie
In the waters of wide Agony :
To such a one this morn was led,
My bark by soft winds piloted :
’Mid the mountains Euganean
I stood listening to the prean,
With which the legioned rooks did hail
The sun’s uprise majestical;
Gathering round with wings all hoar,﻿FOUR POETS
Thro’ the dewy mist they soar
Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven
Bursts, and then, as clouds of even,
Flecked with fire and azure, lie
In the unfathomable sky,
So their plumes of purple grain,
Starred with drops of golden rain,
Gleam above the sunlight woods,
As in silent multitudes
On the morning’s fitful gale
Thro’ the broken mist they sail,
And the vapours cloven and gleaming
Follow down the dark steep streaming,
Till all is bright, and clear, and still.
Round the solitary hill.
Beneath is spread like a green sea
The waveless plain of Lombardy,
Bounded by the vaporous air,
Islanded by cities fair ;
Underneath day's azure eyes
Ocean’s nursling, Venice lies,
A peopled labyrinth of walls,
Amphitrite’s destined halls,
Which her hoary sire now paves
With his blue and beaming waves.
Lo ! the sun upsprings behind,
Broad, red, radiant, half reclined
On the level quivering line
Of the waters crystalline ;
And before that chasm of light,
As within a furnace bright,
Column, tower, and dome, and spire,
Shine like obelisks of fire,
Pointing with inconstant motion
From the altar of dark ocean
234﻿SHELLEY
To the sapphire-tinted skies ;
As the flames of sacrifice
From the marble shrines did rise,
As to pierce the dome of gold
Where Apollo spoke of old.
Sun-girt City, thou hast been
Ocean’s child, and then his queen ;
Now is come a darker day,
And thou soon must be his prey,
If the power that raised thee here
Llallow so thy watery bier.
A less drear ruin then than now,
With thy conquest-branded brow
Stooping to the slave of slaves
From thy throne, among the waves
Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew
Flies, as once before it flew,
O’er thine isles depopulate,
And all is in its ancient state,
Save where many a palace gate
With green sea-flowers overgrown
Like a rock of ocean’s own,
Topples o’er the abandoned sea
As the tides change sullenly.
The fisher on his watery way,
Wandering at the close of day,
Will spread his sail and seize his oar
Till he pass the gloomy shore,
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep
Bursting o’er the starlight deep,
Lead a rapid masque of death
O’er the waters of his path.
Those who alone thy towers behold
Quivering through, aerial gold,
235﻿FOUR POETS
As I now behold them here,
Would imagine not they were
Sepulchres, where human forms,
Like pollution-nourished worms
To the corpse of greatness cling,
Murdered, and now mouldering :
But if Freedom should awake
In her omnipotence, and shake
From the Celtic Anarch’s hold
All the keys of dungeons cold,
Where a hundred cities lie
Chained like thee, ingloriously,
Thou and all thy sister band
Might adorn this sunny land,
Twining memories of old time
With new virtues more sublime ;
If not, perish thou and they,
Clouds which stain truth’s rising day
By her sun consumed away,
Earth can spare ye : while like flowers
In the waste of years and hours,
From your dust new nations spring
With more kindly blossoming.
Perish ! let there only be
Floating o’er thy hearthless sea,
As the garment of thy sky
Clothes the world immortally,
One remembrance, more sublime
Than the tattered pall of Time,
Which scarce hides th)' visage wan ;—•
That a tempest-cleaving swan
Of the songs of Albion,
Driven from his ancestral streams
By the might of evil dreams,
Found a nest in thee ; and Ocean
Welcomed him with such emotion
236﻿SHELLEY
lliat its joy grew his, and sprung
From his lips like music flung
O’er a mighty thunder-fit
Chastening terror :—what though yet
Poesy’s unfailing river,
Which thro’ Albion winds for ever
Lashing with melodious wave
Many a sacred Poet’s grave,
Mourn its latest nursling fled !
What though thou with all thy dead
Scarce can for this fame repay
Aught thine own,—oh, rather say
Though thy sins and slaveries foul
Overcloud a sunlike soul !
As the ghost of Homer clings
Round Scamander’s wasting springs ;
As divinest Shakespeare’s might
Fills Avon and the world with light
Like omniscient power, which he
Imaged ’mid mortality ;
As the love from Petrarch’s urn,
Yet amid yon hills doth burn,
A quenchless lamp, by which the heart
Sees things unearthly ; so thou art,
Mighty spirit; so shall be
The City that did refuge thee.
Lo, the sun floats up the sky
Like thought-winged Liberty,
Till the universal light
Seems to level plain and height ;
From the sea a mist has spread,
And the beams of morn lie dead
On the towers of Venice now,
Like its glory long ago.
By the skirts of that gray cloud
237﻿FOUR POETS
Many-domed Padua proud
Stands, a peopled solitude,
’Mid the harvest shining plain,
Where the peasant heaps his grain
In the garner of his foe,
And the milk-white oxen slow
With the purple vintage strain,
Heaped upon the creaking wain,
That the brutal Celt may swill
Drunken sleep with savage will ;
And the sickle to the sword
Lies unchanged, though many a lord,
Like a weed whose shade is poison,
Overgrows this region’s foison,
Sheaves of whom are ripe to come
To destruction’s harvest home :
Men must reap the things they sow,
Force from force must ever flow,
Or worse ; but ’tis a bitter woe
That love or reason cannot change
The despot’s rage, the slave’s revenge.
Padua, thou within those walls
Those mute guests at festivals,
Son and Mother, Death and Sin,
Played at dice for Ezzelin,
Till Death cried, “ I win, I win ! ”
And Sin cursed to lose the wager,
But Death promised, to assuage her,
That he would petition for
Pier to be made Vice-Emperor,
When the destined years were o’er,
Over all between the Po
And the eastern Alpine snow,
Under the mighty Austrian.
Sin smiled so as Sin only can,﻿SHELLEY
And since that time, aye, long before,
Both have ruled from shore to shore,
That incestuous pair, who follow
Tyrants as the sun the swallow,
As Repentance follows Crime,
And as changes follow Time.
In thine halls the lamp of learning
Padua, now no more is burning ;
Like a meteor, whose wild way
Is lost over the grave of day,
It gleams betrayed and to betray :
Once remotest nations came
To adore that sacred flame,
When it lit not many a hearth
On this cold and gloomy earth :
Now new fires from anticpie light
Spring beneath the wide world’s might
But their spark lies dead in thee,
Trampled out by tyranny.
As the Norway woodman quells,
In the depth of piny dells,
One light flame among the brakes,
While the boundless forest shakes,
And its mighty trunks are torn
By the fire thus lowly born :
The spark beneath his feet is dead,
He starts to see the flames it fed
Howling through the darkened sky
With a myriad tongues victoriously,
And sinks down in fear : so thou,
O tyranny, beholdest now
Light around thee, and thou hearest
The loud flames ascend, and fearest:
Grovel on the earth : aye, hide
In the dust thy purple pride !
239﻿FOUR POETS
Noon descends around me now :
’Tis the noon of autumn’s glow,
When a soft and purple mist
Like a vaporous amethyst,
Or an air dissolved star
Mingling light and fragrance, far
From the curved horizon’s bound
To the point of heaven’s profound,
Fills the overflowing sky ;
And the plains that silent lie
Underneath, the leaves unsodden
Where the infant frost has trodden
With his morning-winged feet,
Whose bright print is gleaming yet ;
And the red and golden vines,
Tiercing with their trellised lines
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ;
The dun and bladed grass no less,
Pointing from this hoary tower
In the windless air ; the flower
Glimmering at my feet; the line
Of the olive-sandalled Apennine
In the south dimly islanded ;
And the Alps, whose snows are spread
High between the clouds and sun ;
And of living things each one ;
And my spirit which so long
Darkened this swift stream of song,
Interpenetrated lie
By the glory of the sky :
Be it love, light, harmony,
Odour, or the soul of all
Which from heaven like dew doth fall,
Or the mind which feeds this verse
Peopling the lone universe.
240﻿SHELLEY
Noon descends, and after noon
Autumn’s evening meets me soon
Leading the infantine moon,
And that one star, which to her
Almost seems to minister
Half the crimson light she brings
From the sunset’s radiant springs :
And the soft dreams of the morn,
(Which like winged winds had borne
To that silent isle, which lies
’Mid remembered agonies,
The frail bark of this lone being,)
Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
And its ancient pilot, Pain,
Sits beside the helm again.
Other flowering isles must be
In the sea of life and agony :
Other spirits float and flee
O’er that gulf: even now, perhaps,
On some rock the wild wave wraps,
With folded wings they waiting sit
For my bark, to pilot it
To some calm and blooming cove,
Where for me, and those I love,
May a windless bower be built,
Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
In a dell ’mid lawny hills,
Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
And soft sunshine, and the sound
Of old forests echoing round,
And the light and smell divine
Of all flowers that breathe and shine :
We may live so happy there,
That the spirits of the air,
Envying us, may even entice
241	R﻿FOUR POETS
To our healing paradise
The polluting multitude ;
But their rage would be subdued
By that clime divine and calm,
And the winds whose wings rain balm
On the uplifted soul, and leaves
Under which the bright sea heaves ;
While each breathless interval
In their whisperings musical
The inspired soul supplies
With its own deep melodies,
And the love which heals all strife
Circling, like the breath of life,
All things in that sweet abode
With its own mild brotherhood :
They, not it, would change ; and soon
Every sprite beneath the moon
Would repent its envy vain,
And the earth grow young again.
October 1S1S.
VIII.
STANZAS
WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES.
The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent might,
The breath of the moist earth is light,
Around its unexpanded buds ;
Like many a voice of one delight,
The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,
The City’s voice itself is soft like Solitude’s.
242﻿SHELLEY
I see the Deep’s untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown ;
I see the waves upon the shore,
Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown :
I sit upon the sands alone,
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet ! did any heart now share in my emotion.
Alas ! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,
And walked with inward glory crowned—
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surround—
Smiling they live and call life pleasure ;—
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are ;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony,
Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan ;
They might lament—for I am one
243﻿FOUR POETS
Whom men love not,—and yet regret,
Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.
181S.
o
IX.
TO A SKYLARK.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit !
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O’er which clouds are brightning,
Thou dost float and run ;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight ;
Like a star of heaven,
In the broad day-light
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
244﻿SHELLEY
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is
overflowed.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee ?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not :
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower :
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from
the view :
245﻿FOUR POETS
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged
thieves:
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass :
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine :
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus Hymeneal,
Or triumphal chaunt,
Matched with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain ?
What fields, or waves, or mountains ?
What shapes of sky or plain ?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be :
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee :
Thou lovest; but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.
246﻿SHELLEY
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not :
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught ;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear ;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground !
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
1S20.
O
247﻿FOUR POETS
x.
THE CLOUD.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams ;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning my pilot sits,
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits ;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains ;
And 1 all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
24S﻿SHELLEY
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead,
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer ;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun’s throne with a burning zone,
And the moon’s with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanos are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
249﻿FOUR POETS
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow ;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
1S20.
XI.
HYMN OF PAN.
From the forests and highlands
We come, we come ;
From the river-girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb
Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
250﻿SHELLEY
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Trnolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion’s shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the daedal Earth,
And of Heaven—and the giant wars,
And Love, and Death, and Birth,—
And then I changed my pipings,
Singing how down the vale of Menalus
I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed :
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus !
It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed :
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood,
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
1820.
O
251﻿FOUR POETS
XII.
ARETHUSA.
Arethusa arose
From her couch of snows
In the Acroceraunian mountains,—
From cloud and from crag,
With many a jag,
Shepherding her bright fountains.
She leapt down the rocks,
With her rainbow locks
Streaming among the streams ;—
Her steps paved with green
The downward ravine
Which slopes to the western gleams :
And gliding and springing
She went, ever singing,
In murmurs as soft as sleep ;
The Earth seemed to love her,
And Heaven smiled above her,
As she lingered towards the deep.
Then Alpheus bold,
On his glacier cold,
With his trident the mountains strook
And opened a chasm
In the rocks;—with the spasm
All Erymanthus shook.
And the black south wind
It concealed behind
The urns of the silent snow,
And earthquake and thunder
Did rend in sunder
The bars of the springs below :﻿SHELLEY
1 lie beard and the hair
Of the River-god were
Seen through the torrent’s sweep,
As he followed the light
o
Of the fleet nymph’s flight
To the brink of the Dorian deep.
“ Oh, save me ! Oh, guide me!
And bid the deep hide me,
For he grasps me now by the hair! ”
The loud Ocean heard,
To its blue depth stirred,
And divided at her prayer ;
And under the water
The Earth’s white daughter
Fled like a sunny beam ;
Behind her descended
Her billows, unblended
With the brackish Dorian stream :—
Like a gloomy stain
On the emerald main
Alpheus rushed behind,—
As an eagle pursuing
A dove to its ruin
Down the streams of the cloudy wind.
Under the bowers
Where the Ocean Powers
Sit on their pearled thrones,
Through the coral woods
Of the weltering floods,
Over heaps of unvalued stones ;
Through the dim beams
Which amid the streams
253﻿FOUR POETS
Weave a network of coloured light;
And under the caves,
Where the shadowy waves
Are as green as the forest’s night:—
Outspeeding the shark,
And the sword-fish dark,
Under the ocean foam,
And up through the rifts
Of the mountain clifts
They pass to their Dorian home.
And now from their fountains
In Enna’s mountains,
Down one vale where the morning basks,
Like friends once parted
Grown single-hearted,
They ply their watery tasks.
At sunrise they leap
From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill;
At noon-tide they flow
Through the woods below
And the meadows of Asphodel;
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore ;—
Like spirits that lie
In the azure sky
When they love but live no more.
1S20.
O
254﻿SHELLEY
XIII.
THE BOAT ON THE SERCHIO.
Our boat is asleep on Serchio’s stream,
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream,
The helm sways idly, hither and thither ;
Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast
And the oars and the sails ; but ’tis sleeping fast,
Like a beast, unconscious of its tether.
The stars burnt out in the pale blue air,
And the thin white moon lay withering there,
To tower, and cavern, and rift and tree,
The owl and the bat fled drowsily.
Day had kindled the dewy woods,
And the rocks above and the stream below,
And the vapours in their multitudes,
And the Apennine’s shroud of summer snow,
And clothed with light of aery gold
The mists in their eastern caves uprolled.
Day had awakened all things that be,
The lark and the thrush and the swallow free,
And the milkmaid’s song and the mower’s scythe,
And the matin-bell and the mountain bee :
Fire-flies were quenched on the dewy corn,
Glow-worms went out on the river’s brim,
Like lamps which a student forgets to trim :
The beetle forgot to wind his horn,
The crickets were still in the meadow and hill:
Like a flock of rooks at a farmer’s gun
Night’s dreams and terrors, every one,
Fled from the brains which are their prey
From the lamp’s death to the morning ray.
255﻿FOUR POETS
All rose to do the task He set to each,
Who shaped us to his ends and not our own ;
The million rose to learn, and one to teach
What none yet ever knew or can be known.
And many rose
Whose woe was such that fear became desire
Melchior and Lionel were not among those;
They from the throng of men had stepped aside,
And made their home under the green hill side.
It was that hill* whose intervening brow
Screens Lucca from the Pisan’s envious eye,
Which the circumfluous plain waving below,
Like a wide lake of green fertility,
With streams and fields and marshes bare,
Divides from the far Apennines—which lie
Islanded in the immeasurable air.
“What think you, as she lies in her green cove,
Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of? ”
“ If morning dreams are true, why I should guess
That she was dreaming of our idleness,
And of the miles of watery way
We should have led her by this time of day.”—
“ Never mind,” said Lionel,
“Give care to the winds, they can bear it well
About yon poplar tops ; and see
The white clouds are driving merrily,
And the stars we miss this morn will light
More willingly our return to-night.—
List, my dear fellow; the breeze blows fair :
How it scatters Dominic’s long black hair !
Hear how it sings into the air.”
• • • • •
The chain is loosed, the sails are spread,
The living breath is fresh behind,
As with dews and sunrise fed,
Comes the laughing morning wind ;—
256﻿SHELLEY
The sails are full, the boat makes head
Against the Serchio’s torrent fierce,
Then flags with intermitting course,
And hangs upon the wave,
Which fervid from its mountain source
Shallow, smooth and strong doth come,—
Swift as fire, tempestuously
It sweeps into the affrighted sea ;
In morning’s smile its eddies coil,
Its billows sparkle, toss and boil,
Torturing all its quiet light
Into columns fierce and bright.
The Serchio, twisting forth
Between the marble barriers which it clove
At Ripafratta, leads through the dead chasm
The wave that died the death which lovers love,
Living in what it sought; as if this spasm
Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling,
But the clear stream in full enthusiasm
Tours itself on the plain, then wandering
Down one clear path of effluence crystalline,
Sends its superfluous waves, that they may fling
At Arno’s feet tribute of corn and wine,
Then, through the pestilential deserts wild
Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted pine,
It rushes to the Ocean.
1821.
O
257
s﻿FOUR POETS
xiv.
THE WITCH OF ATLAS.
TO MARY
(ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM UPON
THE SCORE OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN
INTEREST).
IIow, my dear Mary, are you critic-bitten
(For vipers kill, though dead), by some review,
That you condemn these verses I have written,
Because they tell no story, false or true !
What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten,
May it not leap and play as grown cats do,
Till its claws come ? Prithee, for this one time,
Content thee with a visionary rhyme.
What hand would crush the silken-winged fly,
The youngest of inconstant April’s minions,
Because it cannot climb the purest sky,
Where the swan sings, amid the sun’s dominions ?
Not thine. Thou knowest ’tis its doom to die,
When day shall hide within her twilight pinions,
The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile,
Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile.
To thy fair feet a winged Vision came,
Whose date should have been longer than a day,
And o’er thy head did beat its wings for fame,
And in thy sight its fading plumes display ;
The watery bow burned in the evening flame,
But the shower fell, the swift sun went his way—
And that is dead.---O, let me not believe
That any thing of mine is fit to live !
258﻿SHELLEY
Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years
Considering and retouching Peter Bell;
Watering his laurels with the killing tears
Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to hell
Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the spheres
Of heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers ; this well
May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil
The over-busy gardener’s blundering toil.
My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature
As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise
Clothes for our grandsons—but she matches Peter,
Though he took nineteen years, and she three days
In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre
She wears ; he, proud as dandy with his stays,
Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress
Like King Lear’s ‘Hooped and windowed raggedness.'
If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow,
Scorched by Hell’s hyperequatorial climate
Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow :
A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at;
In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello.
If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor primate
Can shrive you of that sin,—if sin there be
In love, when it becomes idolatry.
‘TEhe cilitrlv of JVthts.
Before those cruel Twins, whom at one birth
Incestuous Change bore to her father Time,
Error and Truth, had hunted from the Earth
All those bright natures which adorned its prime,
And left us nothing to believe in, worth
The pains of putting into learned rhyme,
A lady-witch there lived on Atlas’ mountain
Within a cavern, by a secret fountain.
259﻿FOUR POETS
Her mother was one of the Atlantides :
The all-beholding Sun had ne’er beholden
In his wide voyage o’er continents and seas
So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden
In the warm shadow of her loveliness ;—
lie kissed her with his beams, and made all golde
The chamber of gray rock in which she lay—
She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away.
’Tis said, she first was changed into a vapour,
And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit,
Like splendour-winged moths about a taper,
Round the red west when the sun dies in it :
And then into a meteor, such as caper
On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit:
Then, into one of those mysterious stars
Which hide themselves between the Earth and Mars.
Ten times the Mother of the Months had bent
Her bow beside the folding-star, and bidden
With that bright sign the billows to indent
The sea-deserted sand—like children chidden,
At her command they ever came and went—
Since in that cave a dewy splendour hidden
Took shape and motion : with the living form
Of this embodied Power, the cave grew warm.
A lovely lady garmented in light
From her own beauty—deep her eyes, as are
Two openings of unfathomable night
Seen through a tempest’s cloven roof—her hair
Dark—the dim brain whirls dizzy with deli gbt,
Picturing her form ; her soft smiles shone afar,
And her low voice was heard like love, and drew
All living things towards this wonder new.
260﻿SHELLEY
And first the spotted cameleopard came,
And then the wise and fearless elephant ;
Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame
Of his own volumes intervolved ;—all gaunt
And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made tame.
They drank before her at her sacred fount ;
And every beast of beating heart grew bold,
Such gentleness and power even to behold.
The brinded lioness led forth her young,
That she might teach them how they should forego
Their inborn thirst of death ; the pard unstrung
His sinews at her feet, and sought to know
With looks whose motions spoke without a tongue
How he might be as gentle as the doe.
The magic circle of her voice and eyes
All savage natures did imparadise.
And old Silenus, shaking a green stick
Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew
Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick
Cicadce are, drunk with the noonday dew :
And Dryope and Faunus followed quick,
Teasing the God to sing them something new ;
Till in this cave they found the lady lone,
Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone.
And universal Pan, ’tis said, was there,
And though none saw him, through the adamant
Of the deep mountains, through the trackless air,
And through those living spirits, like a want
He passed out of his everlasting lair
Where the quick heart of the great world doth pant,
And felt that wondrous lady all alone,—
And she felt him, upon her emerald throne.
261﻿FOUR POETS
And every nymph of stream and spreading tree,
And every shepherdess of Ocean’s flocks,
Who drives her white waves over the green sea,
And Ocean with the brine on his gray locks,
And quaint Priapus with his company,
All came, much wondering how the enwombed rock
Could have brought forth so beautiful a birth ;—
Iler love subdued their wonder and their mirth.
The herdsmen and the mountain maidens came,
And the rude king of pastoral Garamant—
.Their spirits shook within them, as a flame
Stirred by the air under a cavern gaunt :
Pigmies, and Polyphemes, by many a name,
Centaurs and Satyrs, and such shapes as haunt
Wet clefts,—and lumps neither alive nor dead,
Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed.
For she was beautiful—her beauty made
The bright world dim, and every thing beside
Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade :
No thought of living spirit could abide,
Which to her looks had ever been betrayed,
On any object in the world so wide,
On any hope within the circling skies,
But on her form, and in her inmost eyes.
Which when the lady knew, she took her spindle
And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three
Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle
The clouds and waves and mountains with ; and she
As many star-beams, ere their lamps could dwindle
In the belated moon, wound skilfully ;
And with these threads a subtle veil she wove—
A shadow for the splendour of her love.
262﻿SHELLEY
The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling
Were stored with magic treasures—sounds of air,
Which had the power all spirits of compelling,
Folded in cells of crystal silence there ;
Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling
Will never die—yet ere we are aware,
The feeling and the sound are fled and gone,
And the regret they leave remains alone.
And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and quaint,
Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis,
Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint
Willi the soft burthen of intensest bliss ;
It was their work to bear to many a saint
Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is,
Even Love’s :—and others white, green, gray and black,
And of all shapes—and each was at her beck.
And odours in a kind of aviary
Of ever-blooming Eden trees she kept,
Clipt in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy
Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept ;
As bats at the wired window of a dairy,
They beat their vans ; and each was an adept,
When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds,
To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined minds.
And liquors clear and sweet, whose healthful might
Could medicine the sick soul to happy sleep,
And change eternal death into a night
Of glorious dreams—or if eyes needs must weep,
Could make their tears all wonder and delight,
She in her crystal vials did closely keep :
If men could drink of those clear vials, ’tis said
The living were not envied of the dead.
263﻿FOUR POETS
Her cave was stored with scrolls of strange device,
The works of some Saturnian Archimage,
Which taught the expiations at whose price
Men from the Gods might win that happy age
Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice ;
And which might quench the earth-consuming rage
Of gold and blood—till men should live and move
Harmonious as the sacred stars above.
And how all things that seem untameable,
Not to be checked and not to be confined,
Obey the spells of wisdom’s wizard skill ;
Time, Earth and Fire—the Ocean and the Wind.
And all their shapes—and man’s imperial will ;
And other scrolls whose writings did unbind
The inmost lore of Love—let the profane
Tremble to ask what secrets they contain.
And wondrous works of substances unknown,
To which the enchantment of her father’s power
Had changed those ragged blocks of savage stone,
Were heaped in the recesses of her bower;
Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which shone
In their own golden beams—each like a flower,
Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his light
Under a cypress in a starless night.
At first she lived alone in this wild home,
And her own thoughts were each a minister,
Clothing themselves, or with the ocean foam,
Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire,
To work whatever purposes might come
Into her mind ; such power her mighty Sire
Had girt them with, whether to fly or run,
Through all the regions which he shines upon.
264﻿SHELLEY
The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades,
Oreads and Naiads, with long weedy locks,
Offered to do her bidding through the seas,
Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks,
And far beneath the matted roots of trees,
And in the gnarled heart of stubborn oaks,
So they might live for ever in the light
Of her sweet presence—each a satellite.
“This may not be,” the wizard maid replied :
“The fountains where the Naiades bedew
Their shining hair, at length are drained and dried ;
The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew
Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide ;
The boundless ocean like a drop of dew
Will be consumed—the stubborn centre must
Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust.
“And ye with them will perish, one by one ;—
If I must sigh to think that this shall be,
If I must weep when the surviving Sun
Shall smile on your decay—Oh, ask not me
To love you till your little race is run ;
I cannot die as ye must—over me
Your leaves shall glance—the streams in which ye dwell
Shall be my paths henceforth, and so—farewell! ”
She spoke and wept:—the dark and azure well
Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears,
And every little circlet where they fell
Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres
And intertangled lines of light; a knell
Of sobbing voices came upon her ears
From those departing Forms, o’er the serene
Of the white streams and of the forest green.
265﻿FOUR POETS
All day the wizard lady sate aloof,
Spelling out scrolls of dead antiquity,
Under the cavern’s fountain-lighted roof;
Or broidering the pictured poesy
Of some high tale upon her growing woof,
Which the sweet splendour of her smiles could dy
In hues outshining Heaven—and ever she
Added some grace to the wrought poesy.
While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece
Of sandal wood, rare gums and cinnamon ;
Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is—
Each flame of it is as a precious stone
Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this
Belongs to each and all who gaze upon.
The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand
She held a woof that dimmed the burning brand.
This lady never slept, but lay in trance
All night within the fountain—as in sleep.
Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty’s glance ;
Through the green splendour of the water deep
She saw the constellations reel and dance
Like fire-flies—and withal did ever keep
The tenour of her contemplations calm,
With open eyes, closed feet and folded palm.
And when the whirlwinds and the clouds descended
From the white pinnacles of that cold hill,
She passed at dewfall to a space extended,
Where in a lawn of flowering asphodel
Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended,
There yawned an inextinguishable well
Of crimson fire—full even to the brim,
And overflowing all the margin trim.
266﻿SHELLEY
Within the which she lay when the fierce war
Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor
In many a mimic moon and bearded star
O’er woods and lawns ;—the serpent heard it flicker,
In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar—
And when the windless snow descended thicker
Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it came
Melt on the surface of the level flame.
She had a Boat, which some say Vulcan wrought
For Venus, as the chariot of her star ;
But it was found too feeble to be fraught
With all the ardours in that sphere which are,
And so she sold it, and Apollo bought
And gave it to this daughter: from a car
Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat
Which ever upon mortal stream did float.
And others say, that, when but three hours old,
The first-born Love out of his cradle leapt,
And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold,
And like a horticultural adept,
Stole a strange seed, and wrapt it up in mould,
And sowed it in his mother’s star, and kept
Watering it all the summer with sweet dew,
And with his wings fanning it as it grew.
The plant grew strong and green, the snowy flower
Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit began
To turn the light and dew by inward power
To its own substance : woven tracery ran
Of light firm texture, ribbed and branching, o’er
The solid rind, like a leaf’s veined fan—
Of which Love scooped this boat—and with soft motion
Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean.
