In Drear Nighted December 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. In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But 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 Writh'd not at passed joy? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steel it, Was never said in rhyme. Apollo to the Graces Apol. Which of the fairest three Apol. Today will ride with me? Apol. My steeds are all pawing on the thresholds of morn Apol. Which of the fairest three Apol. Today will ride with me Apol. Across the gold autumn's whole kingdoms of corn? Grac. I will, I ‐ I ‐ I ‐ Grac. O young apollo let me fly along with thee, Grac. I will ‐ I, I, I, Grac. The many many wonders see Grac. I ‐ I ‐ I ‐ I ‐ Grac. And thy lyre shall never have a slackened string; Grac. I, I, I, I, Grac. Thro' the whole golden day will sing. To Mrs. Reynolds's Cat Cat! who hast past thy grand climacteric, How many mice and rats hast in thy days Destroy'd? ‐ how many tit bits stolen? Gaze With those bright languid segments green and prick Those velvet ears ‐ but pr'ythee do not stick Thy latent talons in me ‐ and upraise Thy gentle mew ‐ and tell me all thy frays Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick. Nay look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists ‐ For all the weezy asthma, ‐ and for all Thy tail's tip is nicked off ‐ and though the fists Of many a maid have given thee many a maul, Still is that fur as soft as when the lists In youth thou enter'dst on glass-bottled wall. Lines on Seeing a Lock of Milton's Hair Chief of organic numbers! Old scholar of the spheres! Thy spirit never slumbers, But rolls about our ears, For ever, and for ever! O what a mad endeavour Worketh he, Who to thy sacred and ennobled hearse Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse And melody. How heavenward thou soundest, Live temple of sweet noise, And discord unconfoundest, Giving delight new joys, And pleasure nobler pinions! O, where are thy dominions? Lend thine ear To a young Delian oath, ‐ aye, by thy soul, By all that from thy mortal lips did roll, And by the kernal of thine earthly love, Beauty, in things on earth, and things above  I swear! ^ When every childish fashion Has vanish'd from my rhyme, Will I, grey-gone in passion, Leave to an after-time Hymning and harmony Of thee, and of thy works, and of thy life; But vain is now the burning and the strife, Pangs are in vain, until I grow high-rife With old philosophy, And mad with glimpses of futurity! For many years my offerings must be hush'd; When I do speak, I'll think upon this hour, Because I feel my forehead hot and flush'd, Even at the simplest vassal of thy power, ‐ A lock of thy bright hair, ‐ Sudden it came, And I was startled, when I caught thy name Coupled so unaware; Yet, at the moment, temperate was my blood. I thought I had beheld it from the Flood. On Sitting Down to Read King Lear Once Again O golden tongued Romance, with serene lute! Fair plumed syren, queen of far-away! Leave melodizing on this wintry day, Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute Adieu! for, once again, the fierce dispute Betwixt damnation and impassion'd clay Must I burn through; once more humbly assay The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion, Begetters of our deep eternal theme! When through the old oak forest I am gone, Let me not wander in a barren dream, But, when I am consumed in the fire Give me new phoenix wings to fly at my desire. When I have fears that I may cease to be 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. O blush not so! O blush not so O blush not so! O blush not so! Or I shall think ye knowing; And if you smile the blushing while, Then maidenheads are going. There's a blush for want, and a blush for shan't, And a blush for having done it There's a blush for thought and a blush for naught, And a blush for just begun it. O say not so! O say not so! For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin; By these loosen'd hips you have tasted the pips And fought in an amorous nipping. Will you play once more at nice-cut-core, For it only will last our youth out, And we have the prime of our kissing time, We have not one sweet tooth out. There's a sigh for aye, and a sigh for nay, And a sigh for I can't bear it! O what can be done, shall we stay or run? O cut the sweet apple and share it! Hence burgendy, claret, and port Hence burgundy, claret, and port, Away with old hock and madeira, Too earthly ye are for my sport; There's a beverage brighter and clearer. Instead of a pitiful rummer, My wine overbrims a whole summer; My bowl is the sky, And I drink at my eye, Till I feel in the brain A Delphian pain ‐ Then follow, my Caius! then follow On the green of the hill We will drink our fill Of golden sunshine, Till our brains intertwine With the glory and grace of Apollo! God of the Meridian God of the meridian, And of the east and west, To thee my soul is flown, And my body is earthward press'd. It is an awful mission, A terrible division; And leaves a gulph austere To be fill'd with worldly fear. Aye, when the soul is fled To high above our head, Affrighted do we gaze After its airy maze, As doth a mother wild, When her young infant child Is in an eagle's claws ‐ And is not this the cause Of madness? ‐ God of Song, Thou bearest me along Through sights I scarce can bear O let me, let me share With the hot lyre and thee, The staid philosophy. Temper my lonely hours, And let me see thy bowers More unalarm'd! Robin Hood 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. 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 He 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! 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 Hood, 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. 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? Have 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, 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? Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, Lethe's weed and Hermes' feather; Come to-day, and come to-morrow, I do love you both together! I love to mark sad faces in fair weather; And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder; Fair and foul I love together. Meadows sweet where flames burn under, And a giggle at a wonder; Visage sage at pantomime; Funeral, and steeple-chime; Infant playing with a skull; Morning fair, and stormwreck'd hull; Nightshade with the woodbine kissing; Serpents in red roses hissing; Cleopatra regal-dress'd With the aspic at her breast; Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad; Muses bright and Muses pale; Sombre Saturn, Momus hale; ‐ Laugh and sigh, and laugh again; Oh the sweetness of the pain! Muses bright, and Muses pale, Bare your faces of the veil; Let me see; and let me write Of the day, and of the night ‐ Both together ‐ let me slake All my thirst for sweet heart-ache! Let my bower be of yew, Interwreath'd with myrtles new; Pines and lime-trees full in bloom, And my couch a low grass tomb Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb; Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand; Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web, And snared by the ungloving of thine hand. And yet I never look on midnight sky, But I behold thine eyes' well memoried light; I cannot look upon the rose's dye, But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight; I cannot look on any budding flower, But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips, And harkening for a love-sound, doth devour Its sweets in the wrong sense ‐ Thou dost eclipse Every delight with sweet remembering, And grief unto my darling joys dost bring. To the Nile Son of the old moon-mountains African! Stream of the pyramid and crocodile! We call thee fruitful, and, that very while, A desert fills our seeing's inward span; Nurse of swart nations since the world began, Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou beguile Such men to honour thee, who, worn with toil, Rest them a space 'twixt Cairo and Decan? O may dark fancies err! they surely do; 'Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste Of all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste The pleasant sun-rise. Green isles hast thou too, And to the sea as happily dost haste. Spenser, a jealous honorer of thine Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine, A forester deep in thy midmost trees, Did last eve ask my promise to refine Some English that might strive thine ear to please. But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible For an inhabitant of wintry earth To rise like Phoebus with a golden quell Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his mirth. It is impossible to escape from toil O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting The flower must drink the nature of the soil Before it can put forth its blossoming Be with me in the summer days and I Will for thine honour and his pleasure try. Blue! ‐ 'Tis the life of heaven ‐ the do main Blue! 'Tis the life of heaven, ‐ the domain Of Cynthia, ‐ the wide palace of the sun, ‐ The tent of Hesperus, and all his train, ‐ The bosomer of clouds, gold, grey and dun. Blue! 'Tis the life of waters ‐ Ocean And all its vassal streams pools numberless May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can Subside, if not to dark-blue nativeness. Blue! gentle cousin of the forest-green, Married to green in all the sweetest flowers, ‐ Forget-me-not, ‐ the blue bell, ‐ and, that queen Of secrecy, the violet What strange powers Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great, When in an eye thou art alive with fate! O thou whose face hath felt the winter's wind O thou whose face hath felt the winter's wind, Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist, And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars, To thee the spring will be a harvest-time. O thou, whose only book has been the light Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on Night after night when Phoebus was away, To thee the spring shall be a triple morn. O fret not after knowledge ‐ I have none, And yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge ‐ I have none, And yet the evening listens. He who saddens At thought of idleness cannot be idle, And he's awake who thinks himself asleep. Extracts from an Opera O! were I one of the Olympian twelve, Their godships should pass this into a law, ‐ That when a man doth set himself in toil After some beauty veiled far away, Each step he took should make his lady's hand More soft, more white, and her fair cheek more fair; And for each briar-berry he might eat, A kiss should bud upon the tree of love, And pulp and ripen richer every hour, To melt away upon the traveller's lips. DAISY'S SONG The sun, with his great eye, Sees not so much as I; And the moon, all silver-proud, Might as well be in a cloud. And O the spring ‐ the spring! I lead the life of a king! Couch'd in the teeming grass, I spy each pretty lass. I look where no one dares, And I stare where no one stares, And when the night is nigh, Lambs bleat my lullaby. FOLLY'S SONG When wedding fiddles are a-playing, Huzza for folly O! And when maidens go a-maying), Huzza for folly O! When a milk-pail is upset, Huzza for folly O! And the clothes left in the wet, Huzza for folly O! When the barrel's set abroach, Huzza for folly O! When kate eyebrow keeps a coach, Huzza for folly O! When the pig is over-toasted, Huzza for folly O! And the cheese is over-roasted, Huzza for folly O! When sir snap is with his lawyer, Huzza for folly O! And miss chip has kiss'd the sawyer; Huzza for folly O! O, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts Oh, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts! Perhaps her voice is not a nightingale's, Perhaps her teeth are not the fairest pearl; Her eye-lashes may be, for aught I know, Not longer than the May-fly's small fan-horns; There may not be one dimple on her hand; And freckles many; ah! a careless nurse, In haste to teach the little thing to walk, May have crumpt up a pair of Dian's legs, And warpt the ivory of a Juno's neck. Song The stranger lighted from his steed, And ere he spake a word, He seiz'd my lady's lily hand, And kiss'd it all unheard. The stranger walk'd into the hall, And ere he spake a word, And kiss'd my lady's cherry lips, And kiss'd 'em all unheard. The stranger walk'd into the bower, ‐ But my lady first did go, ‐ Aye hand in hand into the bower, Where my lord's roses blow. My lady's maid had a silken scarf, And a golden ring had she, And a kiss from the stranger, as off he went Again on his fair palfrey. Asleep! O sleep a little while white pearl Asleep! o sleep a little while, white pearl! And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee, And let me call heaven's blessing on thine eyes, And let me breathe into the happy air, That doth enfold and touch thee all about, Vows of my slavery, my giving up, My sudden adoration, my great love! Four seasons fill the measure of the year 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 honied cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming nigh His 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. For there's Bishop's Teign For there's Bishop's Teign And King's