And wash'd with tears, the mournful verse That Petrarch laid on Laura's hearse. But more than all the sister choir, Music confess'd the pleasing fire, Here sovereign Cupid reign'd alone; Music and song were all his own. Sweet as in old Arcadian plains,
The British pipe has caught the strains :
And where the Tweed's pure current glides, Or Liffy rolls her limpid tides;
Or Thames his oozy waters leads
Through rural bowers or yellow meads,- With many an old romantic tale
Has cheer'd the lone sequester'd vale; With many a sweet and tender lay Deceived the tiresome summer day. Tis yours to cull with happy art
Each meaning verse that speaks the heart; And fair array'd, in order meet,
To lay the wreath at Beauty's feet.
Turn, hither turn thy step,
O thou, whose powerful voice
More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed, Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding wind,— And through the stormy deep Breathe thine own tender calm.
Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove Thy blooming wilds among, And vales and dewy lawns,
With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow Of him, the favoured youth
That prompts their whisper'd sigh. Unlock thy copious stores,-those tender showers That drop their sweetness on the infant buds ; And silent dews that swell
The milky ear's green stem,
And feed the flowering osier's early shoots; And call those winds which through the whispering
With warm and pleasant breath Salute the blowing flowers.
Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn, And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale ; And watch with patient eye Thy fair unfolding charms.
O nymph, approach! while yet the temperate sun With bashful forehead through the cold moist air Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses woos
AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.
GOD of my life! and Author of my days! Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise; That hallowed name, to harps of seraphs sung. And trembling, take upon a mortal tongue Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore. Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere, All nature faints beneath the mighty name, Are equal all,-for all are nothing here. Which nature's works through all their parts proclaim.
I feel that name my inmost thoughts control, And breathe an awful stillness through my soul; As by a charm, the waves of grief subside; Impetuous Passion stops her headlong tide: At thy felt presence all emotions cease, And my hush'd spirit finds a sudden peace, Till every worldly thought within me dies, And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes; Till all my sense is lost in infinite,
And one vast object fills my aching sight.
But soon, alas! this holy calm is broke; My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke; With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain, And mingles with the dross of earth again. But he, our gracious Master, kind as just, Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust. His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind, Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined; Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, And fans the smoking flax into a flame. His grace descends to meet the lifted eye; His ears are open to the softest cry, He reads the language of a silent tear, And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give ; Accept the vow, and bi the suppliant live: From each terrestrial bondage set me free; Still every wish that centres not in thee; Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease, And point my path to everlasting peace.
If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads By living waters, and through flowery meads, When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene
O teach me to elude each latent snare, And whisper to my sliding heart,-Beware! With caution let me hear the syren's voice, And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice. If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray, Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way, Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, And with strong confidence lay hold on thee; With equal eye my various lot receive, Resign'd to die, or resolute to live; Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod, While God is seen in all, and all in God.
I read his awful name, emblazon'd high With golden letters on th' illumined sky; Nor less the mystic characters I see Wrought in each flower, inscribed in every tree; In every leaf that trembles to the breeze I hear the voice of God among the trees; With thee in shady solitudes I walk, With thee in busy crowded cities talk; In every creature own thy forming power, In each event thy providence adore. Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul, Thy precepts guide me, and thy fears control : Thus shall I rest, unmoved by all alarms, Secure within the temple of thine arms; From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free, And feel myself omnipotent in thee.
Then when the last, the closing hour, draws nigh, And earth recedes before my swimming eye; When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate I stand, and stretch my view to either state: Teach me to quit this transitory scene With decent triumph, and a look serene; Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, And having lived to Thee, in Thee to die.
A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. 'Tis past! the sultry tyrant of the south Has spent his short-lived rage; more grateful hours Move silent on; the skies no more repel The dazzled sight, but with mild maiden beams Of temper'd lustre court the cherish'd eye To wander o'er their sphere; where hung aloft Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow New strung in heaven, lifts high its beamy horns Impatient for the night, and seems to push Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines E'en in the eye of day; with sweetest beam Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood Of soften'd radiance from her dewy locks. The shadows spread apace; while meeken'd Eve, Her check yet warm with blushes, slow retires Through the Hesperian gardens of the west, And shuts the gates of day. "Tis now the hour When Contemplation from her sunless haunts, The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth of unpierced woods, where wrapt in solid shade She mused away the gaudy hours of noon, And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the sun, Moves forward; and with radiant finger points To yon blue concave swell'd by breath divine, Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether One boundless blaze; ten thousand trembling fires,
And dancing lustres, where the unsteady eye, Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfined O'er all this field of glories; spacious field, And worthy of the Master: he, whose hand With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile Inscribed the mystic tablet, hung on high To public gaze, and said, " Adore, O man! The finger of thy God." From what pure wells Of milky light, what soft o'erflowing urn, Are all these lamps so fill'd? these friendly lamps For ever streaming o'er the azure deep To point our path, and light us to our home. How soft they slide along their lucid spheres! And silent as the foot of Time, fulfil Their destined courses: Nature's self is hush'd And, but a scatter'd leaf, which rustles through The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard To break the midnight air; though the raised ear Intensely listening, drinks in every breath. How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise! But are they silent all? or is there not
A tongue in every star, that talks with man, And woos him to be wise? nor woos in vain : This dead of midnight is the noon of thought, And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars. At this still hour the self-collected soul Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there Of high descent, and more than mortal rank; An embryo god; a spark of fire divine, Which must burn on for ages, when the sun,- Fair transitory creature of a day!--
Has closed his golden eye, and wrapped in shades Forgets his wonted journey through the east.
