O ye, who patiently explore The wreck of Herculanean lore, What rapture! could ye seize Some Theban fragment, or unroll One precious, tender-hearted scroll Of pure Simonides. That were, indeed, a genuine birth Of Genius from the dust: THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED.* "Tis gone with old belief and dream That round it clung, and tempting scheme Released from fear and doubt; And the bright landscape too must lie, Bear witness ye who seldom passed Upon the lake below, What spirit-stirring power it gained Though reason might say no. Blest is that ground, where, o'er the springs Of history, Glory claps her wings, Fame sheds the exulting tear; Yet earth is wide, and many a nook Unheard of is, like this, a book For modest meanings dear. It was in sooth a happy thought That grafted, on so fair a spot, So confident a token Of coming good; - the charm is fled; Which one harsh day has broken. Derived from earth or heaven, To hearts so oft by hope betrayed; Their very wishes wanted aid Which here was freely given? Where, for the love-lorn maiden's wound, Will now so readily be found A balm of expectation? Anxious for far-off children, where See ante, p. 399. Having been told, upon what I thought good authority, that this gate had been destroyed, and the opening, where it hung, walled up, I gave vent immediately to my feelings in these stanzas. But going to the place some time after, I found, with much delight, my old favourite unmolested. And not unfelt will prove the loss 'Mid trivial care and petty cross And each day's shallow grief; Though the most easily beguiled Were oft among the first that smiled At their own fond belief. If still the reckless change we mourn, A reconciling thought may turn To harm that might lurk here, Ere judgment prompted from within Fit aims, with courage to begin, And strength to persevere. Not Fortune's slave is man: our state Enjoins, while firm resolves await On wishes just and wise, So taught, so trained, we boldly face Whatever props may fail, Ungrieved with charm and spell; And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee The voice of grateful memory Shall bid a kind farewell! DION.* (SEE PLUTARCH.) 1. FAIR is the Swan, whose majesty, prevailing Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood, [* In the later editions, the opening stanza (down to the 20th line) has been removed to the notes, with the following explanation from the author:-" This poem began with the following stanza which has been displaced on account of its detaining the reader too long from the subject, and as rather precluding, than preparing for, the due effect of the allusion to the genius of Plato." It is a remarkable instance of the comparative sacrifice of a passage of great beauty to the Poet's dutiful regard for the principles of his Art.-H. R.] And pendent rocks, where'er, in gliding state, From heaven, upon her chosen favourite! 2. So pure, so bright, so fitted to embrace, Nor less the homage that was seen to wait Might in the universal bosom reign, And from affectionate observance gain Help, under every change of adverse fate. 3. spear and Five thousand warriors-O the rapturous day! Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades: For him who to divinity aspired, Not on the breath of popular applause, But through dependence on the sacred laws (More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) Which Dion learned to measure with delight; But he hath overleaped the eternal bars; And, following guides whose craft holds no consent And oft his cogitations sink as low As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, But whence that sudden check? that fearful start! Anon his lifted eyes Your Minister would brush away The spots that to my soul adhere; But should she labour night and day, They will not, cannot disappear; 7. all-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built That Destiny her course should change; too just That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust. PRESENTIMENTS. PRESENTIMENTS! they judge not right All heaven-born Instincts shun the touch The tear whose source I could not guess, And venture on your praise. What though some busy Foes to good, Too potent over nerve and blood, Lurk near you, and combine To taint the health which ye infuse, This hides not from the moral Muse Your origin divine. How oft from you, derided Powers! The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift, Shall vanish, if ye please, Like morning mist; and, where it lay, The spirits at your bidding play In gaiety and ease. Star-guided Contemplations move The naked Indian of the Wild, But who can fathom your intents, Number their signs or instruments? A rainbow, a sunbeam, A subtle smell that Spring unbinds, Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds, An echo, or a dream. The laughter of the Christmas hearth With sighs of self-exhausted mirth Ye feelingly reprove; And daily, in the conscious breast, And exercise of love. When some great change gives boundless scope To an exulting Nation's hope, Oft, startled and made wise By your low-breathed interpretings, Of bitter contraries. Ye daunt the proud array of War, As sail hath been unfurled; "Tis said, that warnings ye dispense, Emboldened by a keener sense; That men have lived for whom, With dread precision, ye made clear The hour that in a distant year Should knell them to the tomb. Unwelcome Insight! Yet there are God, who instructs the Brutes to scent All changes of the element, Whose wisdom fixed the scale Of Natures, for our wants provides By higher, sometimes humbler, guides, When lights of Reason fail. LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF THE COUNTESS OF LADY! a Pen, perhaps, with thy regard, Are thin upon the bough. Mine, only mine, Thus Virtue lives debarred from Virtue's meed, That, while it only spreads a softening charm That gave them birth: -months passed, and still Then let the Book receive in these prompt lines this hand, That had not been too timid to imprint Words which the virtues of thy Lord inspired, Towers, and stately Groves, Bear witness for me; thou, too, Mountain-stream! From thy most secret haunts; and ye Parterres, Which she is pleased and proud to call her own; Witness how oft upon my noble Friend Mute offerings, tribute from an inward sense Of admiration and respectful love, Have waited, till the affections could no more Endure that silence, and broke out in song; Snatches of music taken up and dropt Like those self-solacing, those under-notes Trilled by the redbreast, when autumnal leaves A just memorial; and thine eyes consent To read that they, who mark thy course, behold A life declining with the golden light Of summer, in the season of sere leaves; And shall the verse not tell of lighter gifts By Youth's surviving spirit? What agile grace! Yet one word more -one farewell word- POOR ROBIN.* Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit. But while a thousand pleasures come unsought, Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow: Yet more, we wish that men by men despised, Should sometimes think, where'er they chance to spy For all that seem neglected or bereft : With what nice care equivalents are given, Murch, 1840. TO A REDBREAST―(IN SICKNESS). Though I, alas! may ne'er enjoy A charm, that thought can not destroy, Methinks that in my dying hour Thy song would still be dear, And with a more than earthly power My passing spirit cheer. The small wild Geranium known by that name. Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.-S. H. FLOATING ISLAND.* These lines are by the Author of the Address to the Wind, &c. published heretofore along with my Poems. The above to a Red breast are by a deceased female relative. HARMONIOUS Powers with Nature work Once did I see a slip of earth (By throbbing waves long undermined) And thus through many seasons' space Perchance when you are wandering forth Without an object, hope, or fear, Thither your eyes may turn-the Isle is passed away; Buried beneath the glittering Lake, Its place no longer to be found; Yet the lost fragments shall remain To fertilize some other ground.-D. W. INSCRIPTION ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM. BEHOLD an emblem of our human mind Crowded with thoughts that need a settled home, Yet, like to eddying balls of foam Within this whirlpool, they each other chase Round and round, and neither find An outlet nor a resting place! Fall on thy knees and sue for help divine. [* See Southey's Life and Correspondence, Vol. III.. p. 154, Ch. xiv., for an account of the Floating Island o Derwentwater, in a letter from Southey to Mr. Rickman -H. R.] |