Teign And Coomb at the clear Teign head ‐ Where close by the stream You may have your cream All spread upon barley bread. There's Arch Brook And there's Larch Brook Both turning many a mill And cooling the drouth Of the salmon's mouth And fattening his silver gill. There is Wild Wood, A mild hood To the sheep on the lea o' the down, Where the golden furze, With its green, thin spurs, Doth catch at the maiden's gown. There is Newton Marsh With its spear grass harsh ‐ A pleasant summer level Where the maidens sweet Of the Market Street Do meet in the dusk to revel. There's the barton rich With dyke and ditch And hedge for the thrush to live in And the hollow tree For the buzzing bee And a bank for the wasp to hive in. And O, and O The daisies blow And the primroses are waken'd, And the violet white Sits in silver plight, And the green bud's as long as the spike end. Then who would go Into dark Soho, And chatter with dack'd-hair'd critics, When he can stay For the new-mown hay, And startle the dappled prickets? Where be ye going, you Devon maid Where be ye going, you Devon maid? And what have ye there in the basket? Ye tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy, Will ye give me some cream if I ask it? I love your meads, and I love your flowers, And I love your junkets mainly, But 'hind the door I love kissing more, O look not so disdainly. I love your hills, and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating ‐ But O, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating! I'll put your basket all safe in a nook, Your shawl I hang up on the willow, And we will sigh in the daisy's eye And kiss on a grass-green pillow. Over the hill and over the dale Over the hill and over the dale, And over the bourn to Dawlish ‐ Where gingerbread wives have a scanty sale And gingerbrea^d nuts are smallish. Rantipole Betty she ran down a hill And kick'd up her petticoats fairly Says I I'll be Jack if you will be Gill. So she sat on the grass debonnairly. Here's somebody coming, here's some^body coming Says I 'tis the wind at a parley So without any fuss any hawing and humming She lay on the grass debonnair^ly. Here's somebody here and here's somebody there! Say's I hold your tongue you young gipsey. So she held her tongue and lay plump and fair And dead as a venus tipsy. O who would'nt hie to Dawlish fair O who would'nt stop in a meadow O  who ^ would not rumple the daisies there And make the wild fern for a bed do. Dear Reynolds, as last night I lay in bed Dear Reynolds, as last night I lay in bed, There came before my eyes that wonted thread Of shapes, and shadows and remembrances, That every other minute vex and please Things all disjointed come from north and south, Two witch's eyes above a cherub's mouth, Voltaire with casque and shield and habergeon, And Alexander with his night-cap on ‐ Old Socrates a tying his cravat; And Hazlitt playing with Miss Edgeworth's cat; And Junius Brutus pretty well so, so, Making the best of's way towards Soho. Few are there who escape these visitings ‐ Perhaps one or two, whose lives have patent wings; And through whose curtains peeps no hellish nose, No wild boar tushes, and no mermaid's toes But flowers bursting out with lusty pride; And young Aeolian harps personified, Some, Titian colours touch'd into real life. ‐ The sacrifice goes on; the pontiff knife Gleams in the sun, the milk-white heifer lows, The pipes go shrilly, the libation flows A white sail shews above the green-head cliff Moves round the point, and throws her anchor stiff. The mariners join hymn with those on land. ‐ You know the Enchanted Castle it doth stand Upon a rock on the border of a lake Nested in trees, which all do seem to shake From some old magic like Urganda's sword. O Phoebus that I had thy sacred word To shew this castle in fair dreaming wise Unto my friend, while sick and ill he lies. You know it well enough, where it doth seem A mossy place, a Merlin's hall, a dream. You know the clear lake, and the little isles, The mountains blue, and cold near neighbour rills ‐ All which elsewhere are but half animate Here do they look alive to love and hate; To smiles and frowns; they seem a lifted mound Above some giant, pulsing underground. Part of the building was a chosen see Built by a banish'd santon of Chaldee The other part two thousand years from him Was built by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim; Then there's a little wing, far from the sun, Built by a Lapland witch turn'd maudlin nun ‐ And many other juts of aged stone Founded with many a mason-devil's groan. The doors all look as if they oped themselves, The windows as if latch'd by fays and elves ‐ And from them comes a silver flash of light As from the westward of a summer's night; Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes Gone mad through olden songs and poesies ‐ See what is coming from the distance dim! A golden galley all in silken trim! Three rows of oars are lightening moment-whiles Into the verdurous bosoms of those isles. Towards the shade under the castle wall It comes in silence ‐ now tis hidden all. The clarion sounds; and from a postern grate An echo of sweet music doth create A fear in the poor herdsman who doth bring His beasts to trouble the enchanted spring He tells of the sweet music and the spot To all his friends, and they believe him not. O that our dreamings all of sleep or wake Would all their colours from the sunset take From something of material sublime, Rather than shadow our own soul's daytime In the dark void of night. For in the world We jostle ‐ but my flag is not unfurl'd On the admiral staff ‐ and to philosophize I dare not yet! ‐ Oh never will the prize, High reason, and the lore of good and ill Be my award. Things cannot to the will Be settled, but they tease us out of thought. Or is it that imagination brought Beyond its proper bound, yet still confined, ‐ Lost in a sort of purgatory blind, Cannot refer to any standard law Of either earth or heaven? ‐ It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn ‐ It forces us in summer skies to mourn It spoils the singing of the nightingale. Dear Reynolds, I have a mysterious tale And cannot speak it. The first page I read Upon a lampit rock of green sea weed Among the breakers ‐ 'Twas a quiet eve; The rocks were silent ‐ the wide sea did weave An untumultuous fringe of silver foam Along the flat brown sand. I was at home, And should have been most happy ‐ but I saw Too far into the sea; where every maw The greater on the less feeds evermore ‐ But I saw too distinct into the core Of an eternal fierce destruction, And so from happiness I far was gone. Still am I