Ye citadels of light, and seats of gods! Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul, Revolving periods past, may oft look back With recollected tenderness on all
The various busy scenes she left below, Its deep-laid projects, and its strange events, As on some fond and doating tale that sooth'd Her infant hours-O be it lawful now To tread the hallow'd circle of your courts, And with mute wonder and delighted awe Approach your burning confines.
On Fancy's wild and roving wing I sail, From the green borders of the peopled Earth, And the pale Moon, her duteous fair attendant; From solitary Mars; from the vast orb Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk Dances in ether like the lightest leaf; To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system, Where cheerless Saturn midst his watery moons Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp, Sits like an exiled monarch: fearless thence I launch into the trackless deeps of space, Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear, Of elder beam, which ask no leave to shine Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light From the proud regent of our scanty day; Sons of the morning, first-born of creation, And only less than Him who marks their track. And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop Or is there aught beyond? What hand unsee Impels me onward through the glowing orbs Of habitable nature, far remote, To the dread confines of eternal night, To solitudes of vast unpeopled space,
The deserts of creation, wide and wild; Where embryo systems and unkindled suns Sleep in the womb of chaos? fancy droops, And thought astonish'd stops her bold career. But thou mighty Mind! whose powerful word Said, thus let all things be, and thus they were, Where shall I seek thy presence? how unblamed Invoke thy dread perfection?
Have the broad eyelids of the morn beheld thee? Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion Support thy throne? O look with pity down On erring, guilty man! not in thy names
Of terror clad: not with those thunders arm'd That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appall'd The scatter'd tribes ;-thou hast a gentler voice, That whispers comfort to the swelling heart Abash'd, yet longing to behold her Maker.
But now my soul, unused to stretch her powers In flight so daring, drops her weary wing, And seeks again the known accustom'd spot, Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns and
A mansion fair, and spacious for its guest,
And full replete with wonders. Let me here, Content and grateful, wait th' appointed time, And ripen for the skies: the hour will come When all these splendours bursting on my sight Shall stand unveiled, and to my ravished sense Unlock the glories of the world unknown.
SEE where the falling day In silence steals away
Behind the western hills withdrawn: Her fires are quench'd, her beauty fled, While blushes all her face o'erspread, As conscious she had ill fulfill'd
The promise of the dawn.
Another morning soon shall rise, Another day salute our eyes, As smiling and as fair as she, And make as many promises: But do not thou
The tale believe, They're sisters all, And all deceive.
HIST, William! hist! what means that air so gay? Thy looks, thy dress, bespeak some holyday: Thy hat is brush'd; thy hands, with wondrous
Are cleansed from garden mould and inky stains; Thy glossy shoes confess the lackey's care; And recent from the comb shines thy sleek hair. What god, what saint, this prodigy has wrought?* Declare the cause, and ease my labouring thought?
Sed tamen, ille Deus qui sit, da Tityre nobis.
John, faithful John, is with the horses come; Mamma prevails, and I am sent for home.
Thrice happy whom such welcome tidings greet Thrice happy who reviews his native seat! For him the matron spreads her candied hoard, And early strawberries crown the smiling board; For him crush'd gooseberries with rich cream combine,
And bending boughs their fragrant fruit resign: Custards and sillabubs his taste invite; Sports fill the day, and feasts prolong the night. Think not I envy, I admire thy fate :† Yet, ah! what different tasks thy comrades wait! Some in the grammar's thorny maze to toil, Some with rude strokes the snowy paper soil, Some o'er barbaric climes in maps to roam, Far from their mother-tongue, and dear loved
Harsh names, of uncouth sound, their memories load, And oft their shoulders feel th' unpleasant goad.
Doubt not our turn will come some future time. Now, William, hear us twain contend in rhyme, For yet thy horses have not eat their hay, And unconsumed as yet th' allotted hour of play.
Then spout alternate, I consent to hear, Let no false rhyme offend my critic ear;- But say, what prizes shall the victor hold? I guess your pockets are not lined with gold!
