Since all, that beat about in Nature's range, Or veer or vanish ; why should'st thou remain The only constant in a world of change, O yearning THOUGHT ! that liv'st but in the brain ? Call to the HOURS, that in the distance play, The faery people of the future day-- -- Fond THOUGHT ! not one of all that shining swarm Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath, Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm, Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death ! Yet still thou haunt'st me ; and though well I see, She is not thou, and only thou art she, Still, still as though some dear embodied Good, Some living Love before my eyes there stood With answering look a ready ear to lend, I mourn to thee and say--`Ah ! loveliest Friend ! That this the meed of all my toils might be, To have a home, an English home, and thee !' Vain repetition ! Home and Thou are one. The peacefull'st cot, the moon shall shine upon, Lulled by the Thrush and wakened by the Lark, Without thee were but a becalmed Bark, Whose Helmsman on an Ocean waste and wide Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside.
And art thou nothing ? Such thou art, as when The woodman winding westward up the glen At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze, Sees full before him, gliding without tread, An image with a glory round its head; The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues, Nor knows he makes the shadow, he pursues!
Dejection: An Ode
Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, With the old Moon in her arms ; And I fear, I fear, My Master dear ! We shall have a deadly storm.
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence
I
Well ! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this ?olian lute, [Image]Which better far were mute. For lo ! the New-moon winter-bright ! And overspread with phantom light, (With swimming phantom light o'erspread But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling The coming-on of rain and squally blast. And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling, And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast ! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, [Image]And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live !
II
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, [Image]In word, or sigh, or tear-- O Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood, To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd, All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Have I been gazing on the western sky, And its peculiar tint of yellow green : And still I gaze--and with how blank an eye ! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars ; Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen : Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; I see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel, how beautiful they are !
III
[Image]My genial spirits fail ; [Image]And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ? [Image]It were a vain endeavour, [Image]Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west : I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
IV
O Lady ! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does Nature live : Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! And would we aught behold, of higher worth, Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud [Image]Enveloping the Earth-- And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element !
V
O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be ! What, and wherein it doth exist, This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, This beautiful and beauty-making power. Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was given, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower A new Earth and new Heaven, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud-- Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud-- [Image]We in ourselves rejoice ! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colours a suffusion from that light.
VI
There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness : For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth : Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth ; [Image]But oh ! each visitation Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, My shaping spirit of Imagination. For not to think of what I needs must feel, But to be still and patient, all I can ; And haply by abstruse research to steal From my own nature all the natural man-- This was my sole resource, my only plan : Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
VII
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, [Image]Reality's dark dream ! I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that rav'st without, Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers, Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold ! [Image]What tell'st thou now about ? [Image]'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout, With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds-- At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold ! But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings--all is over-- It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud ! [Image]A tale of less affright, [Image]And tempered with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,-- [Image][Image]'Tis of a little child [Image][Image]Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost her way : And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.
VIII
'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep : Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing, And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth ! [Image]With light heart may she rise, [Image]Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ; To her may all things live, from the pole to pole, Their life the eddying of her living soul ! O simple spirit, guided from above, Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice, Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice.
Desire
Where true Love burns Desire is Love's pure flame; It is the reflex of our earthly frame, That takes its meaning from the nobler part, And but translates the language of the heart.
Despair
I have experienc'd The worst, the World can wreak on me--the worst That can make Life indifferent, yet disturb With whisper'd Discontents the dying prayer-- I have beheld the whole of all, wherein My Heart had any interest in this Life, To be disrent and torn from off my Hopes That nothing now is left. Why then live on? That Hostage, which the world had in it's keeping Given by me as a Pledge that I would live-- That Hope of Her, say rather, that pure Faith In her fix'd Love, which held me to keep truce With the Tyranny of Life--is gone ah ! whither? What boots it to reply ? 'tis gone ! and now Well may I break this Pact, this League of Blood That ties me to myself--and break I shall!
Domestic Peace
Tell me, on what holy ground May domestic peace be found? Halcyon daughter of the skies, Far on fearful wing she flies, From the pomp of scepter'd state, From the rebel's noisy hate. In a cottaged vale she dwells List'ning to the Sabbath bells! Still around her steps are seen, Spotless honor's meeker mien, Love, the sire of pleasing fears, Sorrow smiling through her tears, And conscious of the past employ, Memory, bosom-spring of joy.
