But to promote and fortify the weal
Of our own being, is her paramount end; A truth which they alone shall comprehend Who shun the mischief which they cannot heal. Peace in these feverish times is sovereign bliss; Here, with no thirst but what the stream can slake, And startled only by the rustling brake,
Cool air I breathe; while the unincumbered mind, By some weak aims at services assigned To gentle natures, thanks not heaven amiss.
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.
SCORN not the sonnet; critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours;-with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; Camöens soothed with it an exile's grief;
The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow: a glowworm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from fairyland To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew Soul-animating strains-alas, too few!
THE PEACEFUL MUSE.
Not love, nor war, nor the tumultuous swell Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, Nor duty struggling with afflictions strange, Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell; But where untroubled peace and concord dwell, There also is the muse not loth to range, Watching the blue smoke of the elmy grange, Skyward ascending from the twilight dell. Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour, And sage content, and placid melancholy; She loves to gaze upon a crystal river, Diaphanous, because it travels slowly; Soft is the music that would charm for ever; The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.
WHILE not a leaf seems faded,-while the fields, With ripening harvest prodigally fair,
In brightest sunshine bask,-this nipping air, Sent from some distant clime where winter wields His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields
Of bitter change-and bids the flowers beware; And whispers to the silent birds, "Prepare
Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields."
For me, who under kindlier laws belong
To nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry
Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky, Announce a season potent to renew,
Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song, And nobler cares than listless summer knew.
How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, Which, strewn with snow as smooth as heaven can shed, Shines like another sun-on mortal sight
Uprisen, as if to check approaching night, And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head- Terrestrial-but a surface, by the flight
Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, Unswept, unstained! Nor shall the aërial powers Dissolve that beauty-destined to endure, White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, Through all vicissitudes-till genial spring Have filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.
COMPOSED DURING A STORM.
ONE who was suffering tumult in his soul Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, Went forth-his course surrendering to the care Of the fierce wind, while midday lightnings prowl Insidiously, untimely thunders growl;
While trees, dim seen, in frenzied numbers tear The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl As if the sun were not. He raised his eye
Soul-smitten-for, that instant, did appear
Large space, mid dreadful clouds, of purest sky, An azure orb-shield of tranquillity, Invisible, unlooked-for minister
Of providential goodness ever nigh!
LONE flower, hemmed in with snows, and white as they, But hardier far, once more I see thee bend Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend,
Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, waylay The rising sun, and on the plains descend; Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May Shall soon behold this border thickly set With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing On the soft west wind, and his frolic peers; Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste snowdrop, venturous harbinger of spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
COMPOSED A FEW DAYS AFTER THE FOREGOING.
WHEN haughty expectations prostrate lie, And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing, Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring Mature release, in fair society
Survive, and fortune's utmost anger try; Like these frail snowdrops that together cling, And nod their helmets smitten by the wing Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. Observe the faithful flowers! if small to great
May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand
The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate; And so the bright immortal Theban band, Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command, Might overwhelm, but could not separate!
"THE STARS ARE MANSIONS."
THE stars are mansions built by Nature's hand; The sun is peopled; and with spirits blest, Say, can the gentle moon be unpossessed? Huge ocean shows, within his yellow strand, A habitation marvellously planned,
For life to occupy in love and rest;
All that we see-is dome, or vault, or nest, Or fort, erected at her sage command.
Is this a vernal thought? Even so, the spring Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart, Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring; And while the youthful year's prolific art- Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower-was fashioning Abodes, where self-disturbance hath no part.
THE PLEASURE OF POETIC PAINS. There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only poets know;-'twas rightly said, Whom could the muses else allure to tread
Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains? When happiest fancy has inspired the strains, How oft the malice of one luckless word Pursues the enthusiast to the social board, Haunts him belated on the silent plains! Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear At last of hindrance and obscurity,
Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn; Bright, speckless as a softly-moulded tear
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