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Full many a
dreary hour have I past,
My brain bewildered, and my
mind o'ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I've
thought
No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
On the
far depth where sheeted lightning plays;
Or, on the
wavy grass outstretched supinely,
Pry 'mong the
stars, to strive to think divinely:
That I should
never hear Apollo's song,
Though feathery clouds were
floating all along
The purple west, and, two bright
streaks between,
The golden lyre itself were dimly
seen:
That the still murmur of the honey bee
Would
never teach a rural song to me:
That the bright
glance from beauty's eyelids slanting
Would never
make a lay of mine enchanting,
Or warm my breast with
ardour to unfold
Some tale of love and arms in time
of old.
But there are times, when those that love the
bay,
Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;
A
sudden glow comes on them, nought they see
In water,
earth, or air, but poesy.
It has been said, dear
George, and true I hold it,
(For knightly Spenser to
Libertas told it,)
That when a Poet is in such a
trance,
In air her sees white coursers paw, and
prance,
Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,
Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel,
And what
we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,
Is the swift
opening of their wide portal,
When the bright warder
blows his trumpet clear,
Whose tones reach nought on
earth but Poet's ear.
When these enchanted portals
open wide,
And through the light the horsemen swiftly
glide,
The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,
And view the glory of their festivals:
Their ladies
fair, that in the distance seem
Fit for the silv'ring
of a seraph's dream;
Their rich brimmed goblets, that
incessant run
Like the bright spots that move about
the sun;
And, when upheld, the wine from each bright
jar
Pours with the lustre of a falling star.
Yet
further off, are dimly seen their bowers,
Of which,
no mortal eye can reach the flowers;
And 'tis right
just, for well Apollo knows
'Twould make the Poet
quarrel with the rose.
All that's revealed from that
far seat of blisses
Is the clear fountains'
interchanging kisses,
As gracefully descending, light
and thin,
Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,
When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,
And sports
with half his tail above the waves.
These wonders
strange he sees, and many more,
Whose head is
pregnant with poetic lore.
Should he upon an evening
ramble fare
With forehead to the soothing breezes
bare,
Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue
With all its diamonds trembling through and through?
Or the coy moon, when in the waviness
Of whitest
clouds she does her beauty dress,
And staidly paces
higher up, and higher,
Like a sweet nun in holy-day
attire?
Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight
-
The revelries and mysteries of night:
And
should I ever see them, I will tell you
Such tales as
needs must with amazement spell you.
These are the
living pleasures of the bard:
But richer far
posterity's reward.
What does he murmur with his
latest breath,
While his proud eye looks though the
film of death?
"What though I leave this dull and
earthly mould,
Yet shall my spirit lofty converse
hold
With after times. -The patriot shall feel
My
stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;
Or, in the
senate thunder out my numbers
To startle princes from
their easy slumbers.
The sage will mingle with each
moral theme
My happy thoughts sententious; he will
teem
With lofty periods when my verses fire him,
And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.
Lays
have I left of such a dear delight
That maids will
sing them on their bridal night.
Gay villagers, upon
a morn of May,
When they have tired their gentle
limbs with play
And formed a snowy circle on the
grass,
And placed in midst of all that lovely lass
Who chosen is their queen, -with her fine head
Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red:
For
there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,
Are
emblems true of hapless lovers dying:
Between her
breasts, that never yet felt trouble,
A bunch of
violets full blown, and double,
Serenely sleep: -she
from a casket takes
A little book, -and then a joy
awakes
About each youthful heart, -with stifled
cries,
And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling
eyes:
For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears;
One that I fostered in my youthful years:
The pearls,
that on each glist'ning circlet sleep,
Must ever and
anon with silent creep,
Lured by the innocent
dimples. To sweet rest
Shall the dear babe, upon its
mother's breast,
Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair
world, adieu!
Thy dales, and hills, are fading from
my view:
Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading
pinions,
Far from the narrow bound of thy dominions.
Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,
That my
soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,
And warm
thy sons!" Ah, my dear friend and brother,
Could I,
at once, my mad ambition smother,
For tasting joys
like these, sure I should be
Happier, and dearer to
society.
At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from
pain
When some bright thought has darted through my
brain:
Through all that day I've felt a greater
pleasure
Than if I'd brought to light a hidden
treasure.
As to my sonnets, though none else should
heed them,
I feel delighted, still, that you should
read them.
Of late, too, I have had much calm
enjoyment,
Stretched on the grass at my best loved
employment
Of scribbling lines for you. These things
I thought
While, in my face, the freshest breeze I
caught.
E'en now I'm pillowed on a bed of flowers
That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers
Above
the ocean-waves, The stalks, and blades,
Chequer my
tablet with their quivering shades.
On one side is a
field of drooping oats,
Through which the poppies
show their scarlet coats;
So pert and useless, that
they bring to mind
The scarlet coats that pester
human-kind.
And on the other side, outspread, is seen
Ocean's blue mantle streaked with purple, and green.
Now 'tis I see a canvassed ship, and now
Mark the
bright silver curling round her prow.
I see the lark
dowm-dropping to his nest,
And the broad winged
sea-gull never at rest;
For when no more he spreads
his feathers free,
His breast is dancing on the
restless sea.
Now I direct my eyes into the west,
Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest:
Why
westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu!
'Twas but to
kiss my hand, dear George, to you!
August, 1816.
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