sick of it and though to-day I've gathered young spring-leaves, and flowers gay Of periwinkle and wild strawberry, Still do I that most fierce destruction see, The shark at savage prey ‐ the hawk at pounce, The gentle robin, like a pard or ounce, Ravening a worm ‐ Away ye horrid moods, Moods of one's mind! you know I hate them well, You know I'd sooner be a clapping bell To some Kamschatkan missionary church, Than with these horrid moods be left in lurch ‐ Do you get health ‐ and Tom the same ‐ I'll dance, And from detested moods in new romance Take refuge ‐ Of bad lines a centaine dose Is sure enough ‐ and so " here follows prose " . ‐ To J.R. O that a week could be an age, and we Felt parting and warm meeting every week, Then one poor year a thousand years would be, The flush of welcome ever on the cheek So could we live long life in little space, So time itself would be annihilate, So a day's journey in oblivious haze To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate. O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind! To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant! In little time a host of joys to bind, And keep our souls in one eternal pant! This morn, my friend, and yester evening taught Me how to harbour such a happy thought. Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil 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. 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. He 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. 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, Honeyless days and days did he let pass; 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, " I 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. " 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! 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; 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. " 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. " 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, Enriched from ancestral merchandize, And for them many a weary hand did swelt In torched mines and noisy factories, 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. 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. 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? 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. 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. 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 such a piteous theme. 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. 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 That he, 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. 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. 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. " Today we purpose, ay, this hour we mount " To spur three leagues towards the Apennine; " Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count " His 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. 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. " 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! " said she ‐ And as he went she chanted merrily. 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. 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 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. 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. 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. 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, 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 a smoke from Hinnom's vale; And every night in dreams they groan'd aloud, To see their sister in her snowy shroud. 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. It was a vision. ‐ In the drowsy gloom, The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot Lorenzo stood, and wept the forest tomb Had marr'd his glossy hair which once could shoot 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. 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. 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. 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. " 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. " 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. " 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; " 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; " 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. " 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; How 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. 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 earthy bed; The flint was there, the berries at his head. 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 scull, coffin'd bones, and funeral stole; Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd, And filling it once more with human soul? Ah! this is holiday to what was felt When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 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. 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. 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 Three hours they labour'd at this travail sore; At last they felt the kernel of the grave, And Isabella did not stamp and rave. Ah! 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! 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. 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. 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. 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. And 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. 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 leafits spread. 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. 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; 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. O leave the palm to wither by itself; Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour! ‐ It may not be ‐ those 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. 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 wonder'd 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. 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. 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. 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 you " 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. 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. " 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. 