267﻿FOUR POETS
This boat she moored upon her fount, and lit
A living spirit within all its frame,
Breathing the soul of swiftness into it.
Couched on the fountain like a panther tame,
One of the twain at Evan’s feet that sit—
Or as on Vesta’s sceptre a swift flame—
Or on blind Homer’s heart a winged thought,—
In joyous expectation lay the boat.
Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow
Together, tempering the repugnant mass
With liquid love—all things together grow
Through which the harmony of love can pass
And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow—
A living Image, which did far surpass
In beauty that bright shape of vital stone
Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion.
A sexless thing it was, and in its growth
It seemed to have developed no defect
Of either sex, yet all the grace of both,—
In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked ;
The bosom lightly swelled with its full youth,
The countenance was such as might select
CD
Some artist that his skill should never die,
Imaging forth such perfect purity.
From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings,
Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere,
Tipt with the speed of liquid lightnings,
Dyed in the ardours of the atmosphere :
She led her creature to the boiling springs
Where the light boat was moored, and said, “ Sit her
And pointed to the prow, and took her seat
Beside the rudder, with opposing feet.
268﻿SHELLEY
And down the streams which clove those mountains vast
Around their inland islets, and amid
The panther-peopled forests, whose shade cast
Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid
In melancholy gloom, the pinnace past;
By many a star-surrounded pyramid
Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky,
And caverns yawning round unfathomably.
The silver noon into that winding dell,
With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops,
Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell:
A green and glowing light, like that which drops
From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell,
When earth over her face night’s mantle wraps ;
Between the severed mountains lay on high
Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky.
And ever as she went, the Image lay
With folded wings and unawakened eyes ;
And o’er its gentle countenance did play
The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies,
Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay,
And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs
Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain,
They had aroused from that full heart and brain.
And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud
Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went:
Now lingering on the pools, in which abode
The calm and darkness of the deep content
In which they paused ; now o’er the shallow road
Of white and dancing waters, all besprent
With sand and polished pebbles :—mortal boat
In such a shallow rapid could not float.﻿FOUR POETS
And down the earthquaking cataracts which shiver
Their snow-like waters into golden air,
Or under chasms unfathomable ever
Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear
A subterranean portal for the river,
It fled—the circling sunbows did upbear
Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray,
Lighting it far upon its lampless way.
And when the wizard lady would ascend
The labyrinths of some many-winding vale,
Which to the inmost mountain upward tend—
She called il Hermaphroditus ! ”—and the pale
And heavy hue which slumber could extend
Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale
A rapid shadow from a slope of grass,
Into the darkness of the stream did pass.
And it unfurled its heaven-coloured pinions,
With stars of Are spotting the stream below ;
And from above into the Sun’s dominions
Flinging a glory, like the golden glow
Into which spring clothes her emerald-winged minions
All interwoven with fine feathery snow
And moonlight splendour of intensest rime,
With which frost paints the pines in winter time.
And then it winnowed the Elysian air
Which ever hung about that lady bright,
With its ethereal vans—and speeding there,
Like a star up the torrent of the night,
Or a swift eagle in the morning glare
Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous flight,
The pinnace, oared by those enchanted wings,
Clove the fierce streams towards their upper springs*
270﻿SHELLEY
I he water flashed like sunlight by the prow
Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to Heaven ;
The still air seemed as if its waves did flow
In tempest down the mountains ; loosely driven
The lady’s radiant hair streamed to and fro:
Beneath, the billows having vainly striven
Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel
The swift and steady motion of the keel.
Or, when the weary moon was in the wane,
Or in the noon of interlunar night,
The lady-witch in visions could not chain
Her spirit; but sailed forth under the light
Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain
Its storm-outspeeding wings, the Hermaphrodite ;
She to the Austral waters took her way,
Beyond the fabulous Thamondocana.
Where, like a meadow which no scythe has shaven,
Which rain could never bend, or whirl-blast shake,
With the Antarctic constellations paven,
Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral lake—
There she would build herself a windless haven
Out of the clouds whose moving turrets make
The bastions of the storm, when through the sky
The spirits of the tempest thundered by.
A haven beneath whose translucent floor
The tremulous stars sparkled unfathomably,
And around which the solid vapours hoar,
Based on the level waters, to the sky
Lifted their dreadful crags, and like a shore
Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly
Hemmed in with rifts and precipices gray,
And hanging crags, many a cove and bay.
271﻿FOUR POETS
And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash
Of the wind’s scourge, foamed like a wounded thin
And the incessant hail with stony clash
Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging wing
Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash
Looked like the wreck of some wind-wandering
Fragment of inky thunder-smoke—this haven
Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven.
On which that lady played her many pranks,
Circling the image of a shooting star,
Even as a tiger on Hydaspes’ banks
Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest are,
In her light boat; and many quips and cranks
She played upon the water, till the car
Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan,
To journey from the misty east began.
And then she called out of the hollow turrets
Of those high clouds, white, golden and vermilion,
The armies of her ministering spirits—
In mighty legions, million after million,
They came, each troop emblazoning its merits
On meteor flags ; and many a proud pavilion
Of the intertexture of the atmosphere
They pitched upon the plain of the calm mere.
They framed the imperial tent of their great Queen
Of woven exhalations, underlaid
With lambent lightning tire, as may be seen
A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid
With crimson silk—cressets from the serene
Hung there, and on the water for her tread
A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn,
Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon.
970﻿SHELLEY
And on a throne o’erlaid with starlight, caught
Upon those wandering isles of aery dew,
Which highest shoals of mountain shipwreck not,
She sate, and heard all that had happened new
Between the earth and moon, since they had brought
The last intelligence—and now she grew
Pale as that moon, lost in the watery night—
And now she wept, and now she laughed outright.
These were tame pleasures ; she would often climb
The steepest ladder of the crudded rack
Up to some beaked cape of cloud sublime,
And like Arion on the dolphin’s back
Ride singing through the shoreless air ;—oft time
Following the serpent lightning’s winding track,
She ran upon the platforms of the wind,
And laughed to hear the fire-balls roar behind.
And sometimes to those streams of upper air
Which whirl the earth in its diurnal round,
She would ascend, and win the spirits there
To let her join their chorus. Mortals found
That on those days the sky was calm and fair,
And mystic snatches of harmonious sound
Wandered upon the earth where’er she past,
And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to last.
But her choice sport was, in the hours of sleep,
To glide adown old Nilus, where he threads
Egypt and ^Ethiopia, from the steep
Of utmost Axume, until he spreads,
Like a calm flock of silver-fleeced sheep,
His waters on the plain : and crested heads
Of cities and proud temples gleam amid,
And many a vapour-belted pyramid.
273
T﻿FOUR POETS
By Moeris and the Mareotid lakes,
Strewn with faint blooms like bridal chamber floors
Where naked boys bridling tame water-snakes,
Or charioteering ghastly alligators,
Ilad left on the sweet waters mighty wakes
Of those huge forms—within the brazen doors
Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and beast,
Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast.
And where within the surface of the river
The shadows of the massy temples lie,
And never are erased—but tremble ever
Like things which every cloud can doom to die,
Through lotus-paven canals, and wheresoever
The works of man pierced that serenest sky
With tombs, and towers, and fanes, ’twas her delight
To wander in the shadow of the night.
With motion like the spirit of that wind
Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light feet
Passed through the peopled haunts of human kind,
Scattering sweet visions from her presence sweet,
Through fane, and palace-court, and labyrinth mined
With many a dark and subterranean street
Under the Nile ; through chambers high and deep
She passed, observing mortals in their sleep.
A pleasure sweet doubtless it Avas to see
Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep.
Here lay two sister twins in infancy ;
There, a lone youth who in his dreams did weep ;
Within, two lovers linked innocently
In their loose locks which over both did creep
Like ivy from one stem";—and there lay calm
Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm.
274﻿SHELLEY
But other troubled forms of sleep she saw,
Not to be mirrored in a holy song —
Distortions foul of supernatural awe,
And pale imaginings of visioned wrong ;
And all the code of custom’s lawless law
Written upon the brows of old and young :
“ This,” said the wizard maiden, “ is the strife
Which stirs the liquid surface of man’s life.”
And little did the sight disturb her soul.—
We, the weak mariners of that wide lake
Where’er its shores extend or billows roll,
Our course unpiloted and starless make
O’er its wild surface to an unknown goal: —
But she in the calm depths her way could take,
Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide
Beneath the weltering of the restless tide.
And she saw princes couched under the glow
Of sunlike gems ; and round each temple-court
In dormitories ranged, row after row,
She saw the priests asleep—all of one sort—
For all were educated to be so.—
The peasants in their huts, and in the port
The sailors she saw cradled on the waves,
And the dead lulled within their dreamless graves.
And all the forms in which those spirits lay
Were to her sight like the diaphanous
Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft array
Their delicate limbs, who would conceal from us
Only their scorn of all concealment: they
Move in the light of their own beauty thus.
Bat these and all now lay with sleep upon them
And little thought a Witch was looking on them.
275﻿FOUR POETS
She, all those human figures breathing there,
Beheld as living spirits—to her eyes
The naked beauty of the soul lay bare,
And often through a rude and worn disguise
She saw the inner form most bright and fair—
And then she had a charm of strange device,
Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone,
Could make that spirit mingle with her own.
Alas ! Aurora, what wouldst thou have given
For such a charm when Tithon became gray?
Or how much, Venus, of thy silver Heaven
Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina
Ilad half (oh ! why not all?) the debt forgiven
Which dear Adonis had been doomed to pay,
To any witch who would have taught you it?
The Heliad doth not know its value yet.
’Tis said in after times her spirit free
Knew what love was, and felt itself alone—
But holy Dian could not chaster be
Before she stooped to kiss Endymion,
Than now this lady—like a sexless bee
Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none—
Among those mortal forms, the wizard-maiden
Passed with an eye serene and heart unladen.
To those she saw most beautiful, she gave
Strange panacea in a crystal bowl: —
They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave
And lived thenceforward as if some control,
Mightier than life, were in them ; and the grave
Of such, when death oppressed the weary soul.
Was as a green and overarching bower
Lit by the gems of many a starry flower.
276﻿SHELLEY
For on the night when they were buried, she
Restored the embalmers’ ruining, and shook
The light out of the funeral lamps, to be
A mimic day within that deathy nook ;
And she unwound the woven imagery
Of second childhood’s swaddling bands, and took
The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche,
And threw it with contempt into a ditch.
And there the body lay, age after age,
Mute, breathing, beating, warm and undecaying,
Like one asleep in a green hermitage,
With gentle smiles about its eyelids playing,
And living in its dreams beyond the rage
Of death or life ; while they were still arraying
In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind
And fleeting generations of mankind.
And she would write strange dreams upon the brain
Of those who were less beautiful, and make
All harsh and crooked purposes more vain
Than in the desert is the serpent’s wake
Which the sand covers,—all his evil gain
The miser in such dreams would rise and shake
Into a beggar’s lap ;—the lying scribe
Would his own lies betray without a bribe.
The priests would write an explanation full,
Translating hieroglyphics into Greek,
How the god Apis really was a bull,
And nothing more ; and bid the herald stick
The same against the temple doors, and pull
The old cant down ; they licensed all to speak
Whate’er they thought of hawks, and cals, and geese
By pastoral letters to each diocese.
2 77﻿FOUR POETS
The king would dress an ape up in his crown
And robes, and seat him on his glorious seat,
And on the right hand of the sunlike throne
Would place a gaudy mock-bird to repeat
The chatterings of the monkey.—Every one
Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet
Of their great Emperor, when the morning came,
And kissed—alas, how many kiss the same !
The soldiers dreamed that they were blacksmiths, and
Walked out of quarters in somnambulism ;
Round the red anvils you might see them stand
Like Cyclopses in Vulcan’s sooty abysm,
Beating their swords to ploughshares ;—in a band
The gaolers sent those of the liberal schism
Free through the streets of Memphis, much, I wis
To the annoyance of king Amasis.
And timid lovers who had been so coy,
They hardly knew whether they loved or not,
Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet joy,
To the fulfilment of their inmost thought;
And when next day the maiden and the boy
Met one another, both, like sinners caught,
Blushed at the thing which each believed was done
Only in fancy—till the tenth moon shone ;
And then the Witch would let them take no ill:
Of many thousand schemes which lovers find,
The Witch found one,—and so they took their fill
Of happiness in marriage warm and kind.
Friends who, by practice of some envious skill,
Were torn apart, a wide wound, mind from mind !
She did unite again with visions clear
Of deep affection and of truth sincere.
278﻿SHELLEY
These were the pranks she played among the cities
Of mortal men, and what she did to sprites
And Gods, entangling them in her sweet ditties
To do her will, and show their subtle slights,
I will declare another time ; for it is
A tale more fit for the weird winter nights,
Than for these garish summer days, when we
Scarcely believe much more than we can see.
1820.
---o----
XV.
EPIPSYCHI DION.
VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE AND UNFORTUNATE
LADY EMILIA VIVIANA, NOW IMPRISONED IN THE
CONVENT OF ST. ANNE, PISA.
L’anima amante si slancia fuori del creato, e si crea nel infinito un
Mondo tutto per essa, diverso assai da questo oscuro e pauroso bara-
tro.—Her own words.
My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few
Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning,
Of such hard matter dost thou entertain ;
Whence, if by misadventure, chance should bring
Thee to base company (as chance may do),
Quite unaware of what thou dost contain,
I prithee, comfort thy sweet self again,
I\Iy last delight ! tell them that they are dull
And bid them own that thou art beautiful.
ADVERTISEMENT.
[BY SLIELLEY.]
The writer of the following lines died at Florence, as he was pre-
paring for a voyage to one of the wildest of the Sporades, which he
had bought, and where he had fitted up the ruins of an old building,
and where it was his hope to have realised a scheme of life, suited
perhaps to that happier and better world of which he is now an in-
habitant, but hardly practicable in this. His life was singular ; less
279﻿FOUR POETS
on account of the romantic vicissitudes which diversified it, than th
ideal tinge which it received from his own character and feelings.
The present Poem, like the Vita Nuova of Dante, is sufficiently in-
telligible to a certain class of readers without a matter-of-fact history
of the circumstances to which it relates ; and to a certain other class
it must ever remain incomprehensible, from a defect of a common
organ of perception for the ideas of which it treats. Not but that,
gran vergogna sarebbe a colni, che rimasse cosa sot to veste di
Jigura, o di colore rettorico: e domandato non sapesse denudare
le sne parole da cotal veste, in guisa che avessero verace inten-
dimento.
The present poem appears to have been intended by the writer as
the dedication to some longer one. The stanza on the opposite page
is almost a literal translation from Dante’s famous Canzone
Voi, cli intendendo, il terzo del viovete, etc.
The presumptuous application of the concluding lines to his own
composition will raise a smile at the expense of my unfortunate
friend : be it a smile not of contempt, but pity.
EPIPSYCHIDION.
Sweet Spirit ! Sister of that orphan one,
Whose empire is the name thou weepest on,
In my heart’s temple, I suspend to thee
These votive wreaths of withered memory.
Poor captive bird ! who, from thy narrow cage,.
Pourest such music, that it might assuage
The rugged hearts of those who prisoned thee,
Were they not deaf to all sweet melody ;
This song shall be thy rose : its petals pale
Are dead, indeed, my adored Nightingale !
But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom,
And it has no thorn left to wound thy bosom.
High, spirit-winged Heart ! who dost for ever
Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain endeavour,
'Fill those bright plumes of thought, in which arrayed
It over-soared this low and worldly shade,
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Lie shattered ; and thy panting, wounded breast
Stains with dear blood its unmaternal nest !
I weep vain tears : blood would less bitter be,
Yet poured forth gladlier, could it profit thee.
Seraph of Heaven ! too gentle to be human,
Veiling beneath that radiant form of Woman
All that is insupportable in thee
Of light, and love, and immortality !
Sweet Benediction in the eternal Curse !
Veiled Glory of this lampless Universe !
Thou Moon beyond the clouds ! Thou living Form
Among the Dead ! Thou Star above the Storm !
Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou Terror !
Thou Harmony of Nature’s art ! Thou Mirror
In whom, as in the splendour of the Sun,
All shapes look glorious which thou gazest on !
Aye, even the dim words which obscure thee now
Flash, lightning-like, with unaccustomed glow ;
I pray thee that thou blot from this sad song
All of its much mortality and wrong,
With those clear drops, which start like sacred dew
From the twin lights thy sweet soul darkens through
Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy :
Then smile on it, so that it may not die.
I never thought before my death to see
Youth’s vision thus made perfect. Emily,
I love thee ; though the world by no thin name
Will hide that love, from its unvalued shame.
Would we two had been twins of the same mother !
Or, that the name my heart lent to another
Could be a sister’s bond for her and thee,
Blending two beams of one eternity !
Vet were one lawful and the other true,
These names, though dear, could paint not, as is due
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How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me !
I am not thine : I am a part of thee.
Sweet Lamp ! my moth-like Muse has burnt its wings
Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings,
Young Love should teach Time, in his own gray style,
All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile,
A lovely soul formed to be blest and bless ?
A well of sealed and secret happiness,
Whose waters like blithe light and music are,
Vanquishing dissonance and gloom? A Star
Which moves not in the moving Heavens, alone ?
A smile amid dark frowns? a gentle tone
Amid rude voices? a beloved light?
o
A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight ?
A Lute, which those whom love has taught to play
Make music on, to soothe the roughest day
And lull fond grief asleep? a buried treasure?
A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleasure ?
A violet-shrouded grave of Woe?—I measure
The world of fancies, seeking one like thee,
And find—alas ! mine own infirmity.
She met me, Stranger, upon life’s rough way,
And lured me towards sweet Death ; as Night by Day,
Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift Hope,
Led into light, life, peace. An antelope,
In the suspended impulse of its lightness,
Were less ethereally light: the brightness
Of her divinest presence trembles through
Her limbs, as underneath a cloud of dew
Embodied in the windless Heaven of June
Amid the splendour-winged stars, the Moon
Burns inextinguishably beautiful:
And from her lips, as from a hyacinth full
Of honey-dew, a liquid murmur drops,
Killing the sense with passion ; sweet as stops
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Of planetary music heard in trance.
In her mild lights the starry spirits dance,
The sun-beams of those wells which ever leap
Under the lightnings of the soul—too deep
For the brief fathom-line of thought or sense.
The glory of her being, issuing thence,
Stains the dead, blank, cold air with a warm shade
Of unentangled intermixture, made
By Love, of light and motion : one intense
Diffusion, one serene Omnipresence,
Whose flowing outlines mingle in their flowing
Around her cheeks and utmost fingers glowing
With the unintermitted blood, which there
Quivers, (as in a fleece of snow-like air
The crimson pulse of living morning quiver,)
Continuously prolonged, and ending never,
Till they are lost, and in that Beauty furled
Which penetrates and clasps and fills the world ;
Scarce visible from extreme loveliness.
Warm fragrance seems to fall from her light dress,
And her loose hair ; and where some heavy tress
The air of her own speed has disentwined,
The sweetness, seems to satiate the faint wind ;
And in the soul a wild odour is felt,
Beyond the sense, like fiery dews that melt
Into the bosom of a frozen bud.----
See where she stands ! a mortal shape indued
With love and life and light and deity,
And motion which may change but cannot die ;
An image of some bright Eternity ;
A shadow of some golden dream ; a Splendour
Leaving the third sphere pilotless ; a tender
Reflection of the eternal Moon of Love
Under whose motions life’s dull billows move ;
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A Metaphor of Spring and Youth and Morning ;
A Vision like incarnate April, warning,
With smiles and tears, Frost the Anatomy
Into his summer grave.
Ah, woe is me !
What have I dared ? where am I lifted ? how
Shall I descend, and perish not ? I know
That Love makes all things equal : I have heard
By mine own heart this joyous truth averred :
The spirit of the worm beneath the sod
In love and worship, blends itself with God.
Spouse ! Sister ! Angel! Pilot of the Fate
Whose course has been so starless ! O too late
Beloved ! O too soon adored, by me !
For in the fields of immortality
My spirit should at first have worshipped thine,
A divine presence in a place divine ;
Or should have moved beside it on this earth,
A shadow of that substance, from its birth ;
But not as now :—I love thee ; yes, I feel
That on the fountain of my heart a seal
Is set, to keep its waters pure and bright
For thee, since in those tears thou hast delight.
We—are we not formed, as notes of music are,
For one another, though dissimilar ;
Such difference without discord, as can make
Those sweetest sounds, in which all spirits shake
As trembling leaves in a continuous air?
Tliy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me dare
Beacon the rocks on which high hearts are wreckt.
I never was attached to that great sect,
Whose doctrine is, that each one should select
Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend,
And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend,
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%
To cold oblivion, though it is in the code
Of modern morals, and the beaten road
Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread,
Who travel to their home am oner the dead
o
By the broad highway of the world, and so
With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe,
The dreariest and the longest journey go.
True Love in this differs from gold and clay
That to divide is not to take away.
Love is like understanding, that grows bright,
Gazing on many truths; ’tis like thy light,
Imagination ! which from earth and sky,
And from the depths of human phantasy,
As from a thousand prisms and mirrors, tills
The Universe with glorious beams, and kills
Error, the worm, with many a sunlike arrow
Of its reverberated lightning. Narrow
The heart that loves, the brain that contemplates,
The life that wears, the spirit that creates
One object, and one form, and builds thereby
A sepulchre for its eternity.
Mind from its object differs most in this :
Evil from good ; misery from happiness ;
The baser from the nobler; the impure
And frail, from what is clear and must endure.
If you divide suffering and dross, you may
Diminish till it is consumed away ;
If you divide pleasure and love and thought,
Each part exceeds the whole ; and we know not
How much, while any yet remains unshared,
Of pleasure may be gained, of sorrow spared :
This truth is that deep well, whence sages draw
The unenvied light of hope ; the eternal law
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#
By which those live, to whom this world of life
Is as a garden ravaged, and whose strife
Tills for the promise of a later birth
The wilderness of this Elysian earth.
There was a Being whom my spirit oft
Met on its visioned wanderings, far aloft,
In the clear golden prime of my youth’s dawn,
Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn,
Amid the enchanted mountains, and the caves
Of divine sleep, and on the air-like waves
Of wonder-level dream, whose tremulous floor
Paved her light steps ;—on an imagined shore,
Under the gray beak of some promontory
She met me, robed in such exceeding glory,
That I beheld her not. In solitudes
Her voice came to me through the whispering woods
And from the fountains, and the odours deep
Of flowers, which, like lips murmuring in their sleep
Of the sweet kisses which had lulled them there,
Breathed but of her to the enamoured air ;
And from the breezes whether low or loud,
And from the rain of every passing cloud,
And from the singing of the summer-birds,
And from all sounds, all silence. In the words
Of antique verse and high romance,—in form,
Sound, colour—in whatever checks that Storm
Which with the shattered present chokes the past;
And in that best philosophy, whose taste
Makes this cold common hell, our life, a doom
As glorious as a fiery martyrdom ;
Her Spirit was the harmony of truth.—
Then, from the caverns of my dreamy youth
I sprang, as one sandalled with plumes of fire,
And towards the loadstar of my one desire,
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I flitted, like a dizzy moth, whose flight
Is as a dead leaf’s in the owlet light,
When it would seek in Hesper’s setting sphere
A radiant death, a fiery sepulchre,
As if it were a lamp of earthly flame.—
But She, whom prayers or tears then could not tame,
Passed, like a God throned on a winged planet,
Whose burning plumes to tenfold swiftness fan it,
Into the dreary cone of our life’s shade ;
And as a man with mighty loss dismayed,
I would have followed, though the grave between
Yawned like a gulf whose spectres are unseen :
When a voice said :—“ O Thou of hearts the weakest,
The phantom is beside thee whom thou seekest.”
Then I— “where?” the world’s echo answered
“ where ! ”
And in that silence, and in my despair,
I questioned every tongueless wind that flew
Over my tower of mourning, if it knew
Whither ’twas fled, this soul out of my soul ;
And murmured names and spells which have control
Over the sightless tyrants of our fate ;
But neither prayer nor verse could dissipate
The night which closed on her; nor uncreate
The world within this Chaos, mine and me,
Of which she was the veiled Divinity,
The world I say of thoughts that worshipped her :
And therefore I went forth, with hope and fear
And every gentle passion sick to death,
Feeding my course with expectation’s breath,
Into the wintry forest of our life ;
And struggling through its error with vain strife,
And stumbling in my weakness and my haste,
And half bewildered by new forms, I past
Seeking among those untaught foresters
If I could find one form resembling hers,
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In which she might have masked herself from me.
There,—One, whose voice was venomecl melody
Snte by a well, under blue night-shade bowers ;
The breath of her false mouth was like faint flowers,
Iler touch was as electric poison,—flame
Out of her looks into my vitals came,
And from her living cheeks and bosom flew
A killing air, which pierced like honey-dew
Into the core of my green heart, and lay
Upon its leaves ; until, as hair grown gray
O’er a young brow, they hid its unblown prime
With ruins of unseasonable time.
In many mortal forms I rashly sought
The shadow of that idol of my thought.
And some were fair—but beauty dies away :
Others were wise—but honeyed words betray :
And One was true—oh ! why not true to me ?
Then, as a hunted deer that could not flee,
I turned upon my thoughts, and stood at bay,
Wounded and weak and panting ; the cold day
Trembled, for pity of my strife and pain.
When, like a noon-day dawn, there shone again
Deliverance. One stood on my path who seemed
As like the glorious shape which I had dreamed,
As is the Moon, whose changes ever run
Into themselves, to the eternal Sun ;
The cold chaste Moon, the Queen of Heaven’s bright
isles,
Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles,
That wandering shrine of soft yet icy flame
Which ever is transformed, yet still the same,
And warms not but illumines. Young and fair
As the descended Spirit of that sphere,
She hid me, as the Moon may hide the night
From its own darkness, until all was bright
28S﻿SHELLEY
Between the Heaven and Earth of my calm mind,
And, as a cloud charioted by the wind,
She led me to a cave in that wild place,
And sate beside me, with her downward face
Illumining my slumbers, like the Moon
Waxing and waning o’er Endymion.
And I was laid asleep, spirit and limb,
And all my being became bright or dim
As the Moon’s image in a summer sea,
According as she smiled or frowned on me ;
And there I lay, within a chaste cold bed :
Alas, I then was nor alive nor dead :—
For at her silver voice came Death and Life,
Unmindful each of their accustomed strife,
Masked like twin babes, a sister and a brother,
The wandering hopes of one abandoned mother,
And through the cavern without wings they flew,
And cried “Away, he is not of our crew.”
I wept, and though it be a dream, I weep.
What storms then shook the ocean of my sleep,
Blotting that Moon, whose pale and waning lips
Then shrank as in the sickness of eclipse;—
And how my soul was as a lampless sea,
And who was then its Tempest; and when She,
The Planet of that hour, was quenched, what frost
Crept o’er those waters, till from coast to coast
The moving billows of my being fell
Into a death of ice, immoveable ;—
And then—what earthquakes made it gape and split,
The white Moon smiling all the while on it,
These words conceal:—If not, each word would be
The key of staunchless tears. Weep not for me !
At length, into the obscure Forest came
The Vision I had sought through grief and shame.
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Athwart that wintry wilderness of thorns
Flashed from her motion splendour like the Morn’s,
And from her presence life was radiated
Through the gray earth and branches bare and dead ;
So that her way was paved, and roofed above
With flowers as soft as thoughts of budding love;
And music from her respiration spread
Like light,—all other sounds were penetrated
By the small, still, sweet spirit of that sound,
So that the savage winds hung mute around ;
And odours warm and fresh fell from her hair
Dissolving the dull cold in the frore air :
Soft as an Incarnation of the Sun,
When light is changed to love, this glorious One
Floated into the cavern where I lay,
And called my Spirit, and the dreaming clay
Was lifted by the thing that dreamed below
As smoke by fire, and in her beauty’s glow
I stood, and felt the dawn of my long night
Was penetrating me with living light :
I knew it was the Vision veiled from me
So many years—that it was Emily.
