And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne!"
But Shapes, that come not at an earthly call, Will not depart when mortal voices bid; Lords of the visionary eye whose lid,
Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall! Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Implement Obeys a mystical intent!
Your Minister would brush away
The spots that to my soul adhere; But should she labour night and day,
They will not, cannot disappear;
Whence angry perturbations, and that look Which no philosophy can brook!
Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built Upon the ruins of thy glorious name;
Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, Pursue thee with their deadly aim!
O matchless perfidy! portentous lust
Of monstrous crime!-that horror-striking blade, Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid The noble Syracusan low in dust!
Shuddered the walls-the marble city wept- And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh; But in calm peace the appointed Victim slept, As he had fallen in magnanimity;
Of spirit too capacious to require
That Destiny her course should change; too just To his own native greatness to desire
That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust. So were the hopeless troubles, that involved The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. Released from life and cares of princely state, He left this moral grafted on his Fate; "Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends, Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends."
[Composed 1816.-Published 1820, as the first stanza of Dion, but afterwards withdrawn.]
Fair is the Swan, whose majesty, prevailing O'er breezeless water, on Locarno's lake, Bears him on while proudly sailing He leaves behind a moon-illumined wake: Behold! the mantling spirit of reserve Fashions his neck into a goodly curve; An arch thrown back between luxuriant wings Of whitest garniture, like fir-tree boughs To which, on some unruffled morning, clings A flaky weight of winter's purest snows! -Behold!-as with a gushing impulse heaves That downy prow, and softly cleaves The mirror of the crystal flood,
Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood, And pendent rocks, where'er, in gliding state, Winds the mute Creature without visible Mate Or Rival, save the Queen of night
Showering down a silver light,
From heaven, upon her chosen Favourite!
[Composed September, 1819.-Published 1820.]
Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring; That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
No faint and hesitating trill, Such tribute as to winter chill The lonely redbreast pays! Clear, loud, and lively is the din, From social warblers gathering in Their harvest of sweet lays.
Nor doth the example fail to cheer Me, conscious that my leaf is sere, And yellow on the bough:- Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed Around a younger brow!
Yet will I temperately rejoice;
Wide is the range, and free the choice Of undiscordant themes;
Which, haply, kindred souls may prize Not less than vernal ecstasies, And passion's feverish dreams.
For deathless powers to verse belong, And they like Demi-gods are strong On whom the Muses smile;
But some their function have disclaimed, Best pleased with what is aptliest framed To enervate and defile.
Not such the initiatory strains Committed to the silent plains In Britain's earliest dawn:
Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, While all-too-daringly the veil
Of nature was withdrawn!
Nor such the spirit-stirring note When the live chords Alcæus smote, Inflamed by sense of wrong;
Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire Of fierce vindictive song.
And not unhallowed was the page By winged Love inscribed, to assuage The pangs of vain pursuit;
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid With finest touch of passion swayed Her own Aeolian lute.
O ye, who patiently explore The wreck of Herculanean lore, What rapture! could ye seize
Some Theban fragment, or unroll One precious, tender-hearted, scroll Of pure Simonides.
That were, indeed, a genuine birth Of poesy; a bursting forth Of genius from the dust:
What Horace gloried to behold, What Maro loved, shall we enfold? Can haughty Time be just!
OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820
[Composed 1820.-Published 1820.]
Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth! In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours The air of liberty, the light of truth;
Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth: Yet, O ye spires of Oxford! domes and towers! Gardens and groves! your presence overpowers The soberness of reason; till, in sooth, Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange I slight my own beloved Cam, to range Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet; Pace the long avenue, or glide adown
The stream-like windings of that glorious street- An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown!
FIVE SONNETS FROM THE SERIES ON THE RIVER DUDDON
What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled, First of his tribe, to this dark dell-who first In this pellucid Current slaked his thirst?
What hopes came with him? what designs were spread Along his path? His unprotected bed
What dreams encompassed? Was the intruder nursed In hideous usages, and rights accursed,
That thinned the living and disturbed the dead? No voice replies;-both air and earth are mute; And Thou, blue Streamlet, murmuring yield'st no
Than a soft record, that, whatever fruit
Of ignorance thou might'st witness heretofore, Thy function was to heal and to restore, To soothe and cleanse, not madden and pollute!
Sacred Religion! "mother of form and fear," Dread arbitress of mutable respect,
New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked, Or cease to please the fickle worshipper;
Mother of Love! (that name best suits thee here) Mother of Love! for this deep vale, protect Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect, Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere That seeks to stifle it;-as in those days When this low Pile a Gospel Teacher knew, Whose good works formed an endless retinue: A Pastor such as Chaucer's verse portrays; Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew; And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise!
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- Poured 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.
« ՆախորդըՇարունակել » |