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! " Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia! May I sing to thee As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae? Or may I woo thee In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles Seek, as they once were sought, in Grecian isles, By bards who died content in pleasant sward, Leaving great verse unto a little clan? Save of the quiet primrose, and the span Of heaven, and few ears Rounded by thee, my song should die away, Content as theirs, Rich in the simple worship of a day. To Homer Standing aloof in giant ignorance, Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, As one who sits ashore and longs perchance To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas. So thou wast blind! ‐ but then the veil was rent, For Jove uncurtain'd heaven to let thee live, And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent, And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive; Aye, on the shores of darkness there is light, And precipices show untrodden green; There is a budding morrow in midnight; There is a triple sight in blindness keen; Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befel To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell. Give me your patience, sister, while I frame Give me your patience sister while I frame Exact in capitals your golden name Or sue the fair Apollo and he will Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill Great love in me for thee and Poesy. Imagine not that greatest mastery And kingdom over all the realms of verse Nears more to heaven in aught than when we nurse And surety give to love and brotherhood. Anthropophagi in Othello's mood; Ulysses stormed, and his enchanted belt Glowed with the muse, but they are never felt Unbosom'd so and so eternal made, Such tender incense in their laurel shade, To all the regent sisters of the Nine As this poor offering to you, sister mine. Kind sister! aye, this third name says you are; Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where. And may it taste to you like good old wine, Take you to real happiness and give Sons, daughters and a home like honied hive. Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes, And sweet is the voice in its greeting, When adieux have grown old and goodbyes Fade away where old time is retreating. Warm the nerve of a welcoming hand, And earnest a kiss on the brow, When we meet over sea and o'er land Where furrows are new to the plough. On Visiting the Tomb of Burns The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun, The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem, Though beautiful, cold ‐ strange ‐ as in a dream, I dreamed long ago, now new begun. The short-liv'd, paly summer is but won From winter's ague, for one hour's gleam; Though sapphire-warm, their stars do never beam All is cold beauty; pain is never done For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise, The real of beauty, free from that dead hue Sickly imagination and sick pride Cast wan upon it? Burns! with honour due I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide Thy face; I sin against thy native skies. Old Meg she was a gipsey Old Meg she was a gipsey, And liv'd upon the moors; Her bed it was the brown heath turf, And her house was out of doors. Her apples were swart blackberries, Her currants, pods o' broom; Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, Her book a churchyard tomb. Her brothers were the craggy hills, Her sisters larchen trees; Alone with her great family She liv'd as she did please. No breakfast had she many a morn, No dinner many a noon, And, 'stead of supper, she would stare Full hard against the moon. But every morn, of woodbine fresh She made her garlanding, And, every night, the dark glen yew She wove, and she would sing. And with her fingers, old and brown, She plaited mats o' rushes, And gave them to the cottagers She met among the bushes. Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen And tall as Amazon; An old red blanket cloak she wore, A chip hat had she on. God rest her aged bones somewhere! She died full long agone! There was a naughty bay There was a naughty boy, A naughty boy was he, He would not stop at home, He could not quiet be ‐ He took In his knapsack A book Full of vowels And a shirt With some towels ‐ A slight cap For night cap ‐ A hair brush, Comb ditto, New stockings Fold old ones Would split O! This knapsack Tight at's back He rivetted close And followed his nose To the north, To the north, And follow'd his nose To the north. There was a naughty boy And a naughty boy was he, For nothing would he do But scribble poetry ‐ He took An ink stand In his hand And a pen Big as ten In the other. And away In a pother He ran To the mountains And fountains And ghostes And postes And witches And ditches And wrote In his coat When the weather Was cool, Fear of gout, And without When the wea^ther Was warm ‐ Och the charm When we choose To follow one's nose To the north, To the north, To follow one's nose to the north! There was a naughty boy And a naughty boy was he, He kept little fishes In washing tubs three In spite Of the might Of the maid Nor affraid Of his granny-good ‐ He often would Hurly burly Get up early And go By hook or crook To the brook And bring home Miller's thumb, Tittlebat Not over fat, Minnows small As the stall Of a glove, Not above The size Of a nice Little baby's Little finger ‐ O he made 'Twas his trade Of fish a pretty kettle A kettle ‐ a kettle Of fish a pretty kettle A kettle! There was a naughty boy, And a naughty boy was he, He ran away to Scotland The people for to see ‐ There he found That the ground Was as hard, That a yard Was as long, That a song Was as merry, That a cherry Was as red ‐ That lead Was as weighty, That fourscore Was as eighty, That a door Was as wooden As in England ‐ So he stood in His shoes and he wonder'd, He wonder'd, He stood in his Shoes and he wonder'd. Ah! ken ye what I met the day Ah! ken ye what I met the day Out oure the mountains A coming down by craggies grey An mossie fountains ‐ Ah goud hair'd Marie yeve I pray Ane minute's guessing ‐ For that I met upon the way Is past expressing. As I stood where a rocky brig A torrent crosses I spied upon a misty rig A troup o' horses ‐ And as they trotted down the glen I sped to meet them To see if I might know the men To stop and greet them. First Willie on his sleek mare came At canting gallop His long hair rustled like a flame On board a shallop. Then came his brother Rab and then Young Peggy's mither And Peggy too ‐ adown the glen They went togither ‐ I saw her wrappit in her hood Fra wind and raining ‐ Her cheek was flush wi' timid blood Twixt growth and waning ‐ She turn'd her dazed head full oft For there her brithers Came riding with her bridegroom soft And mony ithers. Young Tam came up an' eyed me quick With reddened cheek ‐ Braw Tam was daffed like a chick ‐ He coud na speak ‐ Ah Marie they are all gane hame Through blustering weather An every heart is full on flame An light as feather. Ah! Marie they are all gone hame Fra happy wedding, Whilst I ‐ Ah is it not a shame? Sad tears am shedding. To Ailsa Rock Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid! Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowls' screams! When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams? When from the sun was thy broad forehead hid? How long is't since the mighty power bid Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams? Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams, Or when grey clouds are thy cold coverlid? Thou answer'st not; for thou art dead asleep; Thy life is but two dead eternities ‐ The last in air, the former in the deep; First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies ‐ Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep, Another cannot wake thy giant size. This mortal body of a thousand days This mortal body of a thousand days Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room, Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays, Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom! My pulse is warm with thine old barley-bree, My head is light with pledging a great soul, My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see, Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal; Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor, Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er, ‐ Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind, ‐ Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name, ‐ O smile among the shades, for this is fame! All gentle folks who owe a grudge All gentle folk who owe a grudge To any living thing Open your ears and stay your trudge Whilst I in dudgeon sing. The gadfly he hath stung me sore ‐ O may he ne'er sting you! But we have many a horrid bore He may sting black and blue. Has any here an old grey mare With three legs all her store, O put it to her buttocks bare And straight she'll run on four. Has any here a lawyer suit Of 17,43 ‐ Take lawyer's nose and put it to't And you the end will see. Is there a man in Parliament Dumb founder'd in his speech, O let his neighbour make a rent And put one in his breech. O Lowther how much better thou Hadst figur'd t' other day When to the folks thou mad'st a bow And hadst no more to say. If lucky gadfly had but ta'en His seat upon thine a ‐ e And put thee to a little pain To save thee from a worse. Better than Southey it had been, Better than Mr. D ‐ , Better than Wordsworth too, I ween, Better than Mr. V ‐ . Forgive me pray good people all For deviating so ‐ In spirit sure I had a call ‐ And now I on will go. Has any here a daughter fair Too fond of reading novels, Too apt to fall in love with care And charming Mister Lovels? O put a gadfly to that thing She keeps so white and pert ‐ I mean the finger for the ring, And it will breed a wort. Has any here a pious spouse Who seven times a day Scolds as King David pray'd, to chouse And have her holy way? O let a gadfly's little sting Persuade her sacred tongue That noises are a common thing But that her bell has rung. And as this is the summum bo-o Num of all conquering, I leave withouten wordes mo The gadfly's little sting. Of late two dainties were before me plac'd Of late two dainties were before me plac'd Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent, From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent That gods might know my own particular taste. First the soft bag-pipe mourn'd with zealous haste, The Stranger next with head on bosom bent Sigh'd; rueful again the piteous bag-pipe went, Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste. O bag-pipe thou didst steal my heart away ‐ O Stranger thou my nerves from pipe didst charm ‐ O bag-pipe thou didst re-assert thy sway ‐ Again thou, Stranger, gav'st me fresh alarm ‐ Alas! I could not choose. Ah! my poor heart, Mum chance art thou with both oblig'd to part. There is a joy in footing slow across a silent plai n There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain, Where patriot battle has been fought, when glory had the gain; There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have been, Where mantles grey have rustled by and swept the nettles green; There is a joy in every spot made known by times of old, New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told; There is a deeper joy than all, more solemn in the heart, More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart, When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf, Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron scurf, Toward the castle or the cot, where long ago was born One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are far away; Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern, ‐ the sun may hear his lay; Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear, But their low voices are not heard, though come on travels drear; Blood-red the sun may set behind black mountain peaks; Blue tides may sluice and drench their time inaves and weedy creeks; Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the air; Ring-doves may fly convuls'd across to some high-cedar'd lair; But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground, As palmer's, that with weariness, mid-desert shrine hath found At such a time the soul's a child, in childhood is the brain; Forgotten is the worldly heart ‐ alone, it beats in vain. ‐ Aye, if a madman could have leave to pass a healthful day To tell his forehead's swoon and faint when first began decay, He might make tremble many a one whose spirit had gone forth To find a bard's low cradle-place about the silent north! Scanty the hour and few the steps beyond the bourn of care, Beyond the sweet and bitter world, ‐ beyond it unaware! Scanty the hour and few the steps, because a longer stay Would bar return, and make a man forget his mortal way O horrible! to lose the sight of well remember'd face, Of brother's eyes, of sister's brow ‐ constant to every place; Filling the air, as on we move, with portraiture intense; More warm than those heroic tints that pain a painter's sense, When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old, Locks shining black, hair scanty grey, and passions manifold. No, no, that horror cannot be, for at the cable's length Man feels the gentle anchor pull and gladdens in its strength ‐ One hour, half-idiot, he stands by mossy waterfall, But in the very next he reads his soul's memorial ‐ He reads it on the mountain's height, where chance he may sit down Upon