A ship these hands have built, in every part Carved, rigg'd, and painted, with the nicest art; The ridgy sides are black with pitchy store, From stem to stern 'tis twice ten inches o'er. The lofty mast, a straight smooth hazel framed, The tackling silk, the Charming Sally named; And, but take heed lest thou divulge the tale,- The lappet of my shirt supplied the sail, An azure riband for a pendant flies:- Now, if thy verse excel, be this the prize.
For me at home the careful housewives make, With plums and almonds rich, an ample cake. Smooth is the top, a plain of shining ice, The West its sweetness gives, the East its spice: From soft Ionian isles, well known to fame, Ulysses once, the luscious currant came. The green transparent citron Spain bestows, And from her golden groves the orange glows. So vast the heaving mass, it scarce has room Within the oven's dark capacious womb; "Twill be consign'd to the next carrier's care, I cannot yield it all,-be half thy share.
Fortunate senex, his inter flumina nota.
† Non equidem invideo, miror magis.
1 At nos hinc alii sitientes ibimus Afros, Pars Scythiam, et rapidum Cretæ veniemus Oaxem. Alternis dicetis.
Thy rights are empire: urge no meaner claim, Felt, not defined, and if debated, lost; Like sacred mysteries, which withheld from fame, Shunning discussion, are revered the most.
Try all that wit and art suggest to bend Of thy imperial foe the stubborn knee; Make treacherous man thy subject, not thy friend; Thou mayst command, but never canst be free.
Awe the licentious, and restrain the rude; Soften the sullen, clear the cloudy brow: Be, more than princes' gifts, thy favours sued; She hazards all, who will the least allow.
But hope not, courted idol of mankind,
On this proud eminence secure to stay; Subduing and subdued, thou soon shalt find
Thy coldness soften, and thy pride give way. Then, then, abandon each ambitious thought, Conquest or rule thy heart shall feebly move, In Nature's school, by her soft maxims taught, That separate rights are lost in mutual love.
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes And whistles in its sound.-
THE muses are turn'd gossips; they have lost The buskin'd step, and clear high-sounding phrase, Language of gods. Come then, domestic muse, In slipshod measure loosely prattling on Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream, Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire By little whimpering boy, with rueful face; Come, muse, and sing the dreaded washing-day. Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend, With bow'd soul, full well ye ken the day Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on Too soon ;-for to that day nor peace belongs Nor comfort;-ere the first gray streak of dawn, The red-arm'd washers come and chase repose. Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth, Eer visited that day: the very cat,
From the wet kitchen scared and reeking hearth, Visits the parlour,-an unwonted guest. The silent breakfast-meal is soon despatch'd; Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks Cast at the lowering sky, if sky should lower. From that last evil, O preserve us, heavens! For should the skies pour down, adieu to all Remains of quiet: then expect to hear Of sad disasters, dirt and gravel stains Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once Snapp'd short, and linen horse by dog thrown
And all the petty miseries of life.
Saints have been calm while stretch'd upon the rack,
And Guatimozin smiled on burning coals; But never yet did housewife notable Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day. -But grant the welkin fair, require not thou Who call'st thyself perchance the master there,
Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat, Or usual 'tendance ;-ask not, indiscreet, Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents Gape wide as Erebus; nor hope to find Some snug recess impervious: shouldst thou try The 'custom'd garden walks, thine eye shall rue The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs, Myrtle or rose, all crush'd beneath the weight Of coarse check'd apron,—with impatient hand Twitch'd off when showers impend: or crossing lines
Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet Flaps in thy face abrupt. Wo to the friend Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim On such a day the hospitable rites! Looks blank at best, and stinted courtesy, Shall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopes With dinner of roast chickens, savoury pie, Or tart or pudding-pudding he nor tart That day shall eat; nor, though the husband try, Mending what can't be help'd, to kindle mirth From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow Clear up propitious :-the unlucky guest In silence dines, and early slinks away.
I well remember, when a child, the awe
This day struck into me; for then the maids,
I scarce knew why, look'd cross, and drove me
Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope Usual indulgencies; jelly or creams, Relic of costly suppers, and set by For me their petted one; or butter'd toast, When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale Of ghost or witch, or murder so I went And shelter'd me beside the parlour fire: There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms, Tended the little ones, and watch'd from harm, Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins Drawn from her ravell'd stockings, might have sour'd
At intervals my mother's voice was heard, Urging despatch: briskly the work went on, All hands employ'd to wash, to rinse, to wring, To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait. Then would I sit me down, and ponder much Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow bowl
Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft The floating bubbles; little dreaming then To see, Montgolfier, thy silken ball Ride buoyant through the clouds-so near approach The sports of children and the toils of men. Earth, air, and sky, and ocean, hath its bubbles. And verse is one of them-this most of all.
TO MR. S. T. COLERIDGE.—1797. MIDWAY the hill of science after steep And rugged paths that tire the unpractised feet, A grove extends in tangled mazes wrought, And fill'd with strange enchantment :-dubious
Flit through dim glades, and lure the eager foot
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