Poems 1817 Part 3

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song; Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view A fate more pleasing, a delight more true Than that in which the brother Poets joy'd, Who with combined powers, their wit employ'd To raise a trophy to the drama's muses.

The thought of this great partnership diffuses Over the genius loving heart, a feeling Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing.

Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee Past each horizon of fine poesy; Fain would I echo back each pleasant note As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float 'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted, Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted: But 'tis impossible; far different cares Beckon me sternly from soft "Lydian airs,"

And hold my faculties so long in thrall, That I am oft in doubt whether at all I shall again see Phoebus in the morning: Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning!

Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream; Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam; Or again witness what with thee I've seen, The dew by fairy feet swept from the green, After a night of some quaint jubilee Which every elf and fay had come to see: When bright processions took their airy march Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch.

But might I now each pa.s.sing moment give To the coy muse, with me she would not live In this dark city, nor would condescend 'Mid contradictions her delights to lend.

Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind, Ah! surely it must be whene'er I find Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic, That often must have seen a poet frantic; Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing, And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing; Where the dark-leav'd laburnum's drooping cl.u.s.ters Reflect athwart the stream their yellow l.u.s.tres, And intertwined the ca.s.sia's arms unite, With its own drooping buds, but very white.

Where on one side are covert branches hung, 'Mong which the nightingales have always sung In leafy quiet; where to pry, aloof, Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof, Would be to find where violet beds were nestling, And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling.

There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy, To say "joy not too much in all that's bloomy."

Yet this is vain--O Mathew lend thy aid To find a place where I may greet the maid-- Where we may soft humanity put on, And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton; And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him Four laurell'd spirits, heaven-ward to intreat him.

With reverence would we speak of all the sages Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages: And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness, And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness To those who strove with the bright golden wing Of genius, to flap away each sting Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell Of those who in the cause of freedom fell: Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell; Of him whose name to ev'ry heart's a solace, High-minded and unbending William Wallace.

While to the rugged north our musing turns We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns.

Felton! without incitements such as these, How vain for me the n.i.g.g.ard Muse to tease: For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace, And make "a sun-shine in a shady place:"

For thou wast once a flowret blooming wild, Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefil'd, Whence gush the streams of song: in happy hour Came chaste Diana from her shady bower, Just as the sun was from the east uprising; And, as for him some gift she was devising, Beheld thee, pluck'd thee, cast thee in the stream To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam.

I marvel much that thou hast never told How, from a flower, into a fish of gold Apollo chang'd thee; how thou next didst seem A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream; And when thou first didst in that mirror trace The placid features of a human face: That thou hast never told thy travels strange.

And all the wonders of the mazy range O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands; Kissing thy daily food from Naiad's pearly hands.

_November, 1815_.

TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.

Full many a dreary hour have I past, My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays; Or, on the wavy gra.s.s outstretch'd supinely, Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely: That I should never hear Apollo's song, Though feathery clouds were floating all along The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, The golden lyre itself were dimly seen: That the still murmur of the honey bee Would never teach a rural song to me: That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times, when those that love the bay, Fly from all sorrowing far, far away; A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see In water, earth, or air, but poesy.

It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it, (For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,) That when a Poet is in such a trance, In air he sees white coursers paw, and prance, Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel, Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel, And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call, Is the swift opening of their wide portal, When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear, Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear.

When these enchanted portals open wide, And through the light the hors.e.m.e.n swiftly glide, The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls, And view the glory of their festivals: Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream; Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run Like the bright spots that move about the sun; And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar Pours with the l.u.s.tre of a falling star.

Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers, Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers; And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows 'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.

All that's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses, Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses.

As gracefully descending, light and thin, Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin, When he upswimmeth from the coral caves.

And sports with half his tail above the waves.

These wonders strange be sees, and many more, Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.

Should he upon an evening ramble fare With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, Would he naught see but the dark, silent blue With all its diamonds trembling through and through: Or the coy moon, when in the waviness Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, And staidly paces higher up, and higher, Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?

Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight-- The revelries, and mysteries of night: And should I ever see them, I will tell you Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.

These are the living pleasures of the bard: But richer far posterity's award.

What does he murmur with his latest breath, While his proud eye looks through the film of death?

"What though I leave this dull, and earthly mould, Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold With after times.--The patriot shall feel My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel; Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers To startle princes from their easy slumbers.

The sage will mingle with each moral theme My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem With lofty periods when my verses fire him, And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.

Lays have I left of such a dear delight That maids will sing them on their bridal night.

Gay villagers, upon a morn of May When they have tired their gentle limbs, with play, And form'd a snowy circle on the gra.s.s, And plac'd in midst of all that lovely la.s.s Who chosen is their queen,--with her fine head Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red: For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing, Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying: Between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, that never yet felt trouble, A bunch of violets full blown, and double, Serenely sleep:--she from a casket takes A little book,--and then a joy awakes About each youthful heart,--with stifled cries, And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes: For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears; One that I foster'd in my youthful years: The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep, Gush ever and anon with silent creep, Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast, Be lull'd with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!

Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view: Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions, Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions.

Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air, That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair, And warm thy sons!" Ah, my dear friend and brother, Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother, For tasting joys like these, sure I should be Happier, and dearer to society.

At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain When some bright thought has darted through my brain: Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.

As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them, I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.

Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment, Stretch'd on the gra.s.s at my best lov'd employment Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.

E'en now I'm pillow'd on a bed of flowers That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers Above the ocean-waves. The stalks, and blades, Chequer my tablet with their, quivering shades.

On one side is a field of drooping oats, Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats So pert and useless, that they bring to mind The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.

And on the other side, outspread, is seen Ocean's blue mantle streak'd with purple, and green.

Now 'tis I see a canva.s.s'd ship, and now Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.

I see the lark down-dropping to his nest.

And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest; For when no more he spreads his feathers free, His breast is dancing on the restless sea.

Now I direct my eyes into the west, Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest: Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu!

'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!

_August, 1816_.

TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE.

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning, And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning; He slants his neck beneath the waters bright So silently, it seems a beam of light Come from the galaxy: anon he sports,-- With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts, Or ruffles all the surface of the lake In striving from its crystal face to take Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.

But not a moment can he there insure them, Nor to such downy rest can he allure them; For down they rush as though they would be free, And drop like hours into eternity.

Just like that bird am I in loss of time, Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme; With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canva.s.s rent, I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent; Still scooping up the water with my fingers, In which a trembling diamond never lingers.

By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see Why I have never penn'd a line to thee: Because my thoughts were never free, and clear, And little fit to please a cla.s.sic ear; Because my wine was of too poor a savour For one whose palate gladdens in the flavour Of sparkling Helicon:--small good it were To take him to a desert rude, and bare.

Who had on Baiae's sh.o.r.e reclin'd at ease, While Ta.s.so's page was floating in a breeze That gave soft music from Armida's bowers, Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers: Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream Fondled the maidens with the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of cream; Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook, And lovely Una in a leafy nook, And Archimago leaning o'er his book: Who had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen, From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen; From the sequester'd haunts of gay t.i.tania, To the blue dwelling of divine Urania: One, who, of late, had ta'en sweet forest walks With him who elegantly chats, and talks-- The wrong'd Libert as,--who has told you stories Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories; Of troops chivalrous prancing; through a city, And tearful ladies made for love, and pity: With many else which I have never known.

Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown Slowly, or rapidly--unwilling still For you to try my dull, unlearned quill.

Nor should I now, but that I've known you long; That you first taught me all the sweets of song: The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine; What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine: Spenserian vowels that elope with ease, And float along like birds o'er summer seas; Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness; Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.

Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly Up to its climax and then dying proudly?

Who found for me the grandeur of the ode, Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?

Who let me taste that more than cordial dram, The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?

Shew'd me that epic was of all the king, Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?

You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty, And pointed out the patriot's stern duty; The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell; The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell Upon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen, Or known your kindness, what might I have been?

What my enjoyments in my youthful years, Bereft of all that now my life endears?

And can I e'er these benefits forget?

And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?

No, doubly no;--yet should these rhymings please, I shall roll on the gra.s.s with two-fold ease: For I have long time been my fancy feeding With hopes that you would one day think the reading Of my rough verses not an hour misspent; Should it e'er be so, what a rich content!

Some weeks have pa.s.s'd since last I saw the spires In lucent Thames reflected:--warm desires To see the sun o'er peep the eastern dimness, And morning shadows streaking into slimness Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water; To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter; To feel the air that plays about the hills, And sips its freshness from the little rills; To see high, golden corn wave in the light When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night, And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white, As though she were reclining in a bed Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed.

No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say "Write! thou wilt never have a better day."

And so I did. When many lines I'd written, Though with their grace I was not oversmitten, Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd better Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter.

Such an attempt required an inspiration Of a peculiar sort,--a consummation;-- Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been Verses from which the soul would never wean: But many days have past since last my heart Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart; By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd; Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sadden'd: What time you were before the music sitting, And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.

Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes That freshly terminate in open plains, And revel'd in a chat that ceased not When at night-fall among your books we got: No, nor when supper came, nor after that,-- Nor when reluctantly I took my hat; No, nor till cordially you shook my hand Mid-way between our homes:--your accents bland Still sounded in my ears, when I no more Could hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor.

Sometimes I lost them, and then found again; You chang'd the footpath for the gra.s.sy plain.

In those still moments I have wish'd you joys That well you know to honour:--"Life's very toys With him," said I, "will take a pleasant charm; It cannot be that ought will work him harm."

These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might:-- Again I shake your hand,--friend Charles, good night.

_September, 1816_.