rough marble diadem ‐ that hill's eternal crown. Yet be his anchor e'er so fast, room is there for a prayer That man may never lose his mind on mountains black and bare; That he may stray league after league some great birthplace to find And keep his vision clear from speck, his inward sight unblind. Not Aladdin magian Not Aladdin magian Ever such a work began; Not the Wizard of the Dee Ever such a dream could see; Not St. John, in Patmos' isle, In the passion of his toil, When he saw the churches seven, Golden aisl'd, built up in heaven, Gaz'd at such a rugged wonder. As I stood its roofing under, Lo! I saw one sleeping there, On the marble cold and bare. While the surges wash'd his feet, And his garments white did beat Drench'd about the sombre rocks, On his neck his well-grown locks, Lifted dry above the main, Were upon the curl again. " What is this? and what art thou? " Whisper'd I, and touch'd his brow; " What art thou? and what is this? " Whisper'd I, and strove to kiss The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes; Up he started in a trice " I am Lycidas, " said he, " Fam'd in funeral minstrelsy! This was architected thus By the great Oceanus! ‐ Here his mighty waters play Hollow organs all the day; Here by turns his dolphins all, Finny palmers great and small, Come to pay devotion due ‐ Each a mouth of pearls must strew. Many a mortal of these days, Dares to pass our sacred ways, Dares to touch audaciously This cathedral of the sea! I have been the pontiff-priest Where the waters never rest, Where a fledgy sea-bird choir Soars for ever; holy fire I have hid from mortal man; Proteus is my sacristan. But the stupid eye of mortal Hath pass'd beyond the rocky portal; So for ever will I leave Such a taint, and soon unweave All the magic of the place. " So saying, with a spirit's glance He dived! Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist! I look into the chasms, and a shroud Vaporous doth hide them, ‐ just so much I wist Mankind do know of hell; I look o'erhead, And there is sullen mist, ‐ even so much Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread Before the earth, beneath me, ‐ even such, Even so vague is man's sight of himself! Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet, ‐ Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf, I tread on them, ‐ that all my eye doth meet Is mist and crag, not only on this height, But in the world of thought and mental might! Upon my life, Sir Nevis,I am piqu'd Mrs.c. Upon my life Sir Nevis I am pique'd Mrs.c. That I have so far panted tugg'd and reek'd Mrs.c. To do an honor to your old bald pate Mrs.c. And now am sitting 'on you just to bate, Mrs.c. Without your paying me one compliment. Mrs.c. Alas 'tis so with all, when our intent Mrs.c. Is plain, and in the eye of all mankind Mrs.c. We fair ones show a preference, too blind! Mrs.c. You gentleman immediate^ly turn tail ‐ Mrs.c. O let me then my hapless fate bewail! Mrs.c. Ungrateful baldpate, have I not disdain'd Mrs.c. The pleasant valleys ‐ have I not mad brain'd Mrs.c. Deserted all my pickles and preserves, Mrs.c. My china closet too ‐ with wretched nerves Mrs.c. To boot ‐ say, wretched ingrate, have I not Mrs.c. Left my soft cushion chair and caudle pot? Mrs.c. 'Tis true I had no corns ‐ no! thank the fates, Mrs.c. My shoemaker was always Mr. Bates. Mrs.c. And if not Mr. Bates why I'm not old! Mrs.c. Still dumb, ungrateful Nevis ‐ still so cold! (Here the lady took some more whiskey and was putting even More to her lips when she dashed it to the ground, for the Mountain began to grumble ‐ which continued for a few Minutes before he thus began,) Nev. What whining bit of tongue and mouth thus dares Nev. Disturb my slumber of a thousand years? Nev. Even so long my sleep has been secure ‐ Nev. And to be so awaked I'll not endure. Nev. Oh pain ‐ for since the eagle's earliest scream Nev. I've had a dam'd confounded ugly dream, Nev. A nightmare sure. What, madam, was it you? Nev. It cannot be! My old eyes are not true! Nev. Red-Crag-, my spectacles! Now let me see! Nev. Good heavens, lady, how the gemini Nev. Did you get here? O I shall split my sides! Nev. I shall earthquake ‐ Mrs.c. Sweet Nevis, do not quake, for though I love Mrs.c. Your honest countenance all things above, Mrs.c. Truly I should not like to be convey'd Mrs.c. So far into your bosom ‐ gentle maid Mrs.c. Loves not too rough a treatment, gentle sir ‐ Mrs.c. Pray thee be calm and do not quake nor stir, Mrs.c. No not a stone, or I shall go in fits ‐ Nev. I must ‐ I shall ‐ I meet not such tit bits ‐ Nev. I meet not such sweet creatures every day ‐ Nev. By my old night-cap, night-cap night and day, Nev. I must have one sweet buss ‐ I must and shall! Nev. Red-Crag-! ‐ What, madam, can you then repent Nev. Of all the toil and vigour you have spent Nev. To see Ben nevis and to touch his nose? Nev. Red-Crag-, I say! O I must have you close! Nev. Red-Crag-, there lies beneath my farthest toe Nev. A vein of sulphur ‐ go dear Red-Crag-, go ‐ Nev. And rub your flinty back against it ‐ budge! Nev. Dear madam, I must kiss you, faith I must! Nev. I must embrace you with my dearest gust! Nev. Block-head, d'ye hear ‐ Block-head, I'll make her feel ‐ Nev. There lies beneath my east leg's northern heel Nev. A cave of young earth-dragons ‐ well, my boy, Nev. Go thither quick and so complete my joy Nev. Take you a bundle of the largest pines Nev. And where the sun on fiercest phosphor shines Nev. Fire them and ram them in the dragons' nest, Nev. Then will the dragons fry and fizz their best Nev. Until ten thousand now no bigger than Nev. Poor alligators ‐ poor things of one span ‐ Nev. Will each one swell to twice ten times the size Nev. Of northern whale ‐ then for the tender prize ‐ Nev. The moment then ‐ for then will Red-Crag- rob Nev. His flinty back ‐ and I shall kiss and snub Nev. And press my dainty morsel to my breast. Nev. Block-head, make haste! O Muses weep the rest ‐ Nev. The lady fainted and he thought her dead Nev. So pulled the clouds again about his head Nev. And went to sleep again ‐ soon she was rous'd Nev. By her affrighted servants ‐ next day hous'd Nev. Safe on the lowly ground she bless'd her fate Nev. That fainting fit was not delayed too late. On Some Skulls in Beauley Abbey, near Inverness In silent barren synod met Within these roofless walls, Poor skull, thy fingers set ablaze, With silver saint in golden rays, The holy missal; thou did'st craze 'Mid bead and spangle, While others pass'd their idle days In coil and wrangle. This lily-colour'd skull, with all The teeth complete, so white and small, Belong'd to one whose early pall A lover