Twin Spheres of light who rule this passive Earth,
This world of love, this me; and into birth
Awaken all its fruits and flowers, and dart
Magnetic might into its central heart;
And lift its billows and its mists, and guide
By everlasting laws, each wind and tide
To its fit cloud, and its appointed cave ;
And lull its storms, each in the craggy grave
Which was its cradle, luring to faint bowers
The armies of the rainbow-winged showers ;
And, as those married lights, which from the towers
Of Heaven look forth and fold the wandering globe
In liquid sleep and splendour, as a robe ;
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And all their many-mingled influence blend.
If equal, yet unlike, to one sweet end ;—
So ye, bright regents, with alternate sway
Govern my sphere of being, night and day !
Thou, not disdaining even a borrowed might;
Thou, not eclipsing a remoter light;
And, through the shadow of the seasons three,
From Spring to Autumn’s sere maturity,
Light it into the Winter of the tomb,
Where it may ripen to a brighter bloom.
Thou too, O Comet, beautiful and fierce,
Who drew the heart of this frail Universe
Towards thine own ; till, wreckt in that convulsion,
Alternating attraction and repulsion,
Thine went astray and that was rent in twain ;
Oh, float into our azure heaven again !
Be there love’s folding-star at thy return ;
The living Sun will feed thee from its urn
Of golden fire ; the Moon will veil her horn
In thy last smiles ; adoring Even and Morn
Will worship thee with incense of calm breath
And lights and shadows ; as the star of Death
And Birth is worshipped by those sisters wild
Called Hope and Fear—upon the heart are piled
Their offerings,—of this sacrifice divine
A World shall be the altar.
Lady mine,
Scorn not these flowers of thought, the fading birth
Which from its heart of hearts that plant puts forth
Whose fruit, made perfect by thy sunny eyes,
Will be as of the trees of Paradise.
The day is come, and thou wilt fly with me,
To whatsoe’er of dull mortality
Is mine, remain a vestal sister still ;
To the intense, the deep, the imperishable,
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Not mine, but me, henceforth be thou united
Even as a bride, delighting and delighted.
The hour is come :—the destined Star has risen
Which shall descend upon a vacant prison.
The walls are high, the gates are strong, thick set
The sentinels—but true love never yet
Was thus constrained : it overleaps all fence :
Like lightning, with invisible violence
Piercing its continents ; like Heaven’s free breath,
Which he who grasps can hold not; liker Death,
Who rides upon a thought, and makes his way
Through temple, tower, and palace, and the array
Of arms : more strength has Love than he or they ;
For it can burst his charnel, and make free
The limbs in chains, the heart in agony,
The soul in dust and chaos.
Emily,
A ship is floating in the harbour now,
A wind is hovering o’er the mountain’s brow ;
There is a path on the sea’s azure floor,
No keel has ever ploughed that path before;
The halcyons brood around the foamless isles;
The treacherous Ocean has forsworn its wiles ;
The merry mariners are bold and free :
Say, my heart’s sister, wilt thou sail with me ?
Our bark is as an albatross, whose nest
Is a far Eden of the purple East ;
And we between her wings will sit, while Night
And Day, and Storm, and Calm, pursue their flight,
Our ministers, along the boundless Sea,
Treading each other’s heels, unheededly.
It is an isle under Ionian skies,
Beautiful £ts a wreck of Paradise,
And, for the harbours are not safe and good,
This land would have remained a solitude
But for some pastoral people native there,
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Who from the Elysian, clear, and golden air
Draw the last spirit of the age of gold,
Simple and spirited ; innocent and bold.
The blue Aigean girds this chosen home,
With ever-changing sound and light and foam,
Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns hoar ;
And all the winds wandering along the shore
Undulate with the undulating tide :
There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide ;
And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond,
As clear as elemental diamond,
Or serene morning air ; and far beyond,
'idle mossy tracks made by the goats and deer
(Which the rough shepherd treads but once a year,)
Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, and halls
Built round with ivy, which the waterfalls
Illumining, with sound that never fails
Accompany the noon-day nightingales ;
And all the place is peopled with sweet airs ;
The light clear element which the isle wears
Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers,
Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers,
And falls upon the eye-lids like faint sleep ;
And from the moss violets and jonquils peep,
And dart their arrowy odour through the brain
Till you might faint with that delicious pain.
And every motion, odour, beam, and tone,
With that deep music is in unison :
Which is a soul within the soul—they seem
Like echoes of an antenatal dream.—
It is an isle ’twixt Ileaven, Air, Earth, and Sea,
Cradled, and hung in clear tranquillity ;
Bright as that wandering Eden Lucifer,
Washed by the soft blue Oceans of young air
It is a favoured place. Famine or Blight,
Pestilence, War and Earthquake, never light
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Upon its mountain-peaks ; blind vultures, they
Sail onward far upon their fatal way :
The winged storms, chaunting their thunder-psalm
To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm
Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew,
From which its fields and woods ever renew
Their green and golden immortality.
And from the sea there rise, and from the sky
There fall, clear exhalations, soft and bright,
Veil after veil, each hiding some delight,
Which Sun or Moon or zephyr draw aside,
Till the isle’s beauty, like a naked bride
Glowing at once with love and loveliness,
Blushes and trembles at its own excess :
Yet, like a buried lamp, a Soul no less
Burns in the heart of this delicious isle,
An atom of th’ Eternal, whose own smile
Unfolds itself, and may be felt, not seen
O’er the gray rocks, blue waves, and forests green,
Filling their bare and void interstices.—
But the chief marvel of the wilderness
Is a lone dwelling, built by whom or how
None of the rustic island-people know :
’Tis not a tower of strength, though with its height
It overtops the woods ; but, for delight,
Some wise and tender Ocean-King, ere crime
Had been invented, in the world’s young prime,
Reared it, a wonder of that simple time,
An envy of the isles, a pleasure-house
Made sacred to his sister and his spouse.
It scarce seems now a wreck of human art,
But, as it were Titanic ; in the heart
Of Earth having assumed its form, then grown
Out of the mountains, from the living stone,
Lifting itself in caverns light and high :
For all the antique and learned imagery
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Has been erased, and in the place of it
The ivy and the wild vine interknit
The volumes of their many twining stems ;
Parasite flowers illume with dewy gems
The lampless halls, and when they fade, the sky
Peeps through their winter-woof of tracery
With Moon-light patches, or star atoms keen,
Or fragments of the day’s intense serene ;—
Working mosaic on their Parian floors.
And, day and night, aloof, from the high towers
And terraces, the Earth and Ocean seem
To sleep in one another’s arms, and dream
Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, and all that we
Read in their smiles, and call reality.
This isle and house are mine, and I have vowed
Thee to be lady of the solitude.—
And I have fitted up some chambers there
Looking towards the golden Eastern air,
And level with the living winds, which flow
Like waves above the living waves below.—
I have sent books and music there, and all
Those instruments with which high spirits call
The future from its cradle, and the past
Out of its grave, and make the present last
In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die,
Folded within their own eternity.
Our simple life wants little, and true taste
Hires not the pale drudge Luxury, to waste
The scene it would adorn, and therefore still,
Nature, with all her children, haunts the hill.
The ring-dove, in the embowering ivy, yet
Keeps up her love-lament, and the owls flit
Round the evening tower, and the young stars glance
Between the quick bats in their twilight dance ;
The spotted deer bask in the fresh moon-light
Before our gate, and the slow, silent night
295﻿FOUR POETS
Is measured by the pants of their calm sleep.
Be this our home in life, and when years heap
Their withered hours, like leaves, on our decay,
Let us become the over-hanging day,
The living soul of this Eiysian isle,
Conscious, inseparable, one. Meanwhile
We two will rise, and sit, and walk together,
Under the roof of blue Ionian weather,
And wander in the meadows, or ascend
The mossy mountains, where the blue heavens bend
With lightest winds, to touch their paramour ;
Or linger, where the pebble-paven shore,
Under the quick, faint kisses of the sea
Trembles and sparkles as with ecstasy,—
Possessing and possest by all that is
Within that calm circumference of bliss,
And by each other, till to love and live
Be one :—or, at the noontide hour, arrive
Where some old cavern hoar seems yet to keep
The moonlight of the expired night asleep,
Through which the awakened day can never peep ;
A veil for our seclusion, close as Night’s,
Where secure sleep may kill thine innocent lights ;
Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the rain
Whose drops quench kisses till they burn again.
And we will talk, until thought’s melody
Become too sweet for utterance, and it die
In words, to live again in looks, which dart
With thrilling tone into the voiceless heart,
Harmonizing silence without a sound.
Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound,
And our veins beat together; and our lips
With other eloquence than words, eclipse
The soul that burns between them, and the wells
Which boil under our being’s inmost cells,
The fountains of our deepest life, shall be
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Confused in passion’s golden purity,
As mountain-springs under the morning Sun.
We shall become the same, we shall be one
Spirit within two frames, oh ! wherefore two?
One passion in twin-hearts, which grows and grew,
Till like two meteors of expanding flame,
Those spheres instinct with it become the same,
Touch, mingle, are transfigured ; ever still
Burning, yet ever inconsumable :
In one another’s substance finding food,
Like flames too pure and light and unimbued
To nourish their bright lives with baser prey,
Which point to Heaven and cannot pass away :
One hope within two wills, one will beneath
Two overshadowing minds, one life, one death,
One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality,
And one annihilation. Woe is me !
The winged words on which my soul would pierce
Into the height of love’s rare Universe,
Are chains of lead around its flight of fire.—
I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire !
Weak Verses, go, kneel at your Sovereign’s feet,
And say :—“ We are the masters of thy slave ;
What wouldest thou with us and ours and thine ? ”
Then call your sisters from Oblivion’s cave,
All singing loud : “ Love’s very pain is sweet,
But its reward is in the world divine
Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.”
So shall ye live when I am there. Then haste
Over the hearts of men, until ye meet
Marina, Vanna, Primus, and the rest,
And bid them love each other and be blest :
And leave the troop which errs, and which reproves
And come and be my guest,—for I am Love’s.
1S20.
297﻿FOUR POETS
XVI.
CHORUS.
In the great morning of the world,
The spirit of God with might unfurl’d
The flag of Freedom over Chaos,
And all its banded anarchs fled,
Like vultures frighted from Imaus,
Before an earthquake’s tread.—
So from Time’s tempestuous dawn
Freedom’s splendour burst and shone :—
Thermopylae and Marathon
Caught, like mountains beacon-lighted,
The springing Fire.—The winged glory
On Philippi half alighted,
Like an eagle on a promontory.
Its unwearied wings could fan
The quenchless ashes of Milan.
From age to age, from man to man,
It lived ; and lit from land to land,
Florence, Albion, Switzerland.
Then night fell ; and, as from night,
Re-assuming fiery flight,
From the West swift Freedom came,
Against the course of Heaven and doom,
A second sun arrayed in flame,
To burn, to kindle, to illume.
From far Atlantis its young beams
Chased the shadows and the dreams.
France, with all her sanguine steams,
Hid, but quench’d it not ; again
Through clouds its shafts of glory rain
From utmost Germany to Spain.
As an eagle fed with morning
Scorns the embattled tempest’s warning,﻿SHELLEY
When she seeks her aerie hanging
In the mountain-cedar’s hair,
And her brood expect the clanging
Of her wings through the wild air,
Sick with famine :—Freedom, so
To what of Greece remaineth now
Returns ; her hoary ruins glow
Like orient mountains lost in day ;
Beneath the safety of her wings
Her renovated nurslings prey,
And in the naked lightnings
Of truth they purge their dazzled eyes.
Let Freedom leave—where’er she flies,
A Desert, or a Paradise :
Let the beautiful and the brave
Share her glory, or a grave.
Hellas.
XVII.
CHORUS.
Worlds on worlds are rolling ever
From creation to decay,
Like the bubbles on a river
Sparkling, bursting, borne away.
But they are still immortal
Who, through birth’s orient portal
And death’s dark chasm hurrying to and fro,
Clothe their unceasing flight
In the brief dust and light
Gather’d around their chariots as they go;
New shapes they still may weave,
New gods, new laws receive,
Bright or dim are they as the robes they last
On Death’s bare ribs had cast.
299﻿FOUR POETS
A power from the unknown God,
A Promethean conqueror came ;
Like a triumphal path he trod
The thorns of death and shame.
A mortal shape to him
Was like the vapour dim
Which the orient planet animates with light;
Hell, Sin, and Slavery came,
Like blood-hounds mild and tame,
Nor preyed, until their Lord had taken flight ;
The moon of Mahomet
Arose, and it shall set :
While blazoned as on heaven’s immortal noon
The cross leads generations on.
Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep
From one whose dreams are Paradise
Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to weep,
And day peers forth with her blank eyes ;
So fleet, so faint, so fair,
The Powers of earth and air
Fled from the folding star of Bethlehem :
Apollo, Pan, and Love,
And even Olympian Jove
Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared on them ;
Our hills and seas and streams
Dispeopled of their dreams,
Their waters turned to blood, their dew to tears,
Wailed for the golden years.
Hellas.
O
300﻿SHELLEY
XVIII.
CHORUS.
The world’s great age begins anew,
The golden years return,
The earth doth like a snake renew
Her winter weeds outworn :
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.
A brighter Llellas rears its mountains
From waves serener far ;
A new Peneus rolls his fountains
Against the morning-star.
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.
A loftier Argo cleaves the main,
Fraught with a later prize ;
Another Orpheus sings again,
And loves, and weeps, and dies.
A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore.
O, write no more the tale of Troy,
If earth Death’s scroll must be !
Nor mix with Laian rage the joy
Which dawns upon the free :
Although a subtler Sphinx renew
Riddles of death Thebes never knew.
Another Athens shall arise,
And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
The splendour of its prime ;
And leave, if nought so bright may live,
All earth can take or Heaven can give.
301﻿FOUR POETS
Saturn and Love their long repose
Shall burst, more bright and good
Than all who fell, than One who rose,
Than many unsubdued :
Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,
But votive tears and symbol flowers.
O cease ! must hate and death return ?
Cease ! must men kill and die ?
Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn
Of bitter prophecy.
The world is weary of the past,
O might it die or rest at last !
Hellas.
XIX.
LINES.
When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead—
When the cloud is scattered
The rainbow’s glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart’s echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute :—
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman’s knell.
302﻿SHELLEY
When hearts have once mingled
Love first leaves the well-built nest,
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possest.
O, Love ! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home and your bier?
Its passions will rock thee
As the storms rock the ravens on high :
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home
Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.
1822.
o
XX.
TO ---------.
When passion’s trance is overpast,
If tenderness and truth could last
Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep,
I should not weep, I should not weep !
It were enough to feel, to see,
Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly,
And dream the rest—and burn and be
The secret food of fires unseen,
Couldst thou but be as thou hast been.
303﻿FOUR POETS
After the slumber of the year
The woodland violets re-appear,
All things revive in field or grove,
And sky and sea, but two, which move.
And form all others, life and love.
18
o
XXI.
TO A LADY WITH A GUITAR.
Ariel to Miranda.—Take
This slave of Music, for the sake
Of him who is the slave of thee,
And teach it all the harmony
In which thou canst, and only thou,
Make the delighted spirit glow,
Till joy denies itself again,
And, too intense, is turned to pain ;
For by permission and command
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken ;
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who,
From life to life, must still pursue
Your happiness ;—for thus alone
Can Ariel ever find his own.
From Prospero’s enchanted cell,
As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples, he
Lit you o’er the trackless sea,
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor.
When you die, the silent Moon
In her interlunar swoon,
304﻿SHELLEY
Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel.
When you live again on earth,
Like an unseen star of birth,
Ariel guides you o’er the sea
Of life from your nativity.
Many changes have been run,
Since Ferdinand and you begun
Your course of love, and Ariel still
Has tracked your steps, and served your will;
Now, in humbler, happier lot,
This is all remembered not;
And now, alas ! the poor sprite is
Imprisoned, for some fault of his,
In a body like a grave ;—
From you he only dares to crave,
For his service and his sorrow,
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.
The artist who this idol wrought,
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine ;
And dreaming, some of Autumn past,
And some of Spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love ; and so this tree,—
O that such our death may be !—
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again :
From which, beneath Heaven’s fairest star,
The artist wrought this loved Guitar,
And taught it justly to reply,
305
X﻿FOUR POETS
To all who question skilfully,
In language gentle as thine own ;
Whispering in enamoured tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells ;
For it had learnt all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains ;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,
The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening ; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound,
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way —
All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The spirit that inhabits it;
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions ; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before,
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day :
But sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For our beloved Jane alone.
O
306
1822.﻿SHELLEY
XXII.
TO JANE—THE INVITATION.
Best and brightest, come away !
Fairer far than this fair Day,
Which, like thee to those in sorrow,
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake
In its cradle on the brake.
The brightest hour of unborn Spring,
Through the winter wandering,
Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn
To hoar February born ;
Bending from Fleaven, in azure mirth,
It kissed the forehead of the Earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free,
And waked to music all their fountains,
And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
And like a prophetess of May
Strewed flowers upon the barren way,
Making the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.
Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs—
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music lest it should not find
An echo in another’s mind,
While the touch of Nature’s art
Harmonizes heart to heart.
Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake ! arise ! and come away !
307﻿FOUR POETS
To the wild woods and the plains,
And the pools where winter rains
Image all their roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Of sapless green and ivy dun
Round stems that never kiss the sun ;
Where the lawns and pastures be,
And the sandhills of the sea ;—
Where the melting hoar-frost wets
The daisy-star that never sets,
And wind-flowers, and violets,
Which yet join not scent to hue,
Crown the pale year weak and new ;
When the night is left behind
In the deep east, dun and blind,
And the blue moon is over us,
And the multitudinous
Billows murmur at our feet,
Where the earth and ocean meet,
And all things seem only one
In the universal sun.
1822.
XXIII.
TO JANE—THE RECOLLECTION.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise !
Up, do thy wonted work ! come, trace
The epitaph of glory fled,—
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven’s brow.
308﻿SHELLEY
We wandered to the pine forest
That shirts the Ocean’s foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep,
The smile of Heaven lay ;
It seemed as if the hour were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scattered from above the sun
A light of Paradise.
We paused amid the pines that stood
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced,
And soothed by every azure breath,
That under heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own ;
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep,
Like green weaves on the sea,
As still as in the silent deep
The ocean woods may be.
How calm it was !—the silence there
By such a chain was bound
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness ;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
309﻿FOUR POETS
There seemed from the remotest seat
Of the wide mountain waste,
To the soft flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced,—
A spirit interfused around,
A thrilling silent life,
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature’s strife ;—
And still I felt the centre of
The magic circle there,
Was one fair form that filled with love
The lifeless atmosphere.
We paused beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,
Each seemed as ’twere a little sky
Gulfed in a world below ;
A firmament of purple light,
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And purer than the day—
In which the lovely forests grew
As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there.
There lay the glade and neighbouring lav
And through the dark green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Out of a speckled cloud.
Sweet views which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water’s love
Of that fair forest green.
310﻿SHELLEY
And all was interfused beneath
With an elysian glow,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A softer day below.
Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water’s breast,
Its every leaf and lineament
With more than truth exprest;
Until an envious wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from the mind’s too faithful eye
Blots one dear image out.
Though thou art ever fair and kind,
The forests ever green,
Less oft is peace in Shelley’s mind,
Than calm in waters seen.
1S22.
XXIV.
LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY OF LERICL
She left me at the silent time
When the moon had ceased to climb
The azure path of Heaven’s steep,
And like an albatross asleep,
Balanced on her wings of light,
Hovered in the purple night,
Ere she sought her ocean nest
In the chambers of the West.
She left me, and I staid alone
Thinking over every tone
Which, though silent to the ear,
The enchanted heart could hear,﻿FOUR POETS
Like notes which die when born, but still
Haunt the echoes of the hill;
And feeling ever—O too much !—
The soft vibration of her touch,
As if her gentle hand, even now,
Lightly trembled on my brow ;
And thus, although she absent were,
Memory gave me all of her
That even Fancy dares to claim :—
Her presence had made weak and tame
All passions, and I lived alone
In the time which is our own;
The past and future were forgot,
As they had been, and would be, not.
But soon, the guardian angel gone,
The daemon reassumed his throne
In my faint heart. I dare not speak
My thoughts, but thus disturbed and weak
I sat and saw the vessels glide
Over the ocean bright and wide,
Like spirit-winged chariots sent
O’er some serenest element
For ministrations strange and far ;
As if to some Elysian star
Sailed for drink to medicine
Such sweet and bitter pain as mine.
And the wind that winged their flight,
From the land came fresh and light,
And the scent of winged flowers,
And the coolness of the hours
Of dew, and sweet warmth left by day,
Were scattered o’er the twinkling bay.
And the fisher with his lamp
And spear about the low rocks damp
Crept, and struck the fish which came
To worship the delusive flame.
o
12﻿SHELLEY
Too happy they, whose pleasure sought
Extinguishes all sense and thought
Of the regret that pleasure leaves,
Destroying life alone, not peace !
XXV.
ADONAIS ;
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS.
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Nil/ Se Oolvojv kdfxneu; eanepos ei/ </>0i/xeV(H?.
Plato.
PREFACE.
It is my intention to subjoin to the London edition of this poem a
criticism upon the claims of its lamented object to be classed among
the writers of the highest genius who have adorned our age. My
known repugnance to the narrow principles of taste on which several
of his earlier compositions were modelled, proves, at least that I am
an impartial judge. I consider the fragment of Hyperion as second
to nothing that was ever produced by a writer of the same years.
John Keats died at Rome of a consumption, in his twenty-fourth
year, on the 23rd of February, 1821 ; and was buried in the romantic
and lonely cemetery of the Protestants in that city, under the pyramid
which is the tomb of Cestius, and the massy walls and towers, now
mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome.
The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter
with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to
think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
The genius of the lamented person to whose memory I have
dedicated these unworthy verses, was not less delicate and fragile
than it was beautiful ; and where cankerworms abound, what
wonder, if its young flower was blighted in the bud ? The savage
criticism on his “ Endymion,” which appeared in the Quarterly
Review, produced the most violent effect on his susceptible mind ;
the agitation thus originated ended in the rupture of a blood-vessel
in the lungs; a rapid consumption ensued, and the succeeding
acknowledgments from more candid critics, of the true greatness
of his powers, were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly
inflicted.﻿FOUR POETS
It may be well said, that these wretched men know not what they
do. They scatter their insults and their slanders without heed as to
whether the poisoned shaft lights on a heart made callous by many
blows, or one, like Keats’s, composed of more penetrable stuff. One
of their associates is, to my knowledge, a most base and unprincipled
calumniator. As to “ Endymion,” was it a poem, whatever might
be its defects, to be treated contemptuously by those who had
celebrated with various degrees of complacency and panegyric,
“ Paris,” and “Woman,” and a “ Syrian Tale,” and Mrs. Lefanu,
and Mr. Barrett, and Mr. Howard Payne, and a long list of the
illustrious obscure? Are these the men, who in their venal good
nature, presumed to draw a parallel between the Rev. Mr. Milman
and Lord Byron ? What gnat did they strain at here, after having
swallowed all those camels? Against what woman taken in adultery,
dares the foremost of these literary prostitutes to cast his opprobrious
stone? Miserable man! you, one of the meanest, have wantonly
defaced one of the noblest specimens of the workmanship of God.
Nor shall it be your excuse that, murderer as you are, you have
spoken daggers, but used none.
The circumstances of the closing scene of poor Keats’s life were
not made known to me until the Elegy was ready for the press. I
am given to understand that the wound which his sensitive spirit
had received from the criticism of k£ Endymion,” was exasperated
by the bitter sense of unrequited benefits; the poor fellow seems to
have been hooted from the stage of life, no less by those on whom
he had wasted the promise of his genius, than those on whom he
had lavished his fortune and his care. He was accompanied to
Rome, and attended in his last illness by Mr. Severn, a young
artist of the highest promise, who, I have been informed, “ almost
risked his own life, and sacrificed every prospect to unwearied at-
tendance upon his dying friend.” Had I known these circumstances
before the completion of my poem, I should have been tempted to
add my feeble tribute of applause to the more solid recompense
which the virtuous man finds in the recollection of his own motives.
Mr. Severn can dispense with a reward from “ such stuff as dreams
are made of.” His conduct is a golden augury of the success of his
future career—may the unextinguished Spirit of his illustrious friend
animate the creations of the pencil, and plead against Oblivion for
his name!
I WEEP for Adonais—he is dead !
O, weep for Adonais ! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head !
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,
3H﻿SHELLEY
And teach them thine own sorrow, say : with me
Died Adonais ; till the Future dares
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto eternity !
Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
In darkness? where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died ? With veiled eyes,
’Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise
She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies,
With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.
O, weep for Adonais—he is dead !
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep !
Yet wherefore ? Quench within their burning bed
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep ;
For he is gone, where all things wise and fair
Descend ;—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep
Will yet restore him to the vital air ;
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.
Most musical of mourners, weep again !
Lament anew, Urania!—Fie died,
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country’s pride,
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide,
Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite
Of lust and blood ; he went, unterrified,
Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite
Yet reigns o’er earth ; the third among the sons of light.
Most musical of mourners, weep anew !
Not all to that bright station dared to climb ;
And happier they their happiness who knew,
Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time
3T 5^﻿FOUR POETS
In which suns perished ; others more sublime,
Struck by the envious wrath of man or God,
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;
And some yet live, treading the thorny road,
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame’s serene
abode.
But now, thy youngest, dearest one has perished,
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished,
And fed with true love tears, instead of dew ;
Most musical of mourners, weep anew !
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,
The bloom, whose petals nipt before they blew
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste ;
The broken lily lies—the storm is overpast.
To that high Capital, where kingly Death
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,
He came ; and bought, with price of purest breath,
A grave among the eternal.—Come away !
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay ;
Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.
He will awake no more, oh, never more!—
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace,
The shadow of white Death, and at the door
Invisible Corruption waits to trace
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place ;
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law
Of change, shall o’er his sleep the mortal curtain draw.
316﻿SHELLEY
O, weep for Arlonais !—The quick Dreams,
The passion-winged Ministers of thought,
Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught
The love which was its music, wander not,—
Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain,
But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn
their lot
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain,
They ne’er will gather strength, or find a home again.
And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head,
And fans him with her moonlight wings and cries ;
“ Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead ;
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies
A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain.”
Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise !
She knew not ’twas her own ; as with no stain
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.
One from a lucid urn of starry dew
Washed his light limbs as if embalming them ;
Another dipt her profuse locks, and threw
The wreath upon him, like an anadem,
Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem ;
Another in her wilful grief would break
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem
A greater loss with one which was more weak ;
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek.
Another Splendour on his mouth alit,
That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath
Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit,
And pass into the panting heart beneath
With lightning and with music : the damp death
317﻿FOUR POETS
Quenched its caress upon his icy lips !
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath
Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips,
It Hushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse.
And others came . . . Desires and Adorations,
Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies,
Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,
Came in slow pomp ;—the moving pomp might seem
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.
All he had loved, and moulded into thought,
From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought
Her eastern watchtower, and her hair unbound,
Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,
Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day;
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned,
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,
And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
And feeds her grief with his remembered lay,
And will no more reply to winds or fountains,
Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray,
Or herdsman’s horn, or bell at closing day;
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear
Than those for whose disdain she pined away
Into a shadow of all sounds :—a drear
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.
Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down
Pier kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,
3i8﻿SHELLEY
Or they dead leaves ; since her delight is flown
For whom should she have waked the sullen year ?
