And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth : So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! Before 1807.
WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, Festively she puts forth in trim array;
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry?— Neither friend nor foe She cares for; let her travel where she may, She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
And, almost as it was when ships were rare, (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!
TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT.
CALVERT! it must not be unheard by them Who may respect my name, that I to thee Owed many years of early liberty.
This care was thine when sickness did condemn Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem-
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray Where'er I liked; and finally array My temples with the Muse's diadem.
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth; If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays Of higher mood which now I meditate : It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, Youth! To think how much of this will be thy praise.
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." Those steps I clomb; the mists before me 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!
BROOK! whose society the Poet seeks, Intent his wasted spirits to renew ; And whom the curious Painter doth pursue Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, And tracks thee dancing down thy waterbreaks;
If wish were mine some type of thee to view, Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks, Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st thou be, Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs: It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee With purer robes than those of flesh and blood, And hath bestowed on thee a safer good; Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.
LADY! the songs of Spring were in the grove While I was shaping beds for winter flowers; While I was planting green unfading bowers, And shrubs to hang upon the warm alcove, And sheltering wall; and still, as Fancy wove The dream, to time and nature's blended powers I gave this paradise for winter hours,
A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove. Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines, Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom Or of high gladness you shall hither bring; And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines Be gracious as the music and the bloom And all the mighty ravishment of spring.
"SURPRISED BY JOY-IMPATIENT AS THE WIND." 327
UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE.
PAINTED BY SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART.
PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape; Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day; Which stopped that band of travellers on their way, Ere they were lost within the shady wood; And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood For ever anchored in her sheltering bay.
Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noontide, Even, Do serve with all their changeful pageantry; Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given To one brief moment caught from fleeting time The appropriate calm of blest eternity.
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
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. After June, 1812; before 1815.
HAIL, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour! Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night; But studious only to remove from sight Day's mutable distinctions. Ancient Power! Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower, To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen The self-same Vision which we now behold, At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth; These mighty barriers, and the gulf between ; The flood, the stars, a spectacle as old
As the beginning of the heavens and earth!
I WATCH, and long have watched, with calm regret Yon slowly-sinking star-immortal Sire (So might he seem) of all the glittering quire! Blue ether still surrounds him - yet — and yet; But now the horizon's rocky parapet
Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire, He burns - transmuted to a dusky fire- Then pays submissively the appointed debt To the flying moments, and is seen no more. Angels and gods! We struggle with our fate, While health, power, glory, from their height decline, Depressed; and then extinguished; and our state,
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