shaded; He died ere superstition's gall His heart invaded. Fragment of a Castle-builder Nature withheld cassandra in the skies, For more adornment, a full thousand years; She took their cream of beauty's fairest dyes, And shap'd and tinted her above all peers Meanwhile love kept her dearly with his wings, And underneath their shadow fill'd her eyes With such a richness that the cloudy kings Of high olympus utter'd slavish sighs. When from the heavens I saw her first descend, My heart took fire, and only burning pains, They were my pleasures ‐ they my life's sad end; Love pour'd her beauty into my warm veins . . . Cb. In short, Convince you that however wise Cb. You may have grown from convent libraries, Cb. I have, by many yards at least, been carding A longer skein of wit in Convent Garden. Ber. A very Eden that same place must be! Ber. Pray what demesne? Whose lordship's legacy? Ber. What, have you convents in that Gothic isle? Ber. Pray pardon me, I cannot help but smile. Cb. Sir, Convent Garden is a monstrous beast Cb. From morning, four o'clock, to twelve at noon, Cb. It swallows cabbages without a spoon, Cb. And then, from 12 till two, this Eden made is Cb. A promenade for cooks and ancient ladies; Cb. And then for supper, 'stead of soup and poaches, Cb. It swallows chairmen, damns, and hackney coaches. Cb. In short, sir, 'tis a very place for monks, Cb. For it containeth twenty thousand punks, Cb. Which any man may number for his sport, Cb. By following fat elbows up a court. Cb. In such like nonsense would I pass an hour Cb. With random friar, or rake upon his tour, Cb. Or one of few of that imperial host Cb. Who came unmaimed from the Russian frost. Cb. To-night I'll have my friar ‐ let me think Cb. About my room, ‐ I'll have it in the pink; Cb. It should be rich and sombre, and the moon, Cb. Just in its mid-life in the midst of June, Cb. Should look thro' four large windows and display Cb. Clear, but for golden vases in the way, Cb. Their glassy diamonding on Turkish floor; Cb. The tapers keep aside, an hour and more, Cb. To see what else the moon alone can show; Cb. While the night-breeze doth softly let us know Cb. My terrace is well bower'd with oranges. Cb. Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees Cb. A guitar-ribband and a lady's glove Cb. Beside a crumple-leaved tale of love; Cb. A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there, Cb. All finish'd but some ringlets of her hair; Cb. A viol, bowstrings torn, cross-wise upon Cb. A glorious folio of Anacreon; Cb. A skull upon a mat of roses lying, Cb. Ink'd purple with a song concerning dying; Cb. An hour-glass on the turn, amid the trails Cb. Of passion-flower; ‐ just in time there sails Cb. A cloud across the moon, ‐ the lights bring in! Cb. And see what more my phantasy can win. Cb. It is a gorgeous room, but somewhat sad; Cb. The draperies are so as tho' they had Cb. Been made for Cleopatra's winding-sheet; Cb. And opposite the stedfast eye doth meet Cb. A spacious looking-glass, upon whose face, Cb. In letters raven-sombre, you may trace Cb. Old " Mene, Mene, Tekel-Upharsin-. " Cb. Greek busts and statuary have ever been Cb. Held, by the finest spirits, fitter far Cb. Than vase grotesque and Siamesian jar; Cb. Therefore 'tis sure a want of Attic taste Cb. That I should rather love a Gothic waste Cb. Of eyesight on cinque-coloured potter's clay, Cb. Than on the marble fairness of old Greece. Cb. My table-coverlits of Jason's fleece Cb. And black Numidian sheep-wool should be wrought, Cb. Gold, black, and heavy, from the lama brought. Cb. My ebon sofa should delicious be Cb. With down from Leda's cygnet progeny. Cb. My pictures all Salvator's, save a few Cb. Of Titian's portraiture, and one, tho' new, Cb. Of Haydon's in its fresh magnificence. Cb. My wine ‐ O good! 'tis here at my desire, Cb. And I must sit to supper with my friar. And what is Love? ‐ It is a doll dress'd up And what is love? it is a doll dress'd up For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle; A thing of soft misnomers, so divine That silly youth doth think to make itself Divine by loving, and so goes on Yawning and doting a whole summer long, Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara, And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots; Till Cleopatra lives at Number Seven, And Antony resides in Brunswick Square. Fools! if some passions high have warm'd the world, If Queens and soldiers have play'd deep for hearts, It is no reason why such agonies Should be more common than the growth of weeds. Fools! make me whole again that weighty pearl The queen of Egypt melted, and I'll say That ye may love in spite of beaver hats. 'Tis the "witching time of night" 'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright, And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen ‐ For what listen they? For a song and for a charm, See they glisten in alarm, And the moon is waxing warm To hear what I shall say. Moon! keep wide thy golden ears ‐ Hearken, stars! and hearken, spheres! ‐ Hearken, thou eternal sky! I sing an infant's lullaby, A pretty lullaby. Listen, listen, listen, listen, Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, And hear my lullaby! Though the rushes that will make Its cradle still are in the lake ‐ Though the linen that will be Its swathe, is on the cotton tree ‐ Though the woollen that will keep It warm, is on the silly sheep ‐ Listen, starlight, listen, listen, Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, And hear my lullaby! Child, I see thee! Child, I've found thee Midst of the quiet all around thee! Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee! And thy mother sweet is nigh thee! Child, I know thee! Child no more, But a Poet evermore! See, see, the lyre, the lyre, In a flame of fire, Upon the little cradle's top Flaring, flaring, flaring, Past the eyesight's bearing. Awake it from its sleep, And see if it can keep Its eyes upon the blaze ‐ Amaze, amaze! It stares, it stares, it stares, It dares what no one dares! It lifts its little hand into the flame Unharm'd, and on the strings Paddles a little tune, and sings, With dumb endeavour sweetly ‐ Bard art thou completely! Little child 'Tis now free to stupid face, To cutters, and to fashion boats, To cravats and to petticoats ‐ The great sea shall war it down, For its fame shall not be blown At each farthing quadrille dance. O' th' western wild, Bard art thou completely! Sweetly with dumb endeavour, A Poet now or never, Little child O' th' western wild, A Poet now or never! Normal End In Statement 52 Run Time-Msec 3140 Stmts Executed 39027 Mcsec / Stmt 80 Regenerations 10