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both
Thou Adonais : wan they stand and sere
Amid the faint companions of their youth,
With dew all turned to tears : odour, to sighing ruth.
Thy spirit’s sister, the lorn nightingale
Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain ;
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun’s domain
Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain,
Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,
As Albion wails for thee : the curse of Cain
Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast,
And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest!
Ah woe is me ! Winter is come and gone,
But grief returns with the revolving year ;
The airs and streams renew their joyous tone ;
The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear ;
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons’ bier;
The amorous birds now pair in every brake,
And build their mossy homes in field and brere;
And the green lizard, and the golden snake,
Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake.
Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean
A quickening life from the Earth’s heart has burst
As it has ever done, with change and motion,
From the great morning of the world when first
God dawned on Chaos ; in its steam immersed
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light;
All baser things pant with life’s sacred thirst;
Diffuse themselves ; and spend in love’s delight,
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.
319﻿FOUR POETS
The leprous corpse touched by this spirit tender
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath ;
Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death
And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath ;
Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath
By sightless lightning ?—th’ intense atom glows
A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose.
Alas ! that all we loved of him should be.
/
But for our grief, as if it had not been,
And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me !
Whence are we, and why are we ? of what scene
The actors or spectators ? Great and mean
Meet massed in death, who lends what life must
borrow.
As long as skies are blue, and fields are green,
Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow,
Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to
sorrow.
He will awake no more, oh, never more !
“Wake thou,” cried Miseiy, “childless Mother, rise
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart’s core,
A wound more fierce than his with tears and sighs,”
And all the Dreams that watched Urania’s eyes,
And all the Echoes whom their sister’s song
Had held in holy silence, cried : “ Arise ! ”
Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung,
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprang.
She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs
Out of the East, and follows wild and drear
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings,
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier,
32°﻿SHELLEY
Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear
So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania ;
So saddened round her like an atmosphere
Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way
Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay.
Out of her secret Paradise she sped,
Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel,
And human hearts, which to her aery tread
Yielding not, wounded the invisible
Palms of her tender feet where’er they fell :
And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than
they
Rent the soft Form they never could repel,
Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May
Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way.
In the death chamber for a moment Death
Shamed by the presence of that living Might
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath
Revisited those lips, and life’s pale light
Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight.
“ Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless,
As silent lightning leaves the starless night !
Leave me not! ” cried Urania : her distress
Roused Death : Death rose and smiled, and met her vain
caress.
“ Stay yet awhile ! speak to me once again ;
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live ;
And in my heartless breast and burning brain
That word, that kiss shall all thoughts else survive,
With food of saddest memory kept alive,
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part
Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give
All that I am to be as thou now art !
But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart !
321	Y﻿FOUR POETS
“Oil gentle child, beautiful as thou wert,
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men
Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den ?
Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear?
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when
Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere,
The monsters of life’s waste had fled from thee like deer.
“ The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;
The obscene ravens, clamorous o’er the dead ;
The vultures to the conqueror’s banner true
Who feed where Desolation first has fed,
And whose wings rain contagion ;—how they fled,
When like Apollo, from his golden bow,
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped
And smiled !—The spoilers tempt no second blow,
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low.
“The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn ;
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then
Is gathered into death without a dawn,
And the immortal stars awake again ;
So is it in the world of living men :
A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when
It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit’s awful night.”
Thus ceased she : and the mountain shepherds came,
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent;
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
An early but enduring monument,
322﻿SHELLEY
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song
In sorrow ; from her wilds Ierne sent
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong,
And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue.
Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,
A phantom among men ; companionless
As the last cloud of an expiring storm
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
Had gazed on Nature’s naked loveliness,
Actoeon-like, and now he fled astray
With feeble steps o’er the world’s wilderness,
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.
A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift—
A Love in desolation masked ;—a Power
Girt round with weakness ;—it can scarce uplift
The weight of the superincumbent hour ;
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,
A breaking billow ;—even whilst we speak
Is it not broken? On the withering flower
The killing sun smiles brightly : on a cheek
The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may
break.
His head was bound with pansies overblown,
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue ;
And a light spear topped with a cypress cone,
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy tresses grew
Yet dripping with the forest’s noonday dew,
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart
Shook the weak hand that grasped it ; of that crew
He came the last, neglected and apart;
A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter’s dart.
323﻿FOUR POETS
All stood aloof, and at his partial moan
Smiled through their tears ; well knew that gentle
band
Who in another’s fate now wept his own ;
As in the accents of an unknown land,
He sung new sorrow ; sad Urania scanned
The Stranger’s mien, and murmured:	“Who art
thou ? ”
He answered not, but with a sudden hand
Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow,
Which was like Cain’s or Christ’s—Oh ! that it should
be so !
What softer voice is hushed over the dead ?
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown ?
What form leans sadly o’er the white death-bed,
In mockery of monumental stone,
The heavy heart heaving without a moan ?
If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise,
Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one ;
Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs
The silence of that heart’s accepted sacrifice.
Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh !
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
Life’s early cup with such a draught of woe?
The nameless worm would now itself disown :
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,
But what was howling in one breast alone,
Silent with expectation of the song,
Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.
Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame!
Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from me,
Thou noteless blot on a remembered name !
But be thyself, and know thyself to be !
324﻿SHELLEY
And ever at thy season be thou free
To spill the venom when thy fangs o’erllovv :
Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee ;
Ilot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt—as now.
Nor let us weep that our delight is lied
Far from these carrion kites that scream below ;
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ;
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now.—
Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow
Back to the burning fountain whence it came,
A portion of the Eternal, which must glow
Through time and change, unquenchably the same,
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame.
Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep—
He hath awakened from the dream of life—
’Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
And in mad trance, strike with our spirit’s knife
Invulnerable nothings. — We decay
Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief
Convulse us and consume us day by day,
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.
He has outsoared the shadow of our night ;
Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again ;
From the contagion of the world’s slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain ;
Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.
325﻿FOUR POETS
He lives, he wakes—’tis Death is dead, not he ;
Mourn not for Adonais.—Thou young Dawn
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone ;
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan !
Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air
Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown
O’er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare
Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair !
He is made one with Nature : there is heard
His voice in all her music, from the moan
Of thunder, to the song of night’s sweet bird ;
He is a presence to be felt and known
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone,
Spreading itself where’er that Power may move
Which has withdrawn his being to its own ;
Which wields the world with never wearied love,
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.
He is a portion of the loveliness
Which once he made more lovely : he doth bear
Plis part, while the one Spirit’s plastic stress
Sweeps through the dull dense world, compellin
there,
All new successions to the forms they wear;
Torturing th’ unwilling dross that checks its flight
To its own likeness, as each mass may bear ;
And bursting in its beauty and its might
From trees and beasts and men into the Heavens’ light.
The splendours of the firmament of time
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not;
Like stars to their appointed height they climb
And death is a low mist which cannot blot
The brightness it mav veil. When lofty thought
326﻿SHELLEY
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair,
And love and life contend in it, for what
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there
And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air.
The inheritors of unfulfilled renown
Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought,
Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton
Rose pale, his solemn agony had not
Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he fought
And as he fell and as he lived and loved
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot,
Arose ; and Lucan, by his death approved :
Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved.
And many more, whose names on Earth are dark
But whose transmitted effluence cannot die
So long as fire outlives the parent spark,
Rose, robed in dazzling immortality.
“ Thou art become as one of us,” they cry,
“ It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long
Swung blind in unascended majesty,
Silent alone amid a Heaven of Song.
Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng ! ”
Who mourns for Adonais ? oh come forth
Fond wretch ! and know thyself and him aright.
Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth ;
As from a centre, dart thy spirit’s light
Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might
Satiate the void circumference : then shrink
Even to a point within our day and night ;
And keep thy heart light lest it make thee sink
When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to the
brink.
327﻿FOUR POETS
Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre
O, not of him, but of our joy : ’tis nought
That ages, empires, and religions there
Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought ;
For such as he can lend,—they borrow not
Glory from those who made the world their prey ;
And he is gathered to the kings of thought
Who waged contention with their time’s decay,
And of the past are all that cannot pass away.
Go thou to Rome,—at once the Paradise,
The grave, the city, and the wilderness ;
And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise,
And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress
The bones of Desolation’s nakedness
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access
Where, like an infant’s smile, over the dead,
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread.
And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ;
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned
This refuge for his memory, doth stand
Like flame transformed to marble ; and beneath,
A field is spread, on which a newer band
Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath.
Flere pause : these graves are all too young as yet
To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned
Its charge to each ; and if the seal is set,
Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind,
Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou find
328﻿SHELLEY
Thine own well full, if thou returnest home,
Of tears and gall. From the world’s bitter wind
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb.
What Adonais is, why fear we to become ?
The One remains, the many change and pass ;
Heaven’s light forever shines, Earth’s shadows fly ;
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of Eternity,
Until Death tramples it to fragments.—Die,
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek !
Follow where all is fled !—Rome’s azure sky,
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.
Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart
Thy hopes are gone before : from all things here
They have departed ; thou shouldst now depart !
A light is past from the revolving year,
And man, and woman ; and what still is dear
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither.
The soft sky smiles,—the low wind whispers near ;
’Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither,
No more let Life divide what Death can join together
That Light whose smile kindles the Universe,
That Beauty in which all things work and move,
That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love
Which through the web of being blindly wove
By man and beast and earth and air and sea,
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of
The fire for which all thirst; now beams on me,
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.
329﻿FOUR POETS
The breath whose might I have invoked in song
Descends on me ; my spirit’s bark is driven,
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng
Whose sails were never to the tempest given;
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven !
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ;
Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven,
The soul of Adonais, like a star,
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.
1821.
o
XXVI.
ODE TO THE WEST WIND.
1.
O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O, thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill :
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ;
Destroyer and preserver : hear, O, hear!
o o n﻿SHELLEY
ii.
Thou on >vhose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion
Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning : there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith’s height
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst : O, hear!
ill.
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baire’s bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know﻿FOUR POETS
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves : O, hear !
IV.
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision ; I would ne’er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud !
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed !
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and proud.
v.
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is :
What if my leaves are falling like its own !
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet thoughts in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce,
My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one !
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth !
And, by the incantation of this verse,﻿SHELLEY
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind !
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy ! O, wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
1819,

XXVII.
LINES.
The cold earth slept below ;
Above the cold sky shone ;
And all around,
With a chilling sound,
From caves of ice and fields of snow,
The breath of night like death did flow
Beneath the sinking moon.
The wintry hedge was black,
The green grass was not seen,
The birds did rest
On the bare thorn’s breast,
Whose roots, beside the pathway track,
Had bound their folds o’er many a crack
Which the frost had made between.
Thine eyes glowed in the glare
Of the moon’s dying light;
As a fen-fire’s beam,
On a sluggish stream,
Gleams dimly—so the moon shone there,
And it yellowed the strings of thy tangled hair
That shook in the wind of night.
333﻿FOUR POETS
The moon made thy lips pale, beloved ;
The wind made thy bosom chill ;
The night did shed
On thy dear head
Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky
Might visit thee at will.
1815.
o-
XXVIII.
SONNET.
Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life : though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread,—behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin destinies ; who ever weave
Their shadows, o’er the chasm, sightless and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it—he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas ! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.
1818
o
334﻿SHELLEY
XXIX.
The rude wind is singing
The dirge of the music dead,
The cold worms are clinging
Where kisses were lately fed.
-o-
XXX.
TIME.
Unfathomable Sea ! whose waves are years,
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe
x\re brackish with the salt of human tears !
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow
Claspest the limits of mortality !
And sick of prey, yet howling on for more,
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore ;
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm,
Who shall put forth on thee,
Unfathomable Sea?
1821.
o-
XXXI.
SPRING.
’Twas at the season when the Earth upsprings
From slumber, as a sphered angel’s child,
Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings,
335﻿FOUR POETS
Stands up before its mother bright and mild,
Of whose soft voice the air expectant seems—
So stood before the sun, which shone and smiled
To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams,
The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove
Waxed green—and flowers burst forth like starry
beams:—
The grass in the warm sun did start and move,
And sea-buds burst beneath the waves serene :—
How many a one, though none be near to love,
Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen
In any mirror—or the spring’s young minions,
The winged leaves amid the copses green ;—
How many a spirit then puts on the pinions
Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast,
And his own steps—and over wide dominions
Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast,
More fleet than storms—the wide world shrinks below,
When winter and despondency are past.
Prince	1S17.
o
XXXII.
MUTABILITY.
The flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies ;
All that we wish to stay
Tempts and then flies.
What is this world’s delight ?
Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.
336﻿SHELLEY
Virtue, how frail it is !
Friendship how rare !
Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair !
But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy, and all
Which ours we call.
Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst (lowers are gay,
Whilst eyes that change ere night
Make glad the day ;
Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou—and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.
1821.
■o
XXXIII.
LOVE’S PHILOSOPHY.
The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean ;
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion ;
Nothing in the world is single ;
All things by a law divine
In one another’s being mingle ; —
Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven,
If it disdained its brother ;
337﻿FOUR POETS
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea :
What are all these hissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
1819.
XXXIV.
THE INDIAN SERENADE.
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright :
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me—who knows how ?
To thy chamber window, Sweet !
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream—
And the Champak’s odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream ;
The nightingale’s complaint,
It dies upon her heart;—
As I must on thine,
O ! beloved as thou art!
0	lift me from the grass !
1	die ! I faint! I fail !
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas !
INIy heart beats loud and fast;—
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.
n o
00
8
1819.﻿SHELLEY
XXXV.
LOVE LEFT ALONE.
I loved, I love, and when I love no more,
Let joys and grief perish, and leave despair
To ring the knell of youth. He stood beside me,
The embodied vision of the brightest dream,
Which like a dawn heralds the day of life ;
The shadow of his presence made my world
A paradise. All familiar things he touched,
All common words he spoke, became to me
Like forms and sounds of a diviner world,
lie was as is the sun in his fierce youth,
As terrible and lovely as a tempest ;
He came, and went, and left me what I am.
Alas! Why must I think how oft we two
Have sate together near the river springs,
Under the green pavilion which the willow
.Spreads on the floor of the unbroken fountain,
Strewn by the nurslings that linger there,
Over that islet paved with flowers and moss,
While the musk-rose leaves, like flakes of crimson snow,
Showered on us, and the dove mourned in the pine,
Sad prophetess of sorrows not her own?
The crane returned to her unfrozen haunt,
And the false cuckoo bade the spray good morn ;
And on a wintry bough the widowed bird,
Hid in the deepest night of ivy-leaves,
Renewed the vigils of a sleepless sorrow.
An Unfinished Drama. 1S22.
■O'
339﻿FOUR POETS
xxxvi.
TO F. G.
IIer voice did quiver as we parted,
Vet knew I not that heart was broken
From which it came, and I departed
Heeding not the words then spoken,
Misery—O Misery,
This world is all too wide for thee.
1817.
•O’
XXXVII.
TO NIGHT.
Swiftly walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave,
Where all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear,—
Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
Star-in wrought !
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day ;
Kiss her until she be wearied out,
Then wander o’er city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand—
Come, long sought !
340﻿SHELLEY
When I arose and saw the dawn
I sighed for thee ;
When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
And the weary Day turned to his rest,
Lingering like an unloved guest,
I sighed for thee.
Thy brother Death came, and cried,
Wouldst thou me?
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmured like a noon-tide bee,
Shall I nestle near thy side ?
Wouldst thou me ?—and I replied,
No, not thee?
Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon—
Sleep will come when thou art fled ;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night—
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon !
1821.
---o---
XXXVIII.
THE QUESTION.
I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way,
Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring,
And gentle odours led my steps astray,
Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream
But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in a dream.
341﻿FOUR POETS
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets ;
Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that wets—
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth—
Its mother’s face with heaven-collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
Green cow-bind and the moonlight-coloured May,
And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day;
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.
And nearer to the river’s trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with
white,
And starry river buds among the sedge,
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours
Within my hand,—and then, elate and gay,
I hastened to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it !—Oh ! to whom ?
1820.
342﻿SHELLEY
xxxix.
A LAMENT.
Oh, world ! oh, life ! oh, time!
Oil whose last steps I climb
Trembling at that where I had stood before ;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more—O, never more !
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight;
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar,
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
No more—O, never more !
1821.
XL.
A DIRGE.
Rough wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song ;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long ;
Sad storm, whose tears are vain,
Bare woods, whose branches stain,
Deep caves and dreary main,
Wail, for the world’s wrong !
182﻿


i
:
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﻿IReats
Born 1795 ; Died 1821.﻿


﻿I.
“ Places of nestling green for Poets made.”
Story of Rimini.
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still,
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,
Had not yet lost those starry diadems
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept
A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves :
For not the faintest motion could be seen
Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green.
There was wide wand’ring for the greediest eye,
To peer about upon variety ;
Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim,
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ;
To picture out the quaint and curious bending
Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending ;
Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,
Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free
As though the fanning wings of Mercury
Ilad played upon my heels : I was light-hearted,
And many pleasures to my vision started ;
So I straightway began to pluck a posy
Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.
A bush of May flowers with the bees about them ;
347﻿
FOUR POETS
Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them !
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them
Moist, cool and green ; and shade the violets,
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
A filbert hedge with wildbriar overtwined,
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind
Upon their summer thrones ; there too should be
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,
That with a score of light green brethren shoots
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots :
Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters
Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters
The spreading blue bells : it may haply mourn
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn
From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly
By infant hands, left on the path to die.
Open afresh your round of starry folds,
Ye ardent mangolds !
Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,
For great Apollo bids
That in these days your praises should be sung
On many harps, which he has lately strung ;
And when again your dewiness he kisses,
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses :
So haply when I rove in some far vale,
His mighty voice may come upon the gale.
Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a Eight :
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.
Linger awhile upon some bending planks
That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks,
343﻿KEATS
And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings :
They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings.
How silent comes the water round that bend !
Not the minutest whisper does it send
To the o’erhanging sallows : blades of grass
Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass.
Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach
To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach
A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds ;
Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,
Staying their wavy bodies ’gainst the streams,
To taste the luxury of sunny beams
Temper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestle
With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand !
If you but scantily hold out the hand,
That very instant not one will remain ;
But turn your eye, and they are there again.
The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,
And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses ;
The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,
And moisture, that the bowery green may live :
So keeping up an interchange of favours,
Like good men in the truth of their behaviours.
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
From low hung branches ; little space they stop ;
But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek ;
Then off at once, as in a wanton freak :
Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings,
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
Were I in such a place, I sure should pray
That nought less sweet might call my thoughts away,
Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown
Fanning away the dandelion’s down ;
Than the light music of her nimble toes
Patting against the sorrel as she goes.
349﻿FOUR POETS
How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught
Playing in all her innocence of thought !
O let me lead her gently o’er the brook,
Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look ;
O let me for one moment touch her wrist;
Let me one moment to her breathing list;
And as she leaves me may she often turn
Iler fair eyes looking through her locks auburne
What next ? A tuft of evening primroses,
O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes ;
O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
But that ’tis ever startled by the leap
Of buds into ripe flowers ; or by the flitting
Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting ;
Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
Coming into the blue with all her light.
O Maker of sweet poets ! dear delight
Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers ;
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
Of upcast eye, and tender pondering !
Thee must I praise above all other glories
That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
For what has made the sage or poet write
But the fair paradise of Nature’s light ?
In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
We see the waving of the mountain pine ;
And when a tale is beautifully staid,
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade :
When it is moving on luxurious wings,
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings :
Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases ;
35°﻿KEATS
O’erhead we see the jasmine and sweet briar,
And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire ;
While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles
Charms us at once away from all our troubles :
So that we feel uplifted from the world,
Walking upon the white clouds wreath’d and curl’d.
So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went
On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment ;
What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips
First touch’d ; what amorous and fondling nips
They gave each other’s cheeks ; with all their sighs,
And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes :
The silver lamp,—the ravishment,—the wonder—
The darkness,—loneliness,—the fearful thunder ;
Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,
To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne.
So did he feel, who pull’d the boughs aside,
That we might look into a forest wide,
To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades
Coming with softest rustle through the trees ;
And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,
Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet :
Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
Poor Nymph,—poor Pan,—how did he weep to find,
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream ; a half heard strain
Full of sweet desolation—balmy pain.
What first inspired a bard of old to sing
Narcissus pining o’er the untainted spring ?
In some delicious ramble, he had found
A little space, with boughs all woven round ;
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool
Than e’er reflected in its pleasant cool,
The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping
351﻿FOUR POETS
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.
And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,
A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,
Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness,
To woo its own sad image into nearness :
Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move ;
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot,
Some fainter gleamings o’er his fancy shot ;
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo’s bale.
Where had he been, from whose warm head outflew
That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,
That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,
Coming ever to bless
The wanderer by moonlight ? to him bringing
Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing
From out the middle air, from flowery nests,
And from the pillowy silkiness that rests
Full in the speculation of the stars.
Ah ! surely he had burst our mortal bars;
Into some wond'rous region he had gone,
To search for thee, divine Endymion !
He was a Poet, sure a lover too,
Who stood on Latmus’ top, what time there blew
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below ;
And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow
A hymn from Dian's temple ; while upswelling,
The incense went to her own starry dwelling.
But though her face was clear as infant’s eyes,
Though she stood smiling o’er the sacrifice,
The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,
Wept that such beauty should be desolate :
So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,
And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.
352﻿KEATS
Queen of the wide air ; thou most lovely queen
Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen !
As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,
So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.
O for three words of honey, that I might
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night !
Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,
Phcebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels,
And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes,
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.
The evening weather was so bright, and clear,
That men of health were of unusual cheer ;
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet’s call,
Or young Apollo on the pedestal:
And lovely women were as fair and warm,
As Venus looking sideways in alarm.
The breezes were ethereal, and pure,
And crept through half closed lattices to cure
The languid sick ; it cool’d their fever’d sleep,
And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.
Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirstin
Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting :
And springing up, they met the wond’ring sight
Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;
Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,
And on their placid foreheads part the hair.
Young men, and maidens at each other gaz’d
With hands held back, and motionless, amaz’d
To see the brightness in each others’ eyes ;
And so they stood, fill’d with a sweet surprise,
Until their tongues were loos’d in poesy.
Therefore no lover did of anguish die :
But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
Made silken ties, that never may be broken.﻿FOUR POETS
Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater blisses,
That follow’d thine, and thy dear shepherd’s kisses :
Was there a poet born ? but now no more,
My wand’ring spirit must no further soar.—
o
II.
SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO
A POEM
Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ;
For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye.
Not like the formal crest of latter days :
But bending in a thousand graceful ways ;
So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand,
Or e’en the touch of Archimago’s wand,
Could charm them into such an attitude.
We must think rather, that in playful mood,
Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight,
To show this wonder of its gentle might.
Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
For while I muse, the lance points slantingly
Athwart the morning air : some lady sweet,
Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,
From the warm top of some old battlement
Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent:
And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,
Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.
Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would tak
It is reflected, clearly, in a lake,
With the young ashen boughs, ’gainst which it rests,
And th’ half seen mossiness of linnets’ nests.
Ah ! shall I ever tell its cruelty,
When the fire flashes from a warrior’s eye,
354﻿KEATS
And his tremendous hand is grasping it,
And his dark brow for very wrath is knit ?
Or when his spirit, with more calm intent,
Leaps to the honors of a tournament,
And makes the gazers round about the ring
Stare at the grandeur of the balancing ?
No, no ! this is far off:—then how shall I
Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy,
Which linger yet about lone gothic arches,
In dark green ivy, and among wild larches ?
IIow sing the splendour of the revelries,
When butts of wine are drunk off to the lees ?
And that bright lance, against the fretted wall,
Beneath the shade of stately banneral,
Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield ?
Where ye may see a spur in bloody field.
Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces
Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces;
Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens :
Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens.
Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry :
Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by ?
Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight,
Rein in the swelling of his ample might ?
Spenser ! thy brows are arched, open, kind,
And come like a clear sun-rise to my mind ;
And always does my heart with pleasure dance,
When I think on thy noble countenance :
Where never yet was aught more earthly seen
Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green.
Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully
Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh
My daring steps : or if thy tender care,
Thus startled unaware,
r\ r*
J﻿FOUR POETS
Pe jealous that the foot of other wight
Should madly follow that bright path of light
Trac’d by thy lov’d Libertas ; he will speak,
And tell thee that my prayer is very meek ;
That I will follow with due reverence,
And start with awe at mine own strange pretence.
Him thou wilt hear ; so I will rest in hope
To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope :
The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers
Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking tower
III.
TO % % * %
IIadst thou liv'd in days of old,
O what wonders had been told
Of thy lively countenance,
And thy humid eyes that dance
In the midst of their own brightness ;
In the very fane of lightness.
Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,
Picture out each lovely meaning :
In a dainty bend they lie,
Like to streaks across the sky,
Or the feathers from a crow,
Fallen on a bed of snow.
Of thy dark hair that extends
Into many graceful bends :
As the leaves of Hellebore
Turn to whence they sprung before.
And behind each ample curl
Peeps the richness of a pearl.
356﻿KEATS
Downward too flows many a tress
With a glossy waviness ;
Full, and round like globes that rise
From the censer to the skies
Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness
Of thy honied voice ; the neatness
Of thine ankle lightly turn’d :
With those beauties, scarce discern’d,
Kept with such sweet privacy,
That they seldom meet the eye
Of the little loves that fly
Round about with eager pry.
Saving when, with freshening lave,
Thou dipp’st them in the taintless wave ;
Like twin water lilies, born
In the coolness of the morn.
O, if thou hadst breathed then,
Now the Muses had been ten.
Couldst thou wish for lineage higher
Than twin sister of Thalia?
At least for ever, evermore,
Will I call the Graces four.
Iladst thou liv’d when chivalry
Lifted up her lance on high,
Tell me what thou wouldst have been ?
Ah ! I see the silver sheen
Of thy broidered, floating vest
Cov’ring half thine ivory breast;
Which, O heavens ! I should see,
Eut that cruel destiny
Lias placed a golden cuirass there ;
Keeping secret what is fair.
Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested
Thy locks in knightly casque are rested :
O’er which bend four milky plumes
Like the gentle lily’s blooms
357﻿FOUR POETS
Springing from a costly vase.
See with what a stately pace
Comes thine alabaster steed ;
Servant of heroic deed !
O’er his loins, his trappings glow
Like the northern lights on snow.
Mount his back ! thy sword unsheath !
Sign of the enchanter’s death ;
Bane of every wicked spell;
Silencer of dragon’s yell.
Alas ! thou this wilt never do :
Thou art an enchantress too,
And wilt surely never spill
Blood of those whose eyes can kill.
o
IV.
Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies ;
Without that modest softening that enhances
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
That its mild light creates to heal again :
E’en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,
E’en then my soul with exultation dances
For that to love, so long, I’ve dormant lain :
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,
Heavens ! how desperately do I adore
Thy winning graces ;—to be thy defender
I hotly burn—to be a Calidore—
A very Red Cross Knight—a stout Leander—
Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.﻿KEATS
Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair ;
Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,
Are things on which the dazzled senses rest
Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare.
From such fine pictures, heavens ! I cannot dare
To turn my admiration, though unpossess’d
They be of what is worthy,—though not drest
In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.
Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark ;
These lures I straight forget,—e’en ere I dine,
Or thrice my palate moisten : but when I mark
Such charms with mild intelligences shine,
My ear is open like a greedy shark,
To catch the tunings of a voice divine.
Ah ! who can e’er forget so fair a being ?
Who can forget her half retiring sweets?
God ! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats
For man’s protection. Surely the All-seeing,
Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,
Will never give him pinions, who intreats
Such innocence to ruin,—who vilely cheats
A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing
One’s thoughts from such a beauty ; when I hear
A lay that once I saw her hand awake,
Her form seems floating palpable, and near ;
Had I e’er seen her from an arbour take
A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,
And o’er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.
O
359﻿FOUR POETS
v.
TO G. A. W.
Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance
In what diviner moments of the day
Art thou most lovely ? When gone far astray
Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance?
Or when serenely wand’ring in a trance
Of sober thought ? Or when starting away,
With careless robe, to meet the morning ray,
Thou spar’st the flowers in thy mazy dance?
Haply ’tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,
And so remain, because thou listenest:
But thou to please wert nurtured so completely
That I can never tell what mood is best.
I shall as soon pronounce which grace more neatly
Trips it before Apollo than the rest.
-O
VI.
Keen, fitful gusts are whisp’ring here and there
Among the bushes half leafless, and dry ;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home’s pleasant lair :
For I am brimfull of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair’d Milton’s eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown’d ;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown’d.
360﻿KEATS
VII.
To one who has been long in city pent,
’Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart’s content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment ?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet’s bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by :
E’en like the passage of an angel’s tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.
VIII.
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAP-
MAN’S ‘HOMER.’
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deeo-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne :
i	/
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold :
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken ;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star’d at the Pacific—and all his men
Look’d at each other with a wild surmise-
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
361﻿FOUR POETS
IX.
ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND
CRICKET.
The poetry of earth is never dead :
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead ;
That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead
In summer luxury,—he has never done
With his delights ; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never :
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.
December 30, 1S16.
o
X.
IlArrY is England ! I could be content
To see no other verdure than its own ;
To feel no other breezes than are blown
Through its tall woods with high romances blent :
Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment
For skies Italian, and an inward groan
To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
And half forget what world or worldling meant.
362﻿KEATS
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters ;
Enough their simple loveliness for me,
Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging :
Yet do I often warmly burn to see
Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing
And float with them about the summer waters.
O
XI.
SLEEP AND POETRY.
u As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
“ Was unto me, but why that I ne might
“ Rest I ne wist, for there n’as erthly wight
u[As I suppose] had more of hertis ese
“Than I, for I n’ad sicknesse nor disese.”
Chaucer.
Wiiat is more gentle than a wind in summer?
What is more soothing than a pretty hummer
That stays one moment in an open flower,
And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower ?
What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing
In a green island, far from all men’s knowing?
More healthful than the leafiness of dales ?
More secret than a nest of nightingales?
More serene than Cordelia’s countenance ?
More full of visions than a high romance?
What, but thee, Sleep ? Soft closer of our eyes !
Low murmurer of tender lullabies !
Light hoverer around our happy pillows !
Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows !
Silent entangler of a beauty’s tresses !
Most happy listener ! when the morning blesses
Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes
That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.﻿FOUR POETS
But what is higher beyond thought than thee ?
Fresher than berries of a mountain tree ?
More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,
Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?
What is it ? And to what shall I compare it ?
It has a glory, and nought else can share it:
The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,
Chasing away all worldliness and folly;
Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,
Or the low rumblings of earth’s regions under ;
And sometimes like a gentle whispering
Of all the secrets of some wond rous thing
That breathes about us in the vacant air ;
So that we look around with prying stare,
Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning,
And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;
To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,
That is to crown our name when life is ended.
Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,
And from the heart up-springs, rejoice ! rejoice !
Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,
And die away in ardent mutterings.
No one who once the glorious sun has seen,
And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean
For his great Maker's presence, but must know
What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow :
Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,
By telling what he sees from native merit.
O Poesy ! for thee I hold my pen
That am not yet a glorious denizen
Of thy wide heaven—Should I rather kneel
Upon some mountain-top until I feel
A glowing splendour round about me hung,
364﻿KEATS
And echo back the voice of thine own tongue ?
O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my pen
That am not yet a glorious denizen
Of thy wide heaven ; yet, to my ardent prayer,
Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,
Smoothed for intoxication by the breath
Of flowering bays, that I may die a death
Of luxury, and my young spirit follow
The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo
Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear
The o’erwhehning sweets, ’twill bring me to the fair
Visions of all places : a bowery nook
Will be elysium—an eternal book
Whence I may copy many a lovely saying
About the leaves, and flowers—about the playing
Of nymphs in woods, and fountains ; and the shade
Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid ;
And many a verse from so strange influence
That we must ever wonder how, and whence
It came. Also imaginings will hover
Round my fire-side, and haply there discover
Vistas of solemn beauty, where I’d wander
In happy silence, like the clear meander
Through its lone vales ; and where I found a spot
Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,
Or a green hill o’erspread with chequered dress
Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,
Write on my tablets all that was permitted,
All that was for our human senses fitted.
Then the events of this wide world I’d seize
Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze
Till at its shoulders it should proudly see
Wings to find out an immortality.
Stop and consider ! life is but a day ;
A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way
365﻿FOUR POETS
From a tree’s summit ; a poor Indian’s sleep
While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep
Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan ?
Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown ;
The reading of an ever-changing tale ;
The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil ;
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air ;
A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,
Riding the springy branches of an elm.
O for ten years, that I may overwhelm
Myself in poesy ! so I may do the deed
That my own soul has to itself decreed.
Then I will pass the countries that I see
In long perspective, and continually
Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I’ll pass
Of Flora and old Pan : sleep in the grass,
Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,
And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees ;
Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,
To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,—
Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white
Into a pretty shrinking with a bite
As hard as lips can make it: till agreed,
A lovely tale of human life we’ll read.
And one will teach a tame dove how it best
May fan the cool air gently o’er my rest;
Another, bending o’er her nimble tread,
Will set a green robe floating round her head,
And still will dance with ever varied ease,
Smiling upon the flowers and the trees :
Another will entice me on, and on
Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon ;
Till in the bosom of a leafy world
We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl’d
In the recesses of a pearly shell.
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And can I ever bid these joys farewell ?
Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,
Where I may find the agonies, the strife
Of human hearts : for lo ! I see afar,
O’er sailing the blue cragginess, a car
And steeds with streamy manes—the charioteer
Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:
And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly
Along a huge cloud’s ridge ; and now with sprightly
Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,
Tipt round with silver from the sun’s bright eyes.
Still downward with capacious whirl they glide ;
And now I see them on a green-hill’s side
In breezy rest among the nodding stalks.
The charioteer with wond’rous gesture talks
To the trees and mountains ; and there soon appear
Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,
Passing along before a dusky space
Made by some mighty oaks : as they would chase
Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep.
Lo ! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep
Some with upholden hand and mouth severe ;
Some with their faces muffled to the ear
Between their arms ; some, clear in youthful bloom,
Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom ;
Some looking back, and some with upward gaze ;
Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways
Flit onward—now a lovely wreath of girls
Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls ;
And now broad wings. Most awfully intent
The driver of those steeds is forward bent,
And seems to listen : O that I might know
All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.
The visions all are fled—the car is fled
Into the light of heaven, and in their stead
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A sense of real tilings comes doubly strong,
And, like a muddy stream, would bear along
My soul to nothingness : but I will strive
Against all doubtings, and will keep alive
The thought of that same chariot, and the strange
Journey it went.
Is there so small a range
In the present strength of manhood, that the high
Imagination cannot freely lly
As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,
Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds
Upon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all ?
From the clear space of ether, to the small
Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning
Of Jove’s large eye-brow, to the tender greening
Of April meadows ? Here her altar shone,
E’en in this isle ; and who could paragon
The fervid choir that lifted up a noise
Of harmony, to where it aye will poise
Its mighty self of convoluting sound,
Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,
Eternally around a dizzy void ?
Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy’d
With honors ; nor had any other care
Than to sing out and soothe tkeir wavy hair.
Could all this be forgotten ? Yes, a schism
Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,
Made great Apollo blush for this his land.
Men were thought wise who could not understand
11 is glories : with a puling infant’s force
They sway’d about upon a rocking horse,
And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul’d !
The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll’d
Its gathering waves—ye felt it not. The blue
Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew
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Of summer nights collected still to make
The morning precious : beauty was awake !
Why were ye not awake ? But ye were dead
To things ye knew not of,—were closely wed
To musty laws lined out with wretched rule
And compass vile : so that ye taught a school
Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,
Till, like the certain wands of Jacob’s wit,
Their verses tallied. Easy was the task :
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask
Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race !
That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,
And did not know it,—no, they went about,
Holding a poor, decrepid standard out
Mark’d with most flimsy mottos, and in large
The name of one Boileau !
O ye whose charge
It is to hover round our pleasant hills !
Whose congregated majesty so fills
My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace
Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,
So near those common folk ; did not their shames
Affright you ? Did our old lamenting Thames
Delight you ? Did ye never cluster round
Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,
And weep ? Or did ye wholly bid adieu
To regions where no more the laurel grew ?
Or did ye stay to give a welcoming
To some lone spirits who could proudly sing
Their youth away, and die ? ’Twas even so :
But let me think away those times of woe :
Now ’tis a fairer season ; ye have breathed
Rich benedictions o’er us ; ye have wreathed
Fresh garlands : for sweet music has been heard
In many places ;—some has been upstirr’d
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From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,
By a swan’s ebon bill ; from a thick brake,
Nested and quiet in a valley mild,
Bubbles a pipe ; fine sounds are floating wild
About the earth : happy are ye and glad.
These things are doubtless: yet in truth we’ve had
Strange thunders from the potency of song ;
Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,
From majesty : but in clear truth the themes
Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes
Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower
Of light is poesy ; 'tis the supreme of power ;
’Tis might half slumb’ring on its own right arm.
The very archings of her eye-lids charm
A thousand willing agents to obey,
And still she governs with the mildest sway :
But strength alone though of the Muses born
Is like a fallen angel : trees uptorn,
Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres
Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,
And thorns of life ; forgetting the great end
Of poesy, that it should be a friend
To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.
Yet I rejoice : a myrtle fairer than
E’er grew in Faphos, from the bitter weeds
Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds
A silent space with ever sprouting green.
All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,
Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,
Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.
Then let us clear away the choaking thorns
From round its gentle stem ; let the young fawns,
Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,
Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown
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With simple flowers : let there nothing be
More boisterous than a lover’s bended knee ;
Nought more ungentle than the placid look
Of one who leans upon a closed book ;
Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes
Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes !
As she was wont, th’ imagination
Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone,
And they shall be accounted poet kings
Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.
O may these joys be ripe before I die.
Will not some say that I presumptuously
Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace
’Twere better far to hide my foolish face ?
That whining boyhood should with reverence bow
Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach ? How !
If I do hide myself, it sure shall be
In the very fane, the light of Poesy :
If I do fall, at least I will be laid
Beneath the silence of a poplar shade ;
And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven ;
And there shall be a kind memorial graven.
But off Despondence ! miserable bane !
They should not know thee, who athirst to gain
A noble end, are thirsty every hour.
What though I am not wealthy in the dower
Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not know
The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow
Hither and thither all the changing thoughts
Of man : though no great minist’ring reason sorts
Out the dark mysteries of human souls
To clear conceiving : yet there ever rolls
A vast idea before me, and I glean
Therefrom my liberty ; thence too I’ve seen
The end and aim of Poesy. ’Tis clear
As anything most true ; as that the year
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Is made of (he four seasons—manifest
As a large cross, some old cathedral’s crest,
Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I
lie but the essence of deformity,
A coward, did my very eye-lids wink
At speaking out what I have dared to think.
Ah ! rather let me like a madman run
Over some precipice ; let the hot sun
Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down
Convuls’d and headlong ! Stay ! an inward frow
Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.
An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,
Spreads awfully before me. blow much toil !
How many days ! what desperate turmoil !
Ere I can have explored its widenesses.
Ah, what a task ! upon my bended knees,
I could unsay those—no, impossible !
Impossible !
For sweet relief I'll dwell
On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay
Begun in gentleness die so away.
E’en now all tumult from my bosom fades :
I turn full hearted to the friendly aids
That smooth the path of honour ; brotherhood,
And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.
The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet
Into the brain ere one can think upon it;
The silence when some rhymes are coming out;
And when they’re come, the very pleasant rout :
The message certain to be done to-morrow.
’Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow
Some precious book from out its snug retreat,
To cluster round it when we next shall meet.
Scarce can I scribble on ; for lovely airs
Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs ;
37 2﻿KEATS
Many delights of that glad day recalling,
When first my senses caught their tender falling.
And with these airs come forms of elegance
Stooping their shoulders o’er a horse’s prance,
Careless, and grand—fingers soft and round
Parting luxuriant curls ;—and the swift bound
Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye
Made Ariadne’s cheek look blushingly.
Thus I remember all the pleasant flow
Of words at opening a portfolio.
Things such as these are ever harbingers
To trains of peaceful images : the stirs
Of a swan’s neck unseen among the rushes :
A linnet starting all about the bushes :
A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted
Nestling a rose, convuls’d as though it smarted
With over pleasure—many, many more,
Might I indulge at large in all my store
Of luxuries : yet I must not forget
Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet :
For what there may be worthy in these rhymes
I partly owe to him : and thus, the chimes
Of friendly voices had just given place
To as sweet a silence, when I ’gan retrace
The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.
It was a poet’s house who keeps the keys
Of pleasure’s temple. Round about were hung
The glorious features of the bards who sung
In other ages—cold and sacred busts
Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts
To clear Futurity his darling fame !
Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim
At swelling apples with a frisky leap
And reaching fingers, ’mid a luscious heap
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Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane
Of liny marble, and thereto a train
Of nymphs approaching fairly o’er the sward :
One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward
The dazzling sun-rise : two sistei's sweet
Bending their graceful figures till they meet
Over the trippings of a little child :
And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild
Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.
See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping
Cherishingly Diana’s timorous limbs ;—
A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims
At the bath’s edge, and keeps a gentle motion
With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean
Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er
Its rocky marge, and balances once more
The patient weeds ; that now unshent by foam
Feel all about their undulating home.
Sappho’s meek head was there half smiling down
At nothing ; just as though the earnest frown
Of over thinking had that moment gone
From oft her brow, and left her all alone.
Great Alfred’s too, with anxious, pitying eyes,
As if he always listened to the sighs
Of the goaded world ; and Kosciusko's worn
By horrid suffrance—mightily forlorn.
Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,
Starts at the sight of Laura ; nor can wean
II is eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they !
For over them was seen a free display
Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone
The face of Poesy : from off her throne
She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.
The very sense of where I was might well
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Keep Sleep aloof; but more than that there came
Thought after thought to nourish up the flame
Within my breast ; so that the morning light
Surprised me even from a sleepless night ;
And up I rose refresh’d, and glad, and gay,
Resolving to begin that very day
These lines ; and howsoever they be done,
I leave them as a father does his son.
O
XII.
LAMIA.
PART I.
Upon a time, before the faery broods
Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,
Before King Oberon’s bright diadem,
Sceptre, and mantle, clasp’d with dewy gem,
Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns
From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslip’cl lawns,
The ever-smitten Hermes empty left
His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft :
From high Olympus had he stolen light,
On this side of Jove’s clouds, to escape the sight
Of his great summoner, and made retreat
Into a forest on the shores of Crete.
For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt
A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt;
At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured
Pearls, while on land they wither’d and adored.
Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont,
And in those meads where sometime she might haunt,
Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse,
Though Fancy’s casket were unlock’d to choose.
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Ah, what a world of love was at her feet !
So Ilermes thought, and a celestial heat
Burnt from his winged heels to either ear,
That from a whiteness, as the lily clear,
Blush’d into roses ’mid his golden hair,
Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare.
From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew,
Breathing upon the flowers his passion new,
And wound with many a river to its head,
To find where this sweet nymph prepar’d her secret
bed:
In vain ; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found,
And so he rested, on the lonely ground,
Pensive, and full of painful jealousies
Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees.
There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice,
Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys
All pain but pity : thus the lone voice spake :
“ When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake !
“ When move in a sweet body fit for life,
“And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife
“ Of hearts and lips ! Ah, miserable me ! ”
The God, dove-footed, glided silently
Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed,
The taller grasses and full-flowering weed,
Until he found a palpitating snake,
Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake.
She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue ;
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr’d ;
And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,
Dissolv'd, or brighter shone, or interwreathed
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries—
So rainbow-sided, touch’d with miseries,
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She seem’d, at once, some penanced lady elf,
Some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self.
Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne’s tiar :
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet !
She had a woman’s mouth with all its pearls complete :
And for her eyes : what could such eyes do there
But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair ?
As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air.
Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake
Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love’s sake,
And thus ; while Hermes on his pinions lay,
Like a stoop’d falcon ere he takes his prey.
“Fair Hermes ! crown’d with feathers, fluttering light,
“ I had a splendid dream of thee last night:
“ I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold,
“Among the Gods, upon Olympus old,
“The only sad one ; for thou didst not hear
“The soft, lute-finger’d Muses chaunting clear,
“ Nor even Apollo when he sang alone,
“Deaf to his throbbing throat’s long, long melodious
moan.
“ I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes,
‘ * Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks,
“And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart,
“Strike for the Cretan isle ; and here thou art !
“Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid?”
Whereat the star of Lethe not delay’d
His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired :
‘ ‘ Thou smooth-lipp’d serpent, surely high inspired !
“Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes,
‘ ‘ Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise,
“ Telling me only where my nymph is fled,—
“ Where she doth breathe ! ” “ Bright planet, thou hast
said,”
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Return’d the snake, “ but seal with oaths, fair God ! ”
“ I swear,” said Hermes, “by my serpent rod,
“ And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown ! ”
Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms blown.
Then thus again the brilliance feminine :
“Too frail of heart ! for this lost nymph of thine,
“ Free as the air, invisibly, she strays
“ About these thornless wilds ; her pleasant days
“ She tastes unseen ; unseen her nimble feet
“ Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet;
“ From weary tendrils, and bow’d branches green,
“ She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen :
“ And by my power is her beauty veil’d
“To keep it unaffronted, unassail'd
“ By the love-glances of unlovely eyes,
“ Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear’d Silenus’ sighs. -
‘: Pale grew her immortality, for woe
“ Of all these lovers, and she grieved so
“ I took compassion on her, bade her steep
“II er hair in weird syrops, that would keep
“ Her loveliness invisible, yet free
“To wander as she loves, in liberty.
“Thou slialt behold her, Hermes, thou alone,
“ If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon ! ”
Then, once again, the charmed God began
An oath, and through the serpent’s ears it ran
Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian.
Ravish’d, she lifted her Circean head,
Blush’d a live damask, and swift-lisping said,
“ I was a woman, let me have once more
“A woman’s shape, and charming as before.
“ I love a youth of Corinth—O the bliss !
“Give me my woman’s form, and place me where he is.
“Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow,
“And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now.”
The God on half-shut feathers sank serene,
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She breath’d upon his eyes, and swift was seen
Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green.
It was no dream ; or say a dream it was,
Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass
Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
One warm, flush’d moment, hovering, it might seem
Dash’d by the wood-nymph’s beauty, so he burn’d ;
Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn’d
To the swoon’d serpent, and with languid arm,
Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean charm.
So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent,
Full of adoring tears and blandishment,
And towards her stept: she, like a moon in wane,
Faded before him, cower’d, nor could restrain
Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower
That faints into itself at evening hour :
But the God fostering her chilled hand,
She felt the warmth, her eyelids open’d bland,
And, like new flowers at morning song of bees,
Bloom’d, and gave up her honey to the lees.
Into the green-recessed woods they flew ;
Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do.
Left to herself, the serpent now began
To change ; her elfin blood in madness ran,
Her mouth foam’d, and the grass, therewith besprent,
Wither’d at dew so sweet and virulent ;
Her eyes in torture fix’d, and anguish drear,
Hot, glaz’d, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear,
Flash’d phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling
tear.
The colours all inflam’d throughout her train,
She writh’d about, convuls’d with scarlet pain :
A deep volcanian yellow took the place
Of all her milder-mooned body’s grace ;
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And, as the lava ravishes the mead,
Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede ;
Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars,
Eclips’d her crescents, and lick’d up her stars :
So that, in moments few, she was undrest
Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst,
And rubious-argent : of all these bereft,
Nothing but pain and ugliness were left.
Still shone her crown ; that vanish’d, also she
Melted and disappear’d as suddenly ;
And in the air, her new voice luting soft,
Cried, “ Lycius ! gentle Lycius ! ”—Borne aloft
With the bright mists about the mountains hoar
These words dissolv’d : Crete’s forests heard no more.
Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright,
A full-born beauty new and exquisite ?
She fled into that valley they pass o'er
Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas’ shore ;
And rested at the foot of those wild hills,
The rugged founts of the Peroean rills,
And of that other ridge whose barren back
Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack,
South-westward to Cleone. There she stood
About a young bird’s flutter from a wood,
Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread,
By a clear pool, wherein she passioned
To see herself escap’d from so sore ills,
While her robes flaunted with the daffodils.
Ah, happy Lycius !—for she was a maid
More beautiful than ever twisted braid,
Or sigh’d, or blushed, or on spring-flowered lea
Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy :
A virgin purest lipp’d, yet in the lore
Of love deep learned to the red heart's core :
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Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain
To unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain ;
Define their pettish limits, and estrange
Their points of contact, and swift counterchange
Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart
Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art ;
As though in Cupid’s college she had spent
Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent,
And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment.
Why this fair creature chose so fairily
By the wayside to linger, we shall see ;
But first ’tis fit to tell how she could muse
And dream, when in the serpent prison-house,
Of all she list, strange or magnificent :
How, ever, where she will’d, her spirit went ?
Whether to faint Elysium, or where
Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair
Wind into Thetis’ bower by many a pearly stair ;
Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine,
Stretch’d out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine ;
Or where in Pluto’s gardens palatine
Mulciber’s columns gleam in far piaezian line.
And sometimes into cities she would send
Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend ;
And once, while among mortals dreaming thus,
She saw the young Corinthian Lycius
Charioting foremost in the envious race,
Like a young Jove with calm uneager face,
And fell into a swooning love of him.
Now on the moth-time of that evening dim
He would return that way, as well she knew,
To Corinth from the shore ; for freshly blew
The eastern soft wind, and his galley now
Grated the quaystones with her brazen prow
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In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle
Fresh anchor’d ; whither he had been awhile
To sacrifice to Jove whose temple there,
Wails with high marble doors for blood and incense rare.
Jove heard his vows, and better’d his desire ;
For by some freakful chance he made retire
From his companions, and set forth to walk,
Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk :
Over the solitary hills he fared,
Thoughtless at first, but ere eve’s star appeared
His phantasy was lost, where reason fades,
In the calm’d twilight of Platonic shades.
Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near—
Close to her passing, in indifference drear,
His silent sandals swept the mossy green ;
So neighbour’d to him, and yet so unseen
She stood : he pass’d, shut up in mysteries,
His mind wrapp’d like his mantle, while her eyes
Follow’d his steps, and her neck regal white
Turn’d—syllabling thus, “Ah, Lycius bright,
“ And will you leave me on the hills alone?
“ Lycius, look back ! and be some pity shown.”
He did ; not with cold wonder fearingly,
But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice ;
For so delicious were the words she sung,
It seem’d he had lov’d them a whole summer long :
And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up,
Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup,
And still the cup was full,—while he, afraid
Lest she should vanish ere his lip had paid
Due adoration, thus began to adore ;
Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure :
“ Leave thee alone ! Look back ! Ah, Goddess, see
‘ ‘ Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee !
“For pity do not this sad heart belie—
“ Even as thou vanishest so I shall die.
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“ Stay ! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay !
“ To thy far wishes will thy streams obey :
“ Stay ! though the greenest woods be thy domain,
££ Alone they can drink up the morning rain :
££ Though a descended Pleiad, will not one
££ Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune
“Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine?
“ So sweetly to these ravish’d ears of mine
“ Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade
“ Thy memory will waste me to a shade :—
“ For pity do not melt ! ”—££ If I should stay,”
Said Lamia, “ here, upon this floor of clay,
££ And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough,
“ What canst thou say or do of charm enough
“To dull the nice remembrance of my home?
“Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam
“ Over these hills and vales, where no joy is,—
“ Empty of immortality and bliss !
“Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know
“That finer spirits cannot breathe below
“ In human climes, and live : Alas ! poor youth,
“ What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe
£ £ My essence ? What serener palaces,
“ Where I may all my many senses please,
“ And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts ap-
pease ?
“ It cannot be—Adieu ! ” So said, she rose
Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose
The amorous promise of her lone complain,
Swoon’d, murmuring of love, and pale with pain.
The cruel lady, without any show
Of sorrow for her tender favourite’s woe,
But rather, if her eyes could brighter be,
With brighter eyes and slow amenity,
Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh
The life she had so tangled in her mesh :
383﻿FOUR POETS
And as he from one trance was wakening
Into another, she began to sing,
Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing,
A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres,
While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting fires.
And then she whisper’d in such trembling tone,
As those who, safe together met alone
For the first time through many anguish’d days,
Use other speech than looks ; bidding him raise
His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt,
For that she was a woman, and without
Any more subtle fluid in her veins
Than throbbing blood, and that the self-same pains
Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his.
And next she wonder’d how his eyes could miss
Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said,
She dwelt but half retir’d, and there had led
Days happy as the gold coin could invent
Without the aid of love ; yet in content
Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by,
Where ’gainst a column he leant thoughtfully
At Venus’ temple porch, ’mid baskets heap’d
Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly i*eap'd
Late on that eve, as ’twas the night before
The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no more,
But wept alone those days, for why should she adore?
Lycius from death awoke into amaze,
To see her still, and singing so sweet lays;
Then from amaze into delight he fell
To hear her whisper woman’s lore so well;
And every word she spake entic’d him on
To unperplex’d delight and pleasure known.
Let the mad poets say whate’er they please
Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses,
There is not such a treat among them all,
Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall,
334﻿KEATS
As a real woman, lineal indeed
From Pyrrha’s pebbles or old Adam’s seed.
Thus gentle Lamia judg’d, and judg’d aright,
That Lycius could not love in half a fright,
So threw the goddess off, and won his heart
More pleasantly by playing woman’s part,
With no more awe than what her beauty gave,
That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save.
Lycius to all made eloquent reply,
Marrying to every word a twinborn sigh ;
And last, pointing to Corinth, ask’d her sweet,
If ’twas too far that night for her soft feet.
The way was short, for Lamia’s eagerness
Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease
To a few paces ; not at all surmised
By blinded Lycius, so in her comprised.
They pass’d the city gates, he knew not how,
So noiseless, and he never thought to know.
As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all,
Throughout her palaces imperial,
And all her populous streets and temples lewd
Mutter’d, like tempest in the distance brew’d,
To the wide-spreaded night above her towers.
Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours,
Shuffled their sandals o’er the pavement white,
Companion’d or alone ; while many a light
Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals,
And threw their moving shadows on the walls,
Or found them cluster’d in the corniced shade
Of some arch’d temple door, or dusky colonnade.
Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear,
Her fingers he press’d hard, as one came near
With curl’d gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald
crown,
Slow-stepp’d, and robed in philosophic gown :
385	‘	CC﻿FOUR POETS
Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past,
Into his mantle, adding wings to haste,
While hurried Lamia trembled : “ Ah,” said he,
“ Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully?
£ ‘ Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew ? ”—
“ I’m wearied,” said fair Lamia : “ tell me who
‘ ‘ Is that old man ? I cannot bring to mind
“ His features :—Lycius ! wherefore did you blind
“ Yourself from his quick eyes? ” Lycius replied,
“ ’Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide
“ And good instructor ; but to-night he seems
“The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.”
While yet he spake they had arrived before
A pillar’d porch, with lofty portal door,
Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow
Reflected in the slabbed steps below,
Mild as a star in water; for so new,
And so unsullied was the marble hue,
So through the crystal polish, liquid fine,
Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine
Could e’er have touch’d there. Sounds Tlolian
Breath’d from the hinges, as the ample span
Of the wide doors disclos’d a place unknown
Some time to any, but those two alone,
And a few Persian mutes, who that same year
Were seen about the markets : none knew where
They could inhabit ; the most curious
Were foil’d, who watch'd to trace them to their house :
And but the flitter-winged verse must tell,
For truth’s sake, what woe afterwards befel,
’Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus,
Shut from the busy world of more incredulous.﻿KEATS
PART II.
Love in a hut, with water and a crust,
Is—Love, forgive us !—cinders, ashes, dust ;
Love in a palace is perhaps at last
More grievous torment than a hermit’s fast :—
That is a doubtful tale from faery land,
Hard for the non-elect to understand.
Had Lycius liv’d to hand his story down,
Lie might have given the moral a fresh frown,
Or clench’d it quite : but too short was their bliss
To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss.
Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare,
Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair,
Hover’d and buzz’d his wings, with fearful roar,
Above the lintel of their chamber door,
And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor.
For all this came a ruin : side by side
They were enthroned, in the even tide,
Upon a couch, near to a curtaining
Whose airy texture, from a golden string,
Floated into the room, and let appear
Unveil’d the summer heaven, blue and clear,
Betwixt two marble shafts :—there they reposed,
Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed,
Saving a tithe which love still open kept,
That they might see each other while they almost slept ;
When from the slope side of a suburb hill,
Deafening the swallow’s twitter, came a thrill
Of trumpets—Lycius started—the sounds fled,
But left a thought, a buzzing in his head.
For the first time, since first he harbour’d in
That purple-lined palace of sweet sin,
His spirit pass’d beyond its golden bourn
Into the noisy world almost forsworn.
387﻿FOUR POETS
The lady, ever watchful, penetrant,
Saw this with pain, so arguing a want
Of something more, more than her empery
Of joys ; and she began to moan and sigh
Because he mused beyond her, knowing well
That but a moment’s thought is passion’s passing bell.
“ Why do you sigh, fair creature?” whisper’d he :
“ Why do you think ?” return’d she tenderly :
‘ ‘ You have deserted me ;—where am I now ?
“Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow :
“No, no, you have dismiss’d me ; and I go
“ From your breast houseless : ay, it must be so.”
He answer’d, bending to her open eyes,
Where he wras mirror’d small in paradise,
“ My silver planet, both of eve and morn !
“ Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn,
‘ ‘ While I am striving how to fill my heart
“With deeper crimson, and a double smart;
“ How to entangle, trammel up and snare
‘ ‘ Your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there
“ Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose ?
“Ay, a swreet kiss—you see your mighty wroes.
“ My thoughts ! shall I unveil them ? Listen then !
“ What mortal hath a prize, that other men
“ May be confounded and abash'd withal,
“ But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical,
“And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice
“ Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth’s voice.
“ Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar,
“ While through the thronged streets your bridal car
“ Wheels round its dazzling spokes.”—The lady’s cheek
Trembled; she nothing said, but, pale and meek,
Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain
Of sorrows at his words ; at last with pain
Beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung,
To change his purpose. He thereat was stung,
338﻿KEATS
Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim
Her wild and timid nature to his aim :
Besides, for all his love, in self despite,
Against his better self, he took delight
Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new.
His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue
Fierce and sanguineous as ’twas possible
In one whose brow had no dark veins to swell.
Fine was the mitigated fury, like
Apollo’s presence when in act to strike
The serpent—Ha, the serpent ! certes, she
Was none. She burnt, she lov’d the tyranny,
And, all subdued, consented to the hour
When to the bridal he should lead his paramour.
Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth,
“ Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my truth
“ I have not ask’d it, ever thinking thee
“Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny,
“ As still I do. Hast any mortal name,
“Fit appellation for this dazzling frame?
“ Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth,
“ To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth ? ”
“ I have no friends,” said Lamia, “ no, not one ;
“ My presence in wide Corinth hardly known :
“ My parents’ bones are in their dusty urns
“ Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns,
“ Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me,
“ And I neglect the holy rite for thee.
“ Even as you list invite your many guests ;
“ But if, as now it seems, your vision rests
“ With any pleasure on me, do not bid
“ Old Apollonius—from him keep me hid.”
Lucius, perplex’d at words so blind and blank,
Made close inquiry ; from whose touch she shrank,
Feigning a sleep ; and he to the dull shade
Of deep sleep in a moment was betray’d.﻿FOUR POETS
It was the custom then to bring away
The bride from home at blushing shut of day,
Veil’d, in a chariot, heralded along
By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song,
With other pageants : but this fair unknown
Ilad not a friend. So being left alone,
(Lycius was gone to summon all his kin)
And knowing surely she could never win
His foolish heart from its mad pompousness,
She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress
The misery in fit magnificence.
She did so, but ’tis doubtful how and whence
Came, and who were her subtle servitors.
About the halls, and to and from the doors,
There was a noise of wings, till in short space
The glowing banquet-room shone with wide-arched grace.
A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone
Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan
Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade.
Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade
Of palm and plantain, met from either side,
High in the midst, in honour of the bride :
Two palms and then two plantains, and so on,
From either side their stems branch'd one to one
All down the aisled place ; and beneath all
There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to wall.
So canopied, lay an untasted feast
Teeming with odours. Lamia, regal drest,
Silently paced about, and as she went,
In pale contented sort of discontent,
Mission’d her viewless servants to enrich
The fretted splendour of each nook and niche.
Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first,
Came jasper panels ; then, anon, there burst
Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees,
And with the larger wove in small intricacies.
390﻿KEATS
Approving all, she faded at self-will,
And shut the chamber up, close, hush’d and still,
Complete and ready for the revels rude,
When dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude.
The day appear’d, and all the gossip rout.
O senseless Lycius ! Madman ! wherefore flout
The silent-blessing fate, warm cloister’d hours,
And show to common eyes these secret bowers ?
The herd approach’d ; each guest, with busy brain,
Arriving at the portal, gaz’d amain,
And enter'd marveling : for they knew the street,
Remember’d it from childhood all complete
Without a gap, yet ne’er before had seen
That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne ;
So in they hurried all, maz'd, curious and keen :
Save one, who look’d thereon with eye severe,
And with calm-planted steps walk’d in austere;
’Twas Apollonius : something too he laugh’d,
As though some knotty problem, that had daft
Ilis patient thought, had now begun to thaw,
And solve and melt :—’twas just as he foresaw.
fie met within the murmurous vestibule
Ilis young disciple. “ ’Tis no common rule,
“Lycius,” said he, “for uninvited guest
“To force himself upon you, and infest
“With an unbidden presence the bright throng
“ Of younger friends ; yet must I do this wrong,
“And you forgive me.” Lycius blush’d, and led
The old man through the inner doors broad-spread ;
With reconciling words and courteous mien
Turning into sweet milk the sophist’s spleen.
Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room,
Fill’d with pervading brilliance and perfume :
391﻿FOUR POETS
Before each lucid panel fuming stood
A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood,
Each by a sacred tripod held aloft,
Whose slender feet wide-swerv’d upon the soft
Wool-woofed carpets : fifty wreaths of smoke
From fifty censers their light voyage took
To the high roof, still mimick’d as they rose
Along the mirror’d walls by twin-clouds odorous.
Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats insphered,
High as the level of a man’s breast rear’d
On libbard’s paws, upheld the heavy gold
Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told
Of Ceres’ horn, and, in huge vessels, wine
Came from the gloomy tun with merry shine.
Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood,
Each shrining in the midst the image of a God.
When in an antichamber every guest
Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press'd,
By minist’ring slaves, upon his hands and feet,
And fragrant oils with ceremony meet
Pour’d on his hair, they all mov’d to the feast
In white robes, and themselves in order placed
Around the silken couches, wondering
Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could
spring.
Soft went the music the soft air along,
While fluent Greek a vowel’d undersong
Kept up among the guests, discoursing low
At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow ;
But when the happy vintage touch’d their brains,
Louder they talk, and louder come the strains
Of powerful instruments :—the gorgeous dyes,
The space, the splendour of the draperies,
The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer,
Beautiful slaves, and Lamia’s self, appear,
392﻿KEATS
Now, when the wine has done its.rosy deed,
And every soul from human trammels freed,
No more so strange ; for merry wine, sweet wine,
Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine.
Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height;
Flush’d were their cheeks, and bright eyes double brigh
Garlands of every green, and every scent
From vales deflower’d, or forest-trees branch-rent,
In baskets of bright osier’d gold were brought
High as the handles heap’d, to suit the thought
Of every guest; that each, as he did please,
Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow’d at his ease.
What wreath for Lamia? What for Lycius ?
What for the sage, old Apollonius?
Upon her aching forehead be there hung
The leaves of willow and of adder’s tongue ;
And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him
The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim
Into forgetfulness ; and, for the sage,
Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage
War on his temples. Do not all charms fly
At the mere touch of cold philosophy?
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven :
We know her woof, her texture ; she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine—
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made
The tender-person’d Lamia melt into a shade.
By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place,
Scarce saw in all the room another face,
Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took
Full brimm’d, and opposite sent forth a look
393﻿FOUR POETS
’Cross the broad table, .to beseech a glance
From his old teacher’s wrinkled countenance,
And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher
Had fix’d his eye, without a twinkle or stir
Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride,
Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride.
Lycius then press’d her hand, with devout touch,
As pale it lay upon the rosy couch :
’Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins ;
Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains
Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart.
“ Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start?
“ Know’st thou that man ? ” Poor Lamia answer’d not.
lie gaz’d into her eyes, and not a jot
Own’d they the lovelorn piteous appeal :
More, more he gaz’d : his human senses reel :
Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs ;
There was no recognition in those orbs.
“ Lamia ! ” he cried—and no soft-toned reply.
The many heard, and the loud revelry
Grew hush ; the stately music no more breathes ;
The myrtle sicken’d in a thousand wreaths.
By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased ;
A deadly silence step by step increased,
Until it seem’d a horrid presence there,
And not a man but felt the terror in his hair.
“ Lamia ! ” he shriek’d ; and nothing but the shriek
With its sad echo did the silence break.
‘‘Begone, foul dream ! ” he cried, gazing again
In the bride’s face, where now no azure vein
Wander’d on fair-spaced temples ; no soft bloom
Misted the cheek ; no passion to illume
The deep-recessed vision:—all was blight;
Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white.
“ Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man !
“ Turn them aside, wretch ! or the righteous ban
394﻿KEATS
“ Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images
“ Here represent their shadowy presences,
“ May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn
“ Of painful blindness ; leaving thee forlorn,
“ In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright
“ Of conscience, for their long offended might,
“For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries,
“ Unlawful magic, and enticing lies.
“Corinthians ! look upon that gray-beard wretch !
“Mark how, possess’d, his lashless eyelids stretch
“Around his demon eyes ! Corinthians, see !
“ My sweet bride withers at their potency.”
“ Fool ! ” said the sophist, in an under-tone
Gruff with contempt ; which a death-nighing moan
From Lycius answer’d, as heart-struck and lost,
He sank supine beside the aching ghost.
“ Fool ! Fool ! ” repeated he, while his eyes still
Relented not, nor mov'd ; “ from every ill
“ Of life have I preserv’d thee to this day,
“ And shall I see thee made a serpent’s prey ?”
Then Lamia breath’d death-breath ; the sophist’s eye
Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly,
Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging : she, as well
As her weak hand could any meaning tell,
Motion’d him to be silent ; vainly so,
He look’d and look’d again a level—No !
“ A Serpent ! ” echoed he ; no sooner said,
Than with a frightful scream she vanished :
And Lycius’ arms were empty of delight,
As were his limbs of life, from that same night.
On the high couch he lay !—his friends came round—
Supported him—no pulse, or breath they found,
And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.
395﻿FOUR POETS
XIII.
ISABELLA; OR, THE POT OF BASIL.
A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO.
I.
Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel !
Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love’s eye !
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell
Without some stir of heart, some malady ;
They could not sit at meals but feel how well
It soothed each to be the other by ;
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep
But to each other dream, and nightly weep.
II.
With every morn their love grew tenderer,
With every eve deeper and tenderer still ;
He might not in house, field, or garden stir,
But her full shape would all his seeing fill;
And his continual voice was pleasanter
To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.
III.
lie knew whose gentle hand was at the latch,
Before the door had given her to his eyes;
And from her chamber-window he would catch
Her beauty farther than the falcon spies ;
And constant as her vespers would he watch,
Because her face was turn’d to the same skies ;
And with sick longing all the night outwear,
To hear her morning-step upon the stair.
396﻿KEATS
IV.
A whole long month of May in this sad plight
Made their cheeks paler by the break of June :
“ To-morrow will I bow to my delight,
“To-morrow will I ask my lady’s boon.”—
“ O may I never see another night,
“ Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love’s tune.”—
So spake they to their pillows ; but, alas,
Honey less days and days did he let pass ;
v.
Until sweet Isabella’s untouch’d cheek
Fell sick within the rose’s just domain,
Fell thin as a young mother’s, who doth seek
By every lull to cool her infant’s pain :
“ How ill she is,” said he, “LI may not speak,
“ And yet I will, and tell my love all plain :
“ If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears
“And at the least ’twill startle off her cares.”
VI.
So said he one fair morning, and all day
His heart beat awfully against his side ;
And to his heart he inwardly did pray
For power to speak ; but still the ruddy tide
Stifled his voice, and puls’d resolve away—
Fever’d his high conceit of such a bride,
Yet brought him to the meekness of a child :
Alas ! when passion is both meek and wild !
VII.
So once more he had wak’d and anguished
A dreary night of love and misery,
If Isabel’s quick eye had not been wed
To every symbol on his forehead high ;
39 7﻿FOUR POETS
She saw it waxing very pale and dead,
And straight all flush’d ; so, lisped tenderly,
“ Lorenzo ! ”—here she ceas’d her timid quest,
But in her tone and look he read the rest.
VIII.
“ O Isabella, I can half perceive
“ That I may speak my grief into thine ear ;
“If thou didst ever any thing believe,
“ Believe how I love thee, believe how near
“ My soul is to its doom : I would not grieve
“ Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear
“ Thine eyes by gazing ; but I cannot live
“ Another night, and not my passion shrive.
IX.
“ Love ! thou art leading me from wintry cold,
“ Lady ! thou leadest me to summer clime,
“And I must taste the blossoms that unfold
“ In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time.”
So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold,
And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme :
Great bliss was with them, and great happiness
Grew, like a lusty flower in June’s caress.
x.
Parting they seem’d to tread upon the air,
Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart
Only to meet again more close, and share
The inward fragrance of each other’s heart.
She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair
Sang, of delicious love and honey’d dart;
He with light steps went up a western hill,
And bade the sun farewell, and joy’d his fill.
398﻿KEATS
XI.
All close they met again, before the dusk
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,
All close they met, all eves, before the dusk
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,
Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk,
Unknown of any, free from whispering tale.
Ah ! better had it been for ever so,
Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe.
XII.
Were they unhappy then?—It cannot be—
Too many tears for lovers have been shed,
Too many sighs give we to them in fee,
Too much of pity after they are dead,
Too many doleful stories do we see,
Whose matter in bright gold were best be read
Except in such a page where Theseus’ spouse
Over the pathless waves towards him bows.
XIII.
But, for the general award of love,
The little sweet doth kill much bitterness ;
Though Dido silent is in under-grove,
And Isabella’s was a great distress,
Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove
Was not embalm’d, this truth is not the less—
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers,
Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
XIV.
With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt,
Enriched from ancestral merchandise,
And for them many a weary hand did swelt
In torched mines and noisy factories,
399﻿FOUR POETS
And many once proud-quiver’d loins did melt
In blood from stinging whip ;—with hollow eyes
Many all day in dazzling river stood,
To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood.
XV.
For them the Ceylon diver held his breath,
And went all naked to the hungry shark ;
For them his ears gush’d blood ; for them in death
The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark
Lay full of darts ; for them alone did seethe
A thousand men in troubles wide and dark :
Half-ignorant, they turn’d an easy wheel,
That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel.
XVI.
Why were they proud ? Because their marble founts
Gush’d with more pride than do a wretch’s tears?—
Why were they proud ? Because fair orange-mounts
Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs ?—
Why were they proud? Because red-lin’d accounts
Were richer than the songs of Grecian years?—
Why were they proud ? again we ask aloud,
Why in the name of Glory were they proud ?
XVII.
Yet were these Florentines as self-retired
In hungry pride and gainful cowardice,
As two close Hebrews in that land inspired,
Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies;
The hawks of ship-mast forests—the untired
And pannier’d mules for ducats and old lies—
Quick cat’s-paws on the generous stray-away,—
Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay.
400﻿KEATS
XVIII.
How was it these same ledger-men could spy
Fair Isabella in her downy nest?
How could they find out in Lorenzo’s eye
A straying from his toil ? Hot Egypt’s pest
Into their vision covetous and sly !
How could these money-bags see east and west ?
Yet so they did—and every dealer fair
Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare.
XIX.
O eloquent and famed Boccaccio !
Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon,
And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow,
And of thy roses amorous of the moon,
And of thy lilies, that do paler grow
Now they can no more hear thy ghittern’s tune,
For venturing syllables that ill beseem
The quiet glooms of sucli a piteous theme.
xx.
Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale
Shall move on soberly, as it is meet ;
There is no other crime, no mad assail
To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet
But it is done—succeed the verse or fail—
To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet;
To stead thee as a verse in English tongue,
An echo of thee in the north-wind sung.
XXI.
These brethren having found by many signs
What love Lorenzo for their sister had,
And how she lov’d him too, each unconfines
His bitter thoughts to other, well nigh mad
401
D D﻿FOUR POETS
That lie, the servant of their trade designs,
Should in their sister’s love be blithe and glad
When ’twas their plan to coax her by degrees
To some high noble and his olive-trees.
XXII.
And many a jealous conference had they,
And many times they bit their lips alone,
Before they fix’d upon a surest way
To make the youngster for his crime atone ;
And at the last, these men of cruel clay
Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone ;
For they resolved in some forest dim
To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him.
XXIII.
So on a pleasant morning, as he leant
Into the sun-rise, o’er the balustrade
Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent
Their footing through the dews ; and to him said,
“You seem there in the quiet of content,
“ Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade
“ Calm speculation ; but if you are wise,
“ Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies.
XXIV.
“To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount
“ To spur three leagues towards the Apennine ;
“ Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count
“ Ilis dewy rosary on the eglantine.”
Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont,
Bow’d a fair greeting to these serpents’ whine ;
And went in haste, to get in readiness,
With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman’s dress.
402﻿KEATS
XXV.
And as he to the court-yard pass’d along,
Each third step did he pause, and listen’d oft
If he could hear his lady’s matin-song,
Or the light whisper of her footstep soft ;
And as he thus over his passion hung,
He heard a laugh full musical aloft;
When, looking up, he saw her features bright
Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight.
XXVI.
“ Love, Isabel ! ” said he, “ I was in pain
“ Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow :
“ Ah ! what if I should lose thee, when so fain
“ I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow
“ Of a poor three hours’ absence? but we’ll gain
“Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow.
“Good-bye! I’ll soon be back.”—“Good-bye!”
she :—
And as he went she chanted merrily.
XXVII.
So the two brothers and their murder’d man
Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno’s stream
Gurgles through straiten’d banks, and still doth fan
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream
Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan
The brothers’ faces in the ford did seem,
Lorenzo’s flush with love.—They pass’d the water
Into a forest quiet for the slaughter.
XXVIII.
There was Lorenzo slain and buried in,
There in that forest did his great love cease ;
Ah ! when a soul doth thus its freedom win,
It aches in loneliness—is ill at peace
403
said﻿FOUR POETS
As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin :
They dipp’d their swords in the water, and did tease
Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur,
Each richer by his being a murderer.
XXIX.
They told their sister how, with sudden speed,
Lorenzo had ta’en ship for foreign lands,
Because of some great urgency and need
In their affairs, requiring trusty hands.
Poor Girl! put on thy stifling widow’s weed,
And ’scape at once from Hope’s accursed bands ;
To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow,
And the next day will be a day of sorrow.
XXX.
She weeps alone for pleasures not to be ;
Sorely she wept until the night came on,
And then, instead of love, O misery !
She brooded o’er the luxury alone :
His image in the dusk she seem’d to see,
And to the silence made a gentle moan,
Spreading her perfect arms upon the air,
And on her couch low murmuring, “ Where ? O where ?
But Selfishness, Love’s cousin, held not long
Its fiery vigil in her single breast;
She fretted for the golden hour, and hung
Upon the time with feverish unrest—
Not long—for soon into her heart a throng
Of higher occupants, a richer zest,
Came tragic ; passion not to be subdued,
And sorrow for her love in travels rude.
404﻿KEATS
XXXII.
In the mid days of autumn, on their eves
The breath of Winter comes from far away,
And the sick west continually bereaves
Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay
Of death among the bushes and the leaves,
To make all bare before he dares to stray
From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel
By gradual decay from beauty fell,
XXXIII.
Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes
She ask’d her brothers, with an eye all pale,
Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes
Could keep him off so long? They spake a tale
Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes
Came on them, like asmoke from Hinnom’svale;
And every night in dreams they groan’d aloud,
To see their sister in her snowy shroud.
XXXIV.
And she had died in drowsy ignorance,
But for a thing more deadly dark than all;
It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance,
Which saves a sick man from the feather’d pall
For some few gasping moments ; like a lance,
Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall
With cruel pierce, and bringing him again
Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain.
xxxv.
It was a vision.—In the drowsy gloom,
The dull of midnight, at her couch’s foot
Lorenzo stood, and wept: the forest tomb
Ilad marr’d his glossy hair which once could shoot
405﻿FOUR POETS
Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom
Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute
From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears
Had made a miry channel for his tears.
XXXVI.
Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake;
For there was striving, in its piteous tongue,
To speak as when on earth it was awake,
And Isabella on its music hung :
Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake,
As in a palsied Druid’s harp unstrung ;
And through it moan’d a ghostly under-song,
Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among.
XXXVII.
Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright
With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof
From the poor girl by magic of their light,
The while it did unthread the horrid woof
Of the late darken’d time, — the murderous spite
Of pride and avarice,—the dark pine roof
In the forest,—and the sodden turfed dell,
Where, without any word, from stabs he fell.
XXXVIII.
Saying moreover, “ Isabel, my sweet !
“ Red whortle-berries droop above my head,
“ And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet;
“Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed
“Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat
“ Comes from beyond the river to my bed :
“Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom,
“And it shall comfort me within the tomb.
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“ I am a shadow now, alas ! alas !
“ Upon the skirts of human-nature dwelling
“ Alone : I chant alone the holy mass,
“ While little sounds of life are round me knelling,
“ And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass,
“And many a chapel bell the hour is telling,
“ Paining me through : those sounds grow strange to me,
“ And thou art distant in Humanity.
XL.
“ I know what was, I feel full well what is,
“ And I should rage, if spirits could go mad ;
“Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss,
“That paleness warms my grave, as though I had
“ A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss
“To be my spouse : thy paleness makes me glad ;
‘ ‘ Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel
“ A greater love through all my essence steal.”
XLI.
The Spirit mourn’d “ Adieu! ”—dissolv’d, and left
The atom darkness in a slow turmoil;
As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft,
Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil,
We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft,
And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil :
It made sad Isabella’s eyelids ache,
And in the dawn she started up awake;
XLII.
“ Ha ! ha! ” said she, “ I knew not this hard life,
“ I thought the worst was simple misery ;
“ I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife
“ Portion’d us—happy days, or else to die ;
407﻿FOUR POETS
“ But there is crime—a brother’s bloody knife !
“ Sweet Spirit, thou hast school’d my infancy :
“ I’ll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes,
“ And greet thee morn and even in the skies.”
XLIII.
When the full morning came, she had devised
How she might secret to the forest hie ;
How she might find the clay, so dearly prized,
And sing to it one latest lullaby;
H ow her short absence might be unsurmised,
While she the inmost of the dream would try.
Resolv’d, she took with her an aged nurse,
And went into that dismal forest-hearse.
XLIV.
See, as they creep along the river side,
How she doth whisper to that aged Dame,
And, after looking round the champaign wide,
Shows her a knife.— “ What feverous hectic flame
“ Burns in thee, child?—What good can thee betide,
“That thou should’st smile again?"—The evening
came,
And they had found Lorenzo’s earthly bed ;
The flint was there, the berries at his head.
XLV.
Who hath not loiter’d in a green church-yard,
And let his spirit, like a demon mole,
Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard,
To see skull, coffin’d bones, and funeral stole ;
ritying each form that hungry Death had marr'd,
And filling it once more with human soul ?
Ah ! this is holiday to what was felt
When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt.
40S﻿KEATS
XLVI.
She gaz’d into the fresh-thrown mould, as though
One glance did fully all its secrets tell ;
Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know
Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well ;
Upon the murderous spot she seem’d to grow,
Like to a native lily of the dell :
Then with her knife, all sudden, she began
To dig more fervently than misers can.
XLVII.
Soon she turn’d up a soiled glove, whereon
Her silk had play’d in purple phantasies,
She kiss’d it with a lip more chill than stone,
And put it in her bosom, where it dries
And freezes utterly unto the bone
Those dainties made to still an infant’s cries :
Then ’gan she work again ; nor stay’d her care,
But to throw back at times her veiling hair.
XLVI 11.
That old nurse stood beside her wondering,
Until her heart felt pity to the core
At sight of such a dismal labouring,
And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar,
And put her lean hands to the horrid thing :
Th ree hours they labour’d at this travail sore ;
At last they felt the kernel of the grave,
And Isabella did not stamp and rave.
XLIX.
Ali ! wherefore all this wormy circumstance?
Why linger at the yawning tomb so long?
O for the gentleness of old Romance,
The simple plaining of a minstrel’s song !
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Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance,
For here, in truth, it doth not well belong
To speak :—O turn thee to the very tale,
And taste the music of that vision pale.
L.
With duller steel than the Persean sword
They cut away no formless monster’s head,
But one, whose gentleness did well accord
With death, as life. The ancient harps have said,
Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord :
If Love impersonate was ever dead,
Pale Isabella kiss’d it, and low moan’d.
’Twas love ; cold,—dead indeed, but not dethroned.
LI.
In anxious secrecy they took it home,
And then the prize was all for Isabel:
She calm’d its wild hair with a golden comb,
And all around each eye's sepulchral cell
Pointed each fringed lash ; the smeared loam
With tears, as chilly as a dripping well,
She drench’d away :—and still she comb’d, and kept
Sighing all day—and still she kiss’d, and wept.
LII.
Then in a silken scarf,—sweet with the dews
Of precious flowers pluck’d in Araby,
And divine liquids come with odorous ooze
Through the cold serpent pipe refreshfully,—
She wrapp’d it up; and for its tomb did choose
A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by,
And cover’d it with mould, and o’er it set
Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet.
410﻿KEATS
LIII.
Ancl she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun,
And she forgot the blue above the trees,
And she forgot the dells where waters run,
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ;
She had no knowledge when the day was done,
And the new morn she saw not: but in peace
Hung over her sweet Basil evermore,
And moisten’d it with tears unto the core.
LIV.
And so she ever fed it with thin tears,
Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew,
So that it smelt more balmy than its peers
Of Basil-tufts in Florence ; for it drew
Nurture besides, and life, from human fears,
From the fast mouldering head there shut from view ;
So that the jewel, safely casketed,
Came forth, and in perfumed leaflets spread.
LV.
O Melancholy, linger here awhile !
O Music, Music, breathe despondingly !
O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle,
Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh !
Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile ;
Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily,
And make a pale light in your cypress glooms,
Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs.
LVI.
Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe,
From the deep throat of sad Melpomene !
Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go,
And touch the strings into a mystery ;
411﻿FOUR POETS
Sound mournfully upon the winds and low ;
For simple Isabel is soon to be
Among the dead : She withers, like a palm
Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm.
lvii.
O leave the palm to wither by itself;
Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour!—
It may not be—the Baalites of pelf,
Her brethren, noted the continual shower
From her dead eyes ; and many a curious elf,
Among her kindred, wonder’d that such dower
Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside
By one mark’d out to be a Noble's bride.
LVII I.
And, furthermore, her brethren wonder’d much
Why she sat drooping by the Basil green,
And why it flourish'd, as by magic touch;
Greatly they wondered what the thing might mean
They could not surely give belief, that such
A very nothing would have power to wean
Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay,
And even remembrance of her love’s delay.
LIX.
Therefore they watch’d a time when they might sift
This hidden whim ; and long they watch’d in vain
For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift,
And seldom felt she any hunger-pain ;
And when she left, she hurried back, as swift
As bird on wing to breast its eggs again ;
And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there
Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair.
412﻿KEATS
LX.
Yet they contriv’d to steal the Basil-pot,
And to examine it in secret place :
The thing was vile with green and livid spot,
And yet they knew it was Lorenzo’s face :
The guerdon of their murder they had got,
And so left Florence in a moment’s space,
Never to turn again.—Away they went,
With blood upon their heads, to banishment.
LXI.
O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away !
O Music, Music, breathe despondingly !
O Echo, Echo, on some other day,
From isles Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh !
Spirits of grief, sing not your “ Well-a-way ! ”
For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die ;
Will die a death too lone and incomplete,
Now they have ta’en away her Basil sweet.
LXII.
Piteous she look’d on dead and senseless things,
Asking for her lost Basil amorously :
And with melodious chuckle in the strings
Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry
After the Pilgrim in his wanderings,
To ask him where her Basil was ; and why
’Twas hid from her : “For cruel ’tis,” said she,
“ To steal my Basil-pot away from me.”
LXIII.
And so she pined, and so she died forlorn,
Imploring for her Basil to the last.
No heart was there in Florence but did mourn
In pity of her love, so overcast.
413﻿FOUR POETS
And a sad ditty of this story born
From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd :
Still is the burthen sung—“O cruelty,
“To steal my Basil-pot away from me ! ”
o
XIV.
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.
i.
St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was !
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold :
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death.
Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.
II.
Ilis prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees :
The sculptur’d dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails :
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat’ries,
lie passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
414﻿KEATS
hi.
Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music’s golden tongue
Flatter’d to tears this aged man and poor;
But no—already had his deathbed rung ;
The joys of all his life were said and sung :
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes’ Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve,
And all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake to grieve.
IV.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanc’d, for many a door was wide,
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
The silver, snarling trumpets ’gan to chide :
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests :
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
Star’d, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their
breasts.
v.
At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily
The brain, new stuff’d, in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance. These let us wish away,
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and wing’d St. Agnes’ saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full many times declare.
415﻿FOUR POETS
VI.
They told her how, upon St. Agnes’ Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey’d middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white ;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
VII.
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline :
The music, yearning like a God in pain,
She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine,
Fix’d on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
Pass by—she heeded not at all : in vain
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
And back retir’d ; not cool'd by high disdain,
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere :
She sigh’d for Agnes’ dreams, the sweetest of the year.
VIII.
She danc’d along with vague, regardless eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short :
The hallow’d hour was near at hand : she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the throng’d resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ;
’Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwink’d with faery fancy; all amort,
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
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IX.
So, purposing each moment to retire,
She linger’d still. Meantime, across the moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
Buttress’d from moonlight, stands he, and implores
All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
But for one moment in the tedious hours,
That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such
things have been.
x.
lie ventures in : let no buzz’d whisper tell :
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
Will storm his heart, Love’s fev’rous citadel :
P'or him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
Whose very dogs would execrations howl
Against his lineage : not one breast affords
Plim any mercy, in that mansion foul,
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.
XI.
Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came,
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
To where he stood, hid from the torch’s flame,
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond
The sound of merriment and chorus bland :
Pie startled her ; but soon she knew his face,
And grasp’d his fingers in her palsied hand,
Saying, “ Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place ;
“ They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty
race !
417
EE﻿FOUR POETS
XII.
“Get hence ! get hence ! there’s dwarfish Hildebrand;
“He had a fever late, and in the fit
“He cursed thee and thine, both house and land :
“ Then there’s that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
“ More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me ! flit!
“Flit like a ghost away.”—“ Ah, Gossip dear,
“ We’re safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit,
“And tell me how”—“Good Saints; not here, not
here;
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy
bier. ”
XIII.
He follow’d through a lowly arched way,
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ;
And as she mutter’d “ Well-a—well-a-day ! ”
He found him in a little moonlight room,
Pale, lattic’d, chill, and silent as a tomb.
“ Now tell me where is Madeline,” said he,
“ O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
“ Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
When they St. Agnes’ wool are weaving piously. ”
XIV.
“ St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes’ Eve—
“ Vet men will murder upon holy days :
“ Thou must hold water in a witch’s sieve,
“ And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,
“To venture so : it fills me with amaze
“To see thee, Porphyro !—St. Agnes’ Eve !
“ God’s help ! my lady fair the conjuror plays
“ This very night: good angels her deceive !
1 But let me laugh awhile, I’ve mickle time to grieve.”
41S﻿KEATS
xv.
Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
Who keepeth clos’d a wondrous riddle-book,
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
His lady’s purpose ; and he scarce could brook
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold,
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.
xvr.
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
Made purple riot : then doth he propose
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start :
‘ ‘ A cruel man and impious thou art:
“ Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
“ Alone with her good angels, far apart
“ From wicked men like thee. Go, go !—I deem
“Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst
seem.
XVII.
“ I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,”
Quoth Porphyro : “ O may I ne’er find grace
“ When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
“If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
“ Or look with ruffian passion in her face :
“ Good Angela, believe me by these tears ;
“Or I will, even in a moment’s space,
“Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen’s ears,
‘ And beard them, though they be more fang’d than
wolves and bears.”
419﻿FOUR POETS
XVIII.
“ Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ?
“A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,
“ Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
“ Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
“ Were never miss’d.”—Thus plaining, doth she bring
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ;
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, •
That Angela gives promise she will do
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe,
XIX.
Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
Even to Madeline’s chamber, and there hide
Him in a closet, of such privacy
That he might see her beauty unespied,
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
While legion’d fairies pac’d the coverlet,
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.
Never on such a night have lovers met,
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.
XX.
“ It shall be as thou wishest,” said the Dame :
“ All cates and dainties shall be stored there
“ Quickly on this feast-night : by the tambour frame
“ Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to spare,
“ For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
“ On such a catering trust my dizzy head.
“Wait here, my child, with patience ; kneel in prayer
“ The while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed,
“ Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.”
420﻿KEATS
XXI.
So saying she hobbled off with busy fear.
The lover’s endless minutes slowly pass’d ;
The dame return’d, and whisper’d in his ear
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
The maiden’s chamber, silken, hush’d, and chaste
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas’d amain.
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.
XXII.
Her faltering hand upon the balustrade,
Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
When Madeline, St. Agnes’ charmed maid,
Rose, like a mission’d spirit, unaware :
With silver taper’s light, and pious care,
She turn’d, and down the aged gossip led
To a safe level matting. Now prepare,
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ;
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray’d and
\ fled.
XXIII.
Out went the taper as she hurried in ;
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died :
She clos’d the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide :
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide !
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy side ;
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
421
s# •﻿FOUR POETS
XXIV.
A casement high and triple-arch’d there was,
All garlanded with carven imag’ries
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth’s deep-damask’d wings ;
And in the midst, ’mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
A shielded scutcheon blush’d with blood of queens and
kings.
xxv.
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem’d a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven :—Porphyro grew faint :
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
XXVI.
Anon his heart revives : her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ;
Loosens her fragrant boddice ; by degrees
Iler rich attire creeps rustling to her knees :
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
422﻿KEATS
XXVII.
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex’d she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress’d
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
Blissfully haven’d both from joy and pain ;
Clasp’d like a missal where swart Taynims pray ;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
XXVIII.
Stol’n to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
And listen’d to her breathing, if it chanced
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ;
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
And breath’d himself: then from the closet crept,
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
And over the hush’d carpet, silent, stept,
And ’tween the curtains peep’d where, lo!—how fast
she slept.
Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguish’d, threw thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:—
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone :—
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.
423﻿FOUR POETS
And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d,
While he from forth the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;
With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr’d
From Fez ; and spiced dainties, evei'y one,
From silken Samarcand to cedar’d Lebanon.
These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night,
Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—
“And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake !
“ Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite :
“Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes’ sake,
“Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.
XXXII.
Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
By the dusk curtains :—'twas a midnight charm
Impossible to melt as iced stream :
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ;
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies :
It seem’d he never, never could redeem
From such a stedfast spell his lady’s eyes;
So mus’d awhile, entoil’d in woofed phantasies.
424﻿KEATS
XXXIII.
Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—
Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be,
He play’d an ancient ditty, long since mute,
In Provence call’d, “ La belle dame sans mercy : ”
Close to her ear touching the melody ;—
Wherewith disturb’d, she utter’d a soft moan :
He ceased—she panted quick—and suddenly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone :
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured
stone.
xxxiv.
Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep :
There was a painful change, that nigh expell’d
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep
At which fair Madeline began to weep,
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ;
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ;
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she look’d so dreamingly.
“ Ah, Porphyro ! ” said she, “ but even now
“ Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
“ Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ;
“ And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear :
“How chang’d thou art! how pallid, chill, and
drear !
“Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
“Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
“ Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
“For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.”
425﻿FOUR POETS
XXXVI.
Beyond a mortal man impassion’d far
At these voluptuous accents, lie arose,
Ethereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star
Seen mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose ;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blended its odour with the violet,—
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
Like Love’s alarum pattering the sharp sleet
Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes’ moon hath set.
XXXVII.
’Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet :
“This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! ”
’Tis dark : the iced gusts still rave and beat :
“No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine !
“ Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—
“ Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
“ I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,
“Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ;
“ A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.'
XXXVIII.
“ My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride !
“ Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ?
“Thy beauty’s shield, heart-shap’d and vermeil dyed
“Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
“ After so many hours of toil and quest,
“ A famish’d pilgrim, — saved by miracle.
“ Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
“ Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think’st well
“ To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.
426﻿KEATS
“ Hark ! ’tis an elfin storm from faery land,
“ Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed :
“ Arise—arise ! the morning is at hand ;—
“ The bloated wassaillers will never heed :—
“ Let us away, my love, with happy speed ;
“ There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—
“ Drown’d all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead :
‘‘Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be,
“For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee,
XL,
She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
For there were sleeping dragons all around,
At glaring watch, perhaps with ready spears—
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.—
In all the house was heard no human sound.
A chain-droop’d lamp was flickering by each door ;
The arras, rich with horsemen, hawk, and hound,
Flutter’d in the besieging wind’s uproar ;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
XLI.
They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide ;
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flagon by his side :
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns :
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide :—
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ;—
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.
427﻿FOUR POETS
XLII.
And they are gone : ay, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
Of witch and demon, and large coffin-worm,
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitch’d, with meagre face deform ;
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.
o
XV.
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
i.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk :
’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
II.
O, for a draught of vintage ! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth !
428﻿KEATS
O, for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth ;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim :
ill.
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
IV.
Away! away ! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards :
Already with thee ! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays ;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy
ways.
v.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
429﻿FOUR POETS
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ;
Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves ;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
VI.
Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy !
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—*
To thy high requiem become a sod.
VII.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird !
No hungry generations tread thee down ;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown :
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
VIII.
Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
430﻿KEATS
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, -over the still stream,
Up the hill-side ; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades :
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music :—Do I wake or sleep ?
<5~
XVI.
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.
i.
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme :
What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these ? What maidens loth
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
II.
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone :
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair !
431
•﻿FOUR POETS
in.
m
Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new ;
More happy love ! more happy, happy love !
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young ;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
IV.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice ?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn ?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.
v.
O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed ;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral !
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know,
432﻿KEATS
xvi r.
ODE TO PSYCHE.
0	Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conched ear :
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
The winged Psyche with awaken’d eyes ?
1	wander’d in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp’ring roof
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied :
’Mid hush’d, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass ;
Their arms embraced, and their pinions too ;
Their lips touch’d not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love :
The winged boy I knew ;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove ?
His Psyche true !
O latest born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy !
Fairer than Phcebe’s sapphire-region’d star,
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky ;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heap’d with flowers ;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours ;
43 3	F F﻿FOUR POETS
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censer teeming ;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming.
0	brightest! though too late for antique vows,
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire ;
Yet even in these days so far retir’d
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
1	see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours ;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swinged censer teeming ;
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale mouth’d prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant
pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind :
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster’d trees
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep ;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
rl he moss-lain Dryads shall be lull’d to sleep ;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath’d trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the
same :
434﻿KEATS
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in !
o
XVIII.
FANCY,
Ever let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home :
At a touch sweet pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth
Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her
Open wide the mind’s cage-door,
She’ll dart forth, and cloud ward soar.
O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ;
Summer’s joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming ;
Autumn’s red-lipp’d fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting : What do then ?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter’s night;
When the soundless earth is muffled.
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy’s heavy shoon ;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky.
435﻿FOUR POETS
Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overaw’d,
Fancy, high-commission’d :—send her !
She lias vassals to attend her :
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost ;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather ;
All the buds and bells of May,
From dewy sward or thorny spray ;
All the heaped Autumn’s wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth :
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it:—thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear;
Rustle of the reaped corn ;
Sweet birds antheming the morn :
And, in the same moment—hark !
’Tis the early April lark,
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold ;
White-plunvd lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May ;
And every leaf, and every flower
Tearled with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its celled sleep ;
And the snake all winter-thin
Cast on sunny bank its skin ;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
436﻿KEATS
When the hen-bircl’s wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest ;
Then the hurry and alarm
When the bee-hive casts its swarm ;
Acorns ripe down-pattering,
While the autumn breezes sing.
Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ;
Every thing is spoilt by use :
Where’s the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gaz’d at? Where’s the maid
Whose lip mature is ever new?
Where’s the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary ? Where’s the face
One would meet in every place?
Where’s the voice, however soft,
One would hear so very oft ?
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let, then, winged Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind :
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres’ daughter,
Ere the God of Torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide ;
With a waist and with a side
White as Hebe’s, when her zone
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet,
While she held the goblet sweet,
And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh
Of the Fancy’s silken leash ;
Quickly break her prison-string
And such joys as these she’ll bring.—
Let the winged Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.
437﻿FOUR POETS
XIX.
ODE.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left vour souls on earth !
*
Plave ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new?
Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon ;
With the noise of fountains wond’rous,
And the parle of voices thund’rous ;
With the whisper of heaven’s trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns
Brows’d by none but Dian’s fawns ;
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth ;
Philosophic numbers smooth ;
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven and its mysteries.
Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again ;
And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you,
Where your other souls are joying,
Never slumber’d, never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week ;
Of their sorrows and delights ;
Of their passions and their spites ;
43S﻿KEATS
Of their glory and their shame ;
What doth strengthen and what maim.
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth !
Ye have souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new !

XX.
LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Plave ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host’s Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison ? O generous food ! '
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day
Mine host’s sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer’s old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
439﻿FOUR POETS
Underneath a new old-sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ?
o
XXI.
ROBIN HOOD.
TO A FRIEND.
No ! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years :
Many times have winter’s shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest’s whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more ;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill ;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz’d to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
440﻿KEATS
On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you ;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold ;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
lie doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent ;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din ;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn ;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the “grene shawe ” ;
All are gone away and past !
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall’n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas ;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her—strange ! that honey
Can’t be got without hard money !
So it is : yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string !
Honour to the bugle-horn !
Honour to the woods unshorn !
441﻿FOUR POETS
Honour to the Lincoln green !
Honour to the archer keen !
Honour to tight Little John,
And the horse he rode upon !
Honour to bold Robin Flood,
Sleeping in the underwood !
Honour to Maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan !
Though their days have hurried by,
Let us two a burden try.
o
XXII.
TO AUTUMN.
i.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
II.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ;
44 2﻿KEATS
Or on a half-reap’d farrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers :
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook ;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
ill.
Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where are they
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ;
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft ;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
o
XXIII.
ODE ON MELANCHOLY.
i.
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
443﻿FOUR POETS
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries ;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
II.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud ;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
hi.
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die ;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips :
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine ;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
O
444﻿KEATS
XXIV.
HYPERION.
A FRAGMENT.
BOOK I.
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star,
Sat gray-hair’d Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair ;
Forest on forest hung about his head
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,
Not so much life as on a summer’s day
Robs not one light seed from the feather’d grass,
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity
Spreading a shade : the Naiad ’mid her reeds
Tress’d her cold finger closer to her lips.
Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went,
No further than to where his feet had stray’d,
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred ; and his realmless eyes were closed
While his bow’d head seem’d list’ning to the Earth,
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.
It seem’d no force could wake him from his place ;
But there came one, who with a kindred hand
Touch’d his wide shoulders, after bending low
With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
She was a Goddess of the infant world ;
By her in stature the tall Amazon
445
﻿FOUR POETS
Had stood a pigmy’s height: she would have ta’en
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ;
Or with a finger stay’d Ixion’s wheel.
Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx,
Pedestal’d haply in a palace court,
When sages look’d to Egypt for their lore.
I!ut oh ! how unlike marble was that face :
I low beautiful, if sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty’s self.
There was a listening fear in her regard,
As if calamity had but begun ;
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear
Was with its stored thunder labouring up.
One hand she press’d upon that aching spot
Where beats the human heart, as if just there,
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain :
The other upon Saturn’s bended neck
She laid, and to the level of his ear
Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake
In solemn tenour and deep organ tone :
Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue
Would come in these like accents ; O how frail
To that large utterance of the early Gods !
“ Saturn, look up !—though wherefore, poor old Kin
“ I have no comfort for thee, no not one :
“ I cannot say, ‘ O wherefore sleepest thou?’
“For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth
“ Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God ;
“And ocean too, with all its solemn noise,
“ Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all the air
“ Is emptied of thine hoary majesty.
“Thy thunder, conscious of the new command,
“ Rumbles reluctant o’er our fallen house ;
“ And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands
“Scorches and burns our once serene domain.
446﻿KEATS
“ O aching time ! O moments big as years !
“ All as ye jDass swell out the monstrous truth,
“ And press it so upon our weary griefs
“ That unbelief has not a space to breathe.
“ Saturn, sleep on :—O thoughtless, why did I
‘ ‘ Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ?
“Why should I ope my melancholy eyes?
“ Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I weep.”
As when, upon a tranced summer-night,
Those green-rob'd senators of mighty woods,
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir,
Save from one gradual solitary gust
Which comes upon the silence, and dies off,
As if the ebbing air had but one wave ;
So came these words and went; the while in tears
She touch’d her fair large forehead to the ground,
Just where her falling hair might be outspread
A soft and silken mat for Saturn’s feet.
One moon, with alteration slow, had shed
Her silver seasons four upon the night,
And still these two were postured motionless,
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ;
The frozen God still couchant on the earth,
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet :
Until at length old Saturn lifted up
His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone,
And all the gloom and sorrow of the place,
And that fair kneeling Goddess ; and then spake,
As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard
Shook horrid with such aspen-malady :
‘ ‘ O tender spouse of gold Hyperion,
“ Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face ;
“ Look up, and let me see our doom in it;
“ Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape
447﻿FOUR POETS
“ Is Saturn’s ; tell me, if thou heav’st the voice
“Of Saturn ; tell me, if this wrinkling brow,
“ Naked and bare of its great diadem,
“ Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had power
“ To make me desolate? whence came the strength ?
“ How was it nurtur’d to such bursting forth,
“ While Fate seem’d strangled in my nervous grasp ?
“ But it is so ; and I am smother’d up,
“And buried from all godlike exercise
“ Of influence benign on planets pale,
“ Of admonitions to the winds and seas,
“ Of peaceful sway above men’s harvesting,
“And all those acts which Deity supreme
“ Doth ease its heart of love in.—I am gone
‘£ Away from my own bosom : I have left
“ My strong identity, my real self,
“ Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit
“ Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, search !
“ Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round
“ Upon all space : space starr’d, and lorn of light ;
“ Space region’d with life-air; and barren void ;
“ Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell.—
“ Search, Thea, search ! and tell me, if thou seest
“ A certain shape or shadow, making way
‘ ‘ With wings or chariot fierce to repossess
‘ ‘ A heaven he lost erewhile : it must—it must
“ Be of ripe progress—Saturn must be King.
“ Yes, there must be a golden victory ;
“ There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets blown
“ Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival
“ Upon the gold clouds metropolitan,
“ Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir
“ Of strings in hollow shells ; and there shall be
“ Beautiful things made new, for the surprise
“ Of the sky-children ; I will give command :
“ Thea ! Thea ! Thea ! where is Saturn?”
448﻿KEATS
This passion lifted him upon his feet,
And made his hands to struggle in the air,
H is Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat,
His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease.
He stood, and heard not Thea’s sobbing deep ;
A little time, and then again he snatch’d
Utterance thus.—“ But cannot I create ?
“ Cannot I form? Cannot I fashion forth
“ Another world, another universe,
“To overbear and crumble this to nought ?
“ Where is another chaos ? Where ? ”—That word
Found way unto Olympus, and made quake
The rebel three.—Thea was startled up,
And in her bearing was a sort of hope,
As thus she quick-voic’d spake, yet full of awe.
“ This cheers our fallen house : come to our friends,
“ O Saturn ! come away, and give them heart;
“ I know the covert, for thence came I hither.”
Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she went
With backward footing through the shade a space :
He follow’d, and she turn’d to lead the way
Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist
Which eagles cleave upmounting from their nest.
Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed,
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe,
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe :
The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound,
Groan’d for the old allegiance once more,
And listen’d in sharp pain for Saturn’s voice.
But one of the whole mammoth-brood still kept
His sov’reignty, and rule, and majesty ;—
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire
Still sat, still snuff’d the incense, teeming up
From man to the sun’s God ; yet unsecure :
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G G﻿FOUR POETS
For as among us mortals omens drear
Fright and perplex, so also shuddered he—
Not at dog’s howl, or gloom-bird’s hated screech,
Or the familiar visiting of one
Upon the first toll of his passing-bell,
Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp ;
But horrors, portion’d to a giant nerve,
Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace bright
Bastion’d with pyramids of glowing gold,
And touch’d with shade of bronzed obelisks,
Glar’d a blood-red through all its thousand courts,
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ;
And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds
Flush’d angerly : while sometimes eagle’s wings,
Unseen before by Gods or wondering men,
Darken’d the place ; and neighing steeds were heard,
Not heard before by Gods or wondering men.
Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths
Of incense, breath’d aloft from sacred hills,
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took
Savour of poisonous brass and metal sick :
And so, when harbour’d in the sleepy west,
After the full completion of fair day,—
For rest divine upon exalted couch
And slumber in the arms of melody,
He pac’d away the pleasant hours of ease
With stride colossal, on from hall to hall;
While far within each aisle and deep recess,
His winged minions in close clusters stood,
Amaz’d and full of fear ; like anxious men
Who on wide plains gather in panting troops,
When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers.
Even now, while Saturn, rous’d from icy trance,
Went step for step with Thea through the woods,
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear,
Came slope upon the threshold of the west ;
450﻿KEATS
Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope
In smoothest silence, save what solemn tubes,
Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet
And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melodies ;
And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape,
In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye,
That inlet to severe magnificence
Stood full blown, for the God to enter in.
He enter’d, but he enter’d full of wrath ;
His flaming robes stream’d out beyond his heels,
And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire,
That scar’d away the meek ethereal Hours
And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared,
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault,
Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light,
And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades,
Until he reach’d the great main cupola;
There standing fierce beneath, he stampt his foot,
And from the basements deep to the high towers
Jarr’d his own golden region ; and before
The quavering thunder thereupon had ceas’d,
His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb,
To this result: “ O dreams of day and night!
“ O monstrous forms ! O effigies of pain !
“ O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom !
“ O lank-ear’d Phantoms of black-weeded pools !
“ Why do I know ye ? why have I seen ye ? why
“Is my eternal essence thus distraught
“ To see and to behold these horrors new ?
“ Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall ?
“ Am I to leave this haven of my rest,
“ This cradle of my glory, this soft clime,
“ This calm luxuriance of blissful light,
“ These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes,
“ Of all my lucent empire? It is left
451﻿FOUR POETS
“Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine.
“The blaze, the splendour, and the symmetry,
“I cannot see—but darkness, death and darkness.
“ Even here, into my centre of repose,
“The shady visions come to domineer,
“ Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp.—
“ Fall !—No, by Tellus and her briny robes !
“ Over the fiery frontier of my realms
“ I will advance a terrible right arm
“ Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel Jove,
“And bid old Saturn take his throne again.”
He spake, and ceas’d, the while a heavier threat
Held struggle with his throat but came not forth ;
For as in theatres of crowded men
Hubbub increases more they call out “ Hush ! ”
So at Hyperion’s words the phantoms pale
Bestirr’d themselves, thrice horrible and cold ;
And from the mirror’d level where he stood
A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh.
At this, through all his bulk an agony
Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crown,
Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular
Making slow way, with head and neck convuls’d
From over-strained might. Releas’d, he fled
To the eastern gates, and full six dewy hours
Before the dawn in season due should blush,
He breath’d fierce breath against the sleepy portals,
Clear’d them of heavy vapours, burst them wide
Suddenly on the ocean’s chilly streams.
The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode
Each day from east to west the heavens through,
Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds ;
Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and hid,
But ever and anon the glancing spheres,
Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure,
Glow’d through, and wrought upon the muffling darl
452﻿KEATS
Sweet-shapecl lightnings from the nadir deep
Up to the zenith,—hieroglyphics old,
Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers
Then living on the earth, with labouring thought
Won from the gaze of many centuries :
Now lost, save what we find on remnants huge
Of stone, or marble swart; their import gone,
Their wisdom long since fled.—Two wings this orb
Possess’d for glory, two fair argent wings,
Ever exalted at the God’s approach :
And now, from forth the gloom their plumes immense
Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were ;
While still the dazzling globe maintain’d eclipse,
Awaiting for Hyperion’s command.
Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne
And bid the day begin, if but for change.
He might not:—No, though a primeval God :
The sacred seasons might not be disturb’d.
Therefore the operations of the dawn
Stay’d in their birth, even as here ’tis told.
Those silver wings expanded sisterly,
Eager to sail their orb ; the porches wide
Open’d upon the dusk demesnes of night ;
And the bright Titan, phrenzied with new woes,
Unus’d to bend, by hard compulsion bent
His spirit to the sorrow of the time ;
And all along a dismal rack of clouds,
Upon the boundaries of day and night,
lie stretch’d himself in grief and radiance faint.
There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars
Look’d down on him with pity, and the voice
Of Coelus, from the universal space,
Thus whisper’d low and solemn in his ear.
“ O brightest of my children dear, earth-born
“And sky-engendered, Son of Mysteries
“ All unrevealed even to the powers
453﻿FOUR POETS
“ Which met at. thy creating ; at whose joys
“ And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft,
“ I, Ccelus, wonder, how they came and whence ;
“ And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be,
“ Distinct, and visible ; symbols divine,
“ Manifestations of that beauteous life
“ Diffus’d unseen throughout eternal space :
“ Of these new-form’d art thou, oh brightest child !
“ Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses !
‘1 There is a sad feud among ye, and rebellion
“ Of son against his sire. I saw him fall,
“ I saw my first-born tumbled from his throne !
“To me his arms were spread, to me his voice
“ Found way from forth the thunders round his head
“ Pale wox I, and in vapours hid my face.
“ Art thou, too, near such doom ? vague fear there is
“ For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods.
“Divine ye were created, and divine
“In sad demeanour, solemn, undisturb’d,
“ Unruffled, like high Gods, ye liv’d and rul’d :
“ Now I behold in you fear, hope, and wrath ;
“ Actions of rage and passion ; even as
“ I see them, on the mortal world beneath,
“ In men wrho die.—This is the grief, O Son !
“ Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall !
“ Yet do thou strive ; as thou art capable,
“ As thou canst move about, an evident Gocl;
“ And canst oppose to each malignant hour
“ Ethereal presence :—I am but a voice ;
“ My life is but the life of winds and tides,
“No more than winds and tides can I avail:—
“ But thou canst.—Be thou therefore in the van
“ Of circumstance : yea, seize the arrow’s barb
“ Before the tense string murmur.—To the earth !
“ For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his woes.
“ Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright sun,
454﻿KEATS
“ And of thy seasons be a careful nurse.”—
Ere half this region-whisper had come down,
Hyperion arose, and on the stars
Lifted his curved lids, and kept them wide
Until it ceas’d ; and still he kept them wide :
And still they were the same bright, patient stars.
Then with a slow incline of his broad breast,
Like to a diver in the pearly seas,
Forward he stoop’d over the airy shore,
And plung’d all noiseless into the deep night.
BOOK II.
Just at the self-same beat of Time’s wide wings
Hyperion slid into the rustled air,
And Saturn gain’d with Thea that sad place
Where Cybele and the bruised Titans mourn’d.
It was a den where no insulting light
Could glimmer on their tears ; where their own groans
They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar
Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse,
Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where.
Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seem’d
Ever as if just rising from a sleep,
Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns ;
And thus in thousand hugest phantasies
Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe.
Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon,
Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge
Stubborn’d with iron. All were not assembled :
Some chain’d in torture, and some wandering.
Coeus, and Gyges, and Briaretis,
Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion,
With many more, the brawniest in assault,
Were pent in regions of laborious breath ;
Dungeon’d in opaque element, to keep
455﻿FOUR POETS
Their clenched teeth still clench’d, and all their limbs
Lock’d up like veins of metal, crampt and screw’d ;
Without a motion, save of their big hearts
Heaving in pain, and horribly convuls’d
With sanguine feverous boiling gurge of pulse.
Mnemosyne was straying in the world ;
Far from her moon had Phcebe wandered ;
And many else were free to roam abroad,
But for the main, here found they covert drear.
Scarce images of life, one here, one there,
Lay vast and edgeways ; like a dismal cirque
Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor,
When the chill rain begins at shut of eve,
In dull November, and their chancel vault,
The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout night.
Each one kept shroud, nor to his neighbour gave
Or word, or look, or action of despair.
Creus was one ; his ponderous iron mace
Lay by him, and a shatter’d rib of rock
Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and pined.
Iapetus another ; in his grasp,
A serpent’s plashy neck ; its barbed tongue
Squeez’d from the gorge, and all its uncurl'd length
Dead ; and because the creature could not spit
Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove.
Next Cottus : prone he lay, chin uppermost,
As though in pain ; for still upon the flint
He ground severe his skull, with open mouth
And eyes at horrid working. Nearest him
Asia, born of most enormous Caf,
Who cost her mother Tellus keener pangs,
Though feminine, than any of her sons :
More thought than woe was in her dusky face,
For she was prophesying of her glory
And in her wide imagination stood
Palm-shaded temples, and high rival fanes,
456﻿KEATS
By Oxus or in Ganges’ sacred isles.
Even as Hope upon her anchor leans,
So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk
Shed from the broadest of her elephants.
Above her, on a crag’s uneasy shelve,
Upon his elbow rais’d, all prostrate else,
Shadow’d Enceladus ; once tame and mild
As grazing ox unworried in the meads ;
Now tiger-passion’d, lion-thoughted, wroth,
He meditated, plotted, and even now
Was hurling mountains in that second war,
Not long delay’d, that scar’d the younger Gods
To hide themselves in forms of beast and bird.
Nor far hence Atlas ; and beside him prone
Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neighbour’d close
Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap
Sobb’d Clymene among her tangled hair.
In midst of all lay Themis, at the feet
Of Ops the queen all clouded round from sight;
No shape distinguishable, more than when
Thick night confounds the pine-tops with the clouds
And many else whose names may not be told.
For when the Muse’s wings are air-ward spread,
Who shall delay her flight ? And she must chaunt
Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had climb’d
With damp and slippery footing from a depth
More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff
Their heads appear’d, and up their stature grew
Till on the level height their steps found ease :
Then Tliea spread abroad her trembling arms
Upon the precincts of this nest of pain,
And sidelong fix’d her eye on Saturn’s face :
There saw she direst strife ; the supreme God
At war with all the frailty of grief,
Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge,
Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all despair.
457﻿FOUR POETS
Against these plagues he strove in vain; for Fate
Had pour’d a mortal oil upon his head,
A disanointing poison : so that Thea,
Affrighted, kept her still, and let him pass
First onwards in, among the fallen tribe.
As with us mortal men, the laden heart
Is persecuted more, and fever’d more,
When it is nighing to the mournful house
Where other hearts are sick of the same bruise ;
So Saturn, as he walk’d into the midst,
Felt faint, and would have sunk among the rest,
But that he met Enceladus’s eye,
Whose mightiness, and awe of him, at once
Came like an inspiration ; and he shouted,
“ Titans, behold your God ! ” at which some groan’
Some started on their feet ; some also shouted ;
Some wept, some wail’d, all bow'd with reverence :
And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil,
Show’d her pale cheeks, and all her forehead wan,
Her eye-brows thin and jet, and hollow eyes.
There is a roaring in the bleak-grown pines
When Winter lifts his voice ; there is a noise
Among immortals when a God gives sign,
With hushing finger, how he means to load
His tongue with the full weight of utterless thought,
With thunder, and with music, and with pomp :
Such noise is like the roar of bleak-grown pines ;
Which, when it ceases in this mountain’d world,
No other sound succeeds ; but ceasing here,
Among these fallen, Saturn’s voice therefrom
Grew up like organ, that begins anew
Its strain, when other harmonies, stopt short,
Leave the dinn’d air vibrating silverly.
Thus grew it up—“ Not in my own sad breast,
“Which is its own great judge and searcher out,
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“ Can I find reason why ye should be thus :
“ Not in the legends of the first of days,
‘ ‘ Studied from that old spirit-leaved book
“ Which starry Uranus with finger bright
“ Sav’d from the shores of darkness, when the waves
“ Low-ebb’d still hid it up in shallow gloom ; —
“ And the which book ye know I ever kept
“ For my firm-based footstool:—Ah, infirm !
“Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent
“ Of element, earth, water, air, and fire,—
“ At war, at peace, or inter-quarreling
“ One against one, or two, or three, or all
“ Each several one against the other three,
“As fire with air loud warring when rain-floods
“ Drown both, and press them both against earth’s face,
“ Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple wrath
“ Unhinges the poor world ; —not in that strife,
“ Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read it deep,
‘ ‘ Can I find reason why ye should be thus :
“No, no-where can unriddle, though I search,
“ And pore on Nature’s universal scroll
“ Even to swooning, why ye, Divinities,
‘ ‘ The first-born of all shap’d and palpable Gods,
“ Should cower beneath what, in comparison,
“ Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here,
“ O’erwhelm’d, and spurn’d, and batter’d, ye are here
“ O Titans, shall I say ‘ Arise ! ’—Ye groan :
“ Shall I say ‘ Crouch ! ’—Ye groan. What can I then
“ O Heaven wide ! O unseen parent dear !
“ What can I ? Tell me, all ye brethren Gods,
“ How we can war, how engine our great wrath !
“ O speak your counsel now, for Saturn’s ear
“ Is all a-hunger’d. Thou, Oceanus,
“ Ponderest high and deep ; and in thy face
“ I see, astonied, that severe content
“ Which comes of thought and musing : give us help ! ”
459﻿FOUR POETS
So ended Saturn ; and the God of the Sea,
Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove,
But cogitation in his watery shades,
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began,
In murmurs, which his first-endeavouring tongue
Caught infant-like from the far-foamed sands.
“ O ye, whom wrath consumes ! who, passion-stun
“ Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies !
“ Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears,
“ My voice is not a bellows unto ire.
“Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof
“ How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop :
“ And in the proof much comfort will I give,
“ If ye will take that comfort in its truth.
“We fall by course of Nature’s law, not force
“Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, thou,
“ Hast sifted well the atom-universe ;
“But for this reason, that thou art the King,
“ And only blind from sheer supremacy,
“ One avenue was shaded from thine eyes,
“Through which I wandered to eternal truth.
“And first, as thou wast not the first of powers,
“ So art thou not the last ; it cannot be :
“Thou art not the beginning nor the end.
“From chaos and parental darkness came
“ Light, the first-fruits of that intestine broil,
“That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends
“ Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour came,
“And with it light, and light engendering
“ Upon its own producer, forthwith touch’d
“ The whole enormous matter into life.
“ Upon that very hour, our parentage,
“ The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest :
“Then thou first-born, and we the giant-race,
“ Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms.
“ Now comes the pain of truth, to whom ’tis pain ;
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; O folly ! for to bear all naked truths,
‘ And to envisage circumstance, all calm,
£ That is the top of sovereignty. Mark well!
‘ As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far
‘ Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once ch
‘And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth
£ In form and shape compact and beautiful,
‘ In will, in action free, companionship,
‘ And thousand other signs of purer life ;
£ So on our heels a fresh perfection treads,
‘ A power more strong in beauty, born of us
‘ And fated to excel us, as we pass
‘ In glory that old Darkness : nor are we
‘Thereby more conquer’d, than by us the rule
‘ Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull soil
‘ Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed,
‘ And feedeth still, more comely than itself?
‘ Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves ?
‘ Or shall the tree be envious of the dove
‘ Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings
£ To wander wherewithal and find its joys?
£ We are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs
£ Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves,
£ But eagles golden-feather’d, who do tower
£ Above us in their beauty, and must reign
£ In right thereof; for ’tis the eternal law
£ That first in beauty should be first in might:
£ Yea, by that law, another race may drive
£ Our conquerors to mourn as we do now.
£ Have ye beheld the young God of the Seas,
£ My dispossessor? Have ye seen his face ?
£ Have ye beheld his chariot, foam’d along
‘ By noble winged creatures he hath made ?
£ I saw him on the calmed waters scud,
£ With such a glow of beauty in his eyes,
£ That it enforc’d me to bid sad farewell
461﻿FOUR POETS
“ To all my empire : farewell sad I took,
“ And hither came, to see how dolorous fate
“ Had wrought upon ye ; and how I might best
“ Give consolation in this woe extreme.
“ Receive the truth, and let it be your balm.”
Whether through poz’d conviction, or disdain,
They guarded silence, when Oceanus
Left murmuring, what deepest thought can tell ?
But so it was, none answer’d for a space,
Save one whom none regarded, Clymene ;
And yet she answer’d not, only complain’d,
With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking mild,
Thus wording timidly among the fierce :
“ O Father, I am here the simplest voice,
“ And all my knowledge is that joy is gone,
“ And this thing woe crept in among our hearts,
“ There to remain for ever, as I fear :
“ I would not bode of evil, if I thought
“ So weak a creature could turn off the help
“ Which by just right should come of mighty Gods ;
“Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell
“ Of what I heard, and how it made me weep,
“ And know that we had parted from all hope.
“ I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore,
“ Where a sweet clime was breathed from a land
“ Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and flowers.
“ Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief;
“ Too full of joy and soft delicious warmth ;
“ So that I felt a movement in my heart
“To chide, and to reproach that solitude
“ With songs of misery, music of our woes ;
“ And sat me down, and took a mouthed shell
“ And murmur’d into it, and made melody—
“ O melody no more ! for while I sang,
“ And with poor skill let pass into the breeze
462﻿KEATS
“ The dull shell’s echo, from a bowery strand
“Just opposite, an island of the sea,
“ There came enchantment with the shifting wind,
“ That did both drown and keep alive my ears.
“ I threw my shell away upon the sand,
“ And a wave fill’d it, as my sense was fill’d
“ With that new blissful golden melody.
“ A living death was in each gush of sounds,
“ Each family of rapturous hurried notes,
“ That fell, one after one, yet all at once,
“ Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string
“And then another, then another strain,
“Each like a dove leaving its olive perch,
“ With music wing’d, instead of silent plumes,
“ To hover round my head and make me sick
“ Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame,
“ And I was stopping up my frantic eai's,
“ When, past all hindrance of my trembling hands,
“A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune,
“And still it cried, ‘Apollo ! young Apollo !
“ ‘ The morning-bright Apollo ! young Apollo 1 ’
“ I fled, it follow’d me, and cried ‘Apollo ! ’
“ O Father, and O brethren, had ye felt
“ Those pains of mine ; O Saturn, hadst thou felt,
“ Ye would not call this too indulged tongue
“ Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be heard.”
So far her voice flow’d on, like timorous brook
That, lingering along a pebbled coast,
Doth fear to meet the sea ; but sea it met,
And shudder’d ; for the overwhelming voice
Of huge Enceladus swallow’d it in wrath :
The ponderous syllables, like sullen waves
In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rocks,
Came booming thus, while still upon his arm
He lean’cl ; not rising, from supreme contempt:
463﻿FOUR POETS
“ Or shall we listen to the over-wise,
“ Or to the over-foolish giant, Gods?
“ Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all
“That rebel Jove’s whole armoury were spent,
“ Not world on world upon these shoulders piled,
“ Could agonize me more than baby-words,
<£ In midst of this dethronement horrible.
“ Speak ! roar ! shout! yell ! ye sleepy Titans all.
“ Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile ?
“ Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm ?
“Dost thou forget, sham Monarch of the Waves,
“ Thy scalding in the seas? What, have I rous’d
“ Your spleens with so few simple words as these?
“ O joy ! for now I see ye are not lost :
“ O joy ! for now I see a thousand eyes
“ Wide glaring for revenge ! ”—As this he said,
lie lifted up his stature vast, and stood,
Still without intermission speaking thus :
“Now ye are flames, I’ll tell you how to burn,
“ And purge the ether of our enemies ;
“ How to feed fierce the crooked stings of fire,
“ And singe auTay the swollen clouds of Jove,
“ Stifling that puny essence in its tent.
“ O let him feel the evil he hath done ;
“For though I scorn Oceanus’s lore,
“ Much pain have I for more than loss of realms ;
“ The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled
“Those days, all innocent of scathing war,
“ When all the fair Existences of heaven
“ Came open-eyed to guess what we would speak :—
“ That was before our brows wrere taught to frown,
“ Before our lips knew7 else but solemn sounds ;
“ That wras before w7e knew the winged thing,
“ Victory, might be lost, or might be won.
“ And be ye mindful that Hyperion,
“ Our brightest brother, still is undisgraced—
“ Hyperion, lo ! his radiance is here ! ”
464
﻿KEATS
All eyes were on Enceladus’s face,
And they beheld, while still Hyperion’s name
Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks,
A pallid gleam across his features stern :
Not savage, for he saw full many a God
Wroth as himself. He look’d upon them all,
And in each face he saw a gleam of light,
But splendider in Saturn’s, whose hoar locks
Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel
When the prow sweeps into a midnight cove.
In pale and silver silence they remain’d,
Till suddenly a splendour, like the morn,
Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps,
All the sad spaces of oblivion,
And every gulf, and every chasm old,
And every height, and every sullen depth,
Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented streams :
And all the everlasting cataracts,
And all the headlong torrents far and near,
Mantled before in darkness and huge shade,
Now saw the light and made it terrible.
It was Hyperion :—a granite peak
His bright feet touch’d, and there he stay’d to view
The misery his brilliance had betray’d
To the most hateful seeing of itself.
Golden his hair of short Numidian curl,
Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade
In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk
Of Memnon’s image at the set of sun
To one who travels from the dusking East :
Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon’s harp
He utter’d, while his hands contemplative
He press’d together, and in silence stood.
Despondence seiz’d again the fallen Gods
At sight of the dejected King of Day,
And many hid their faces from the light:
465	HH﻿FOUR POETS
But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes
Among the brotherhood ; and, at their glare,
Uprose Iapetus, and Crelis too,
And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode
To where he towered on his eminence.
There those four shouted forth old Saturn’s name ;
Hyperion from the peak loud answered, “ Saturn ! ”
Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods,
In whose face was no joy, though all the Gods
Gave from their hollow throats the name of “ Saturn
BOOK III.
Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace,
Amazed were those Titans utterly.
O leave them, Muse ! O leave them to their woes ;
For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire :
A solitary sorrow best befits
Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief.
Leave them, O Muse ! for thou anon wilt find
Many a fallen old Divinity
"Wandering in vain about bewildered shores.
Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp,
And not a wind of heaven but will breathe
In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute;
For lo ! ’tis for the Father of all verse.
Flush every thing that hath a vermeil hue,
Let the rose glow intense and warm the air,
And let the clouds of even and of morn
Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills ;
Let the red wine within the goblet boil,
Cold as a bubbling well; let faint-lipp’d shells,
On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion turn
Through all their labyrinths ; and let the maid
Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surpris’d.
Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades,
466﻿KEATS
Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green,
And poplars, and lawn-shading palms and beech,
In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song,
And hazels thick, dark-stemm’d beneath the shade :
Apollo is once more the golden theme !
Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun
Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers ?
Together had he left his mother fair
And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower,
And in the morning twilight wandered forth
Beside the osiers of a rivulet,
Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale.
The nightingale had ceas’d, and a few stars
Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush
Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle
There was no covert, no retired cave
Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves,
Though scarcely heard in many a green recess.
He listen’d, and he wept, and his bright tears
Went trickling down the golden bow he held.
Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood,
While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by
With solemn step an awful Goddess came,
And there was purport in her looks for him,
Which he with eager guess began to read
Perplex’d, the while melodiously he said :
“ How cam’st thou over the unfooted sea?
“ Or hath that antique mien and robed form
“ Mov’d in these vales invisible till now ?
“ Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o’er
“The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone
“In cool mid-forest. Surely I have traced
“ The rustle of those ample skirts about
“These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers
“ Lift up their heads, as still the whisper pass’d.
“Goddess ! I have beheld those eyes before,
467﻿FOUR POETS
“ And their eternal calm, and all that face,
“Or I have dream’d.”—“Yes,” said the supreme shape,
“ Thou hast dream’d of me ; and awaking up
“Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side,
“ Whose strings touch’d by thy fingers, all the vast
“ Unwearied ear of the whole universe
“Listen’d in pain and pleasure at the birth
“ Of such new tuneful wonder. Is’t not strange
“That thou shouldst weep, so gifted? Tell me, youth,
“ What sorrow thou canst feel; for I am sad
‘ ‘ When thou dost shed a tear : explain thy griefs
“ To one who in this lonely isle hath been
“ The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life,
“ From the young day when first thy infant hand
“ Pluck’d witless the weak flowers, till thine arm
“ Could bend that bow heroic to all times.
“ Show thy heart’s secret to an ancient Power
“ Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones
“For prophecies of thee, and for the sake
“ Of loveliness new born.”—Apollo then,
With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes,
Thus answer’d, while his white melodious throat
Throbb’d with the syllables. — “ Mnemosyne !
“ Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how ;
“ Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest?
‘‘ Why should I strive to show what from thy lips
“ Would come no mystery? For me, dark, dark,
“And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes :
“ I strive to search wherefore I am so sad,
“ Until a melancholy numbs my limbs ;
“ And then upon the grass I sit, and moan,
‘ ‘ Like one who once had wings. —O why should I
“ Feel curs’d and thwarted, when the liegeless air
“ Yields to my step aspirant? why should I
“ Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet?
“ Goddess benign, point forth some unknown thing :
468﻿KEATS
‘ ‘ Are there not other regions than this isle ?
“ What are the stars? There is the sun, the sun !
“ And the most patient brilliance of the moon !
“ And stars by thousands ! Point me out the way
“To any one particular beauteous star,
“ And I will flit into it with my lyre,
“ And make its silvery splendour pant with bliss.
“ I have heard the cloudy thunder : Where is power?
“ Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity
“ Makes this alarum in the elements,
“ While I here idle listen on the shores
“ In fearless yet in aching ignorance ?
“ O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp,
“ That waileth every morn and eventide,
“ Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves !
“ Mute thou remainest — Mute ! yet I can read
“A wondrous lesson in thy silent face :
“Knowledge enormous makes a God of me.
“Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions,
“Majesties, sovranvoic.es, agonies,
“ Creations and destroyings, all at once
“ Pour into the wide hollows of my brain,
“ And deify me, as if some blithe wine
“ Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk,
“And so become immortal.”—Thus the God,
While his enkindled eyes, with level glance
Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast kept
Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne.
Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush
All the immortal fairness of his limbs ;
Most like the struggle at the gate of death ;
Or liker still to one who should take leave
Of pale immortal death, and with a pang
As hot as death’s is chill, with fierce convulse
Die into life : so young Apollo anguish’d ;
His very hair, his golden tresses famed
469﻿FOUR POETS
Kept undulation round his eager neck.
During the pain Mnemosyne upheld
Her arms as one who prophesied.—At length
Apollo shriek’d !—and lo ! from all his limbs
* * * * * *-
*-	-x-	*
JJosthuina.
XXV.
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact’ry,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain ;
When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour !
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love !—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
XXVI.
In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne’er remember
Their green felicity :
The north cannot undo them,
With a sleety whistle through them ;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.
470
Celestial
* *﻿KEATS
In a drear-niglitecl December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne’er remember
Apollo’s summer look ;
Tut with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.
Ah ! would ’twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy !
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy ?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it,
Nor numbed sense to steal it,
Was never said in rhyme.
o-
XXVII.
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.
BALLAD.
I.
O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering ?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
II.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms !
So haggard and so woe-begone ?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
471﻿FOUR POETS
iii.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
IV.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
v.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
VI.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
VII.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
“ I love thee true.”
VIII.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d full sor
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
472﻿KEATS
IX.
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dreamVI—Ah ! woe betide !
The latest dream I ever dream VI
On the cold hill’s side.
x.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ;
They cried—£< La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall ! ”
XI.
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
XII.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O-
473﻿FOUR POETS
XXVIII.
THE HUMAN SEASONS.
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year ;
There are four seasons in the mind of man :
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span :
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring’s honey’d cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close ; contented so to look
On mists in idleness—to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
o
XXIX.
ON FAME.
i.
Fame, 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,
M ho thinks they scandal her who talk about her
474﻿KEATS
A very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar ;
Ye love-sick Bards ! repay her scorn for scorn ;
Ye Artists lovelorn ! madmen that ye are !
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.
XXX.
ON FAME.
ii.
“ You cannot eat your cake and have it too.”—Proverb.
How fever’d is the man, who cannot look
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 briar,
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 ?
O
475﻿FOUR POETS
XXXI.
Bright star ! would I were steadfast as thou art
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature’s patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
476﻿INDEX
PAGE
Admonition ...	............... v......... 113
Adonais ...	...	...	...	...	....	...	313
Affliction of Margaret, The ...	...	...	...	12
Alastor ...	...	...	...	...	...	...	201
Arethusa ...	...	...	...	...	...	...	252
“ A slumber did my spirit seal ” ...	...	...	...	71
At the grave of Burns	...	...	...	...	...	78
Autumn, To...................... ............ ...	442
“ Bards of Passion and of Mirth ”	...	...	...	438
Boat on the Serchio, The	...	...	...	...	...	255
“ Bright star ! would I were steadfast as thou art” ...	476
Brothers, The	...	...	...	...	...	...	14
Catherine Wordsworth	...	...	...	...	...	no
Celandine, To the small	..	...	..	...	...	60
Celandine, To the same	...	...	...	...	...	62
Celandine, The small	...	...	...	...	...	122
Character of the Happy Warrior...	...	...	...	94
Christabel ...	...	..	...	...	...	...	160
Cloud, The ...	...	...	...	...	...	...	248
Cuckoo, To the	...	...	...	...	...	...	72
Death ...	...	...	...	...	...	...	116
Dejection ...	...	...	...	...	...	...	185
Dirge... ...	...	..	....... ...	343
“ Earth has not anything to show more fair” ...	...	113
Elegiac stanzas	...	...	...	...	...	•••	i29
Epipsychiclion	...	...	...	...	...	•••	27 9
Epitaph on an Infant	...	...	...	...	•••	I37
Eve of St. Agnes ...	...	...	•••	•••	4I4
Extempore Effusion upon the death of James Hogg ...	131
Fancy...
477
• l »
435﻿INDEX
PAGE
F. G., To ...........................................
‘ ‘ Five years have passed; five summers, with the length”
Fountain, The
“ From Catullus ” ...
340
117
125
138
G. A. W., To
Green Linnet, The ..
360
65
“ Hadst thou liv’d in days of old”
“ Happy is England ! I could be content ”
Hart-Leap Well
Highland Girl, To a
Human Seasons, 1 he
Hymn of Pan ...................
Hymn to Intellectual Beauty
Hyperion ............................
356
362
6
75
474
250
199
445
“ In a drear-nighted December ”...
Indian Serenade, The
“ In the great morning of the world ”
Isabella, or, the Pot of Basil
“ I stood tip-toe upon a little hill ”
“ It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ”
“ It is not to be thought of that the Flood
“ I travelled among unknown men ”
“ I wandered lonely as a Cloud ”
470
338
298
396
347
112
109
72
64
Jane, To—The Invitation...
Jane, To—The Recollection
3°7
308
“ Keen, fitful gusts are whispering here and there ” ...	360
Kubla Khan ...	...	...	...	...	...	19°
La belle dame sans merci
Lady with a Guitar, To a ...
Lament
Lamia
Laodameia ...
Lines on the Mermaid Tavern
Lines written among the Euganean Hills
Lines written in the Bay
‘ ‘ Loud is the Vale ! the
Love ...
Love left alone
Love’s Philosophy
Lucy Gray ...
of Lerici
Voice is up ” ...
• • •
47i
3°4
343
375
89
439
231
311
128
182
339
337
3
Margaret
Mary Wordsworth, To
478
44
131﻿INDEX
Mask of Anarchy, The
Michael
“ Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour”
“ Most sweet is it with un-uplifted eyes ”
Mutability ...	................................
Names ...	...	...	...	...	........
Night, To ...	........ .......................
Ode on a Grecian Urn
Ode on Intimations of Immortality
Ode on Melancholy
Ode to Duty...
Ode to a Nightingale .............................
Ode to Psyche
Ode to the West Wind ...	...	........
“ O Friend ! I know not which way I must look ”
“ O Nightingale ! thou surely art ”
On Fame
On Fame
On first looking into Chapman’s Homer
On the departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford
for Naples ...	...	........ ...........
On the extinction of the Venetian Republic
On the Grasshopper and Cricket...
Ozymandias...
Personal Talk ...	...	........ ...........
Question, The
“ Return, Content! for fondly I pursued ”
Reverie of Poor Susan, The
Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Robin Hood
“ Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned” ...
“ She dwelt among the untrodden ways ”
“ She was a Phantom of delight ”
Skylark, To a
Skylark, To a
Sleep and Poetry
Solitary Reaper, The
Song, from “ Remorse ” ..
Sonnet ...........................................
Specimen of an Induction to a Poem ...
Spring
Stanzas, written in dejection, near Naples
“Strange fits of Passion have I known ”	... '
479
PAGE
226
30
io3
114
336
193
340
431
99
443
97
428
433
33°
107
67
474
475
361
1 r5
io5
362
231
no
34i
114
5
i39
440
109
71
73
66
244
363
77
193
334
354
335
242
68﻿INDEX
PAGE
“ The cold earth slept below’’
“ The rude wind is singing
“ The world’s great age begins anew ” ...
“ The world is too much with us ; late and soon ”
Thoughts
Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland
“ Three years she grew " ...
rp*
L 1 IT) 6 . . .	• • •	..mm	•••	•••	•••	•••	•••
Time, Real and Imaginary
“ To one who has been long in city pent "
Toussaint L’Ouverture, To
Two April Mornings
Two Spirits, The ...
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What an Epigram is
“ When I have fears that I may cease to be ” ...
“ When Passion’s trance is overpast ”
“ When the lamp is shattered "...
Witch of Atlas, The
“Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain ”
“ Worlds on worlds are rolling ever "	..
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Yarrow unvisited
Yarrow visited
Yew-trees
Youth and Age
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...	116
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Richard Clay Sous, Limited, London <5^ Bungay.﻿﻿﻿