Places of nestling green for Poets made
Story of Rimini
- I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,
- The air was cooling, and so very still,
- That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
- Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
- Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,
- Had not yet lost those starry diadems
- Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
- The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,
- And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept
- On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept
- A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
- Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:
- For not the faintest motion could be seen
- Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green.
- There was wide wand’ring for the greediest eye,
- To peer about upon variety;
- Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim,
- And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;
- To picture out the quaint, and curious bending
- Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;
- Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,
- Guess were the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
- I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free
- As though the fanning wings of Mercury
- Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,
- And many pleasures to my vision started;
- So I straightway began to pluck a posey
- Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.
- A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;
- Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;
- And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
- And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them
- Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,
- That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
- A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,
- And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind
- Upon their summer thrones; there too should be
- The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,
- That with a score of light green brethren shoots
- From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:
- Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters
- Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters
- The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn
- That such fair clusters should be rudely torn
- From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly
- By infant hands, left on the path to die.
- Open afresh your round of starry folds,
- Ye ardent marigolds!
- Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,
- For great Apollo bids
- That in these days your praises should be sung
- On many harps, which he has lately strung;
- And when again your dewiness he kisses,
- Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:
- So haply when I rove in some far vale,
- His mighty voice may come upon the gale.
- Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:
- With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,
- And taper fulgent catching at all things,
- To bind them all about with tiny rings.
- Linger awhile upon some bending planks
- That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks,
- And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings:
- They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings.
- How silent comes the water round that bend;
- Not the minutest whisper does it send
- To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grass
- Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass.
- Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach
- To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach
- A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds;
- Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,
- Staying their wavy bodies ‘gainst the streams,
- To taste the luxury of sunny beams
- Temper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestle
- With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
- Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.
- If you but scantily hold out the hand,
- That very instant not one will remain;
- But turn your eye, and they are there again.
- The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,
- And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses;
- The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,
- And moisture, that the bowery green may live:
- So keeping up an interchange of favours,
- Like good men in the truth of their behaviours
- Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
- From low hung branches; little space they stop;
- But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
- Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:
- Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,
- Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
- Were I in such a place, I sure should pray
- That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away,
- Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown
- Fanning away the dandelion’s down;
- Than the light music of her nimble toes
- Patting against the sorrel as she goes.
- How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught
- Playing in all her innocence of thought.
- O let me lead her gently o’er the brook,
- Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;
- O let me for one moment touch her wrist;
- Let me one moment to her breathing list;
- And as she leaves me may she often turn
- Her fair eyes looking through her locks aubùrne.
- What next? A tuft of evening primroses,
- O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
- O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
- But that ‘tis ever startled by the leap
- Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting
- Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;
- Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
- Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
- Coming into the blue with all her light.
- O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight
- Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;
- Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
- Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
- Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
- Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
- Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
- Thee must I praise above all other glories
- That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
- For what has made the sage or poet write
- But the fair paradise of Nature’s light?
- In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
- We see the waving of the mountain pine;
- And when a tale is beautifully staid,
- We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:
- When it is moving on luxurious wings,
- The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:
- Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
- And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;
- O’er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar,
- And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;
- While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles
- Charms us at once away from all our troubles:
- So that we feel uplifted from the world,
- Walking upon the white clouds wreath’d and curl’d.
- So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went
- On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;
- What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips
- First touch’d; what amorous, and fondling nips
- They gave each other’s cheeks; with all their sighs,
- And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes:
- The silver lamp,—the ravishment,—the wonder—
- The darkness,—loneliness,—the fearful thunder;
- Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,
- To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne.
- So did he feel, who pull’d the boughs aside,
- That we might look into a forest wide,
- To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades
- Coming with softest rustle through the trees;
- And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,
- Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:
- Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled
- Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
- Poor nymph,—poor Pan,—how he did weep to find,
- Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
- Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain,
- Full of sweet desolation—balmy pain.
- What first inspired a bard of old to sing
- Narcissus pining o’er the untainted spring?
- In some delicious ramble, he had found
- A little space, with boughs all woven round;
- And in the midst of all, a clearer pool
- Than e’er reflected in its pleasant cool,
- The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping
- Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.
- And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,
- A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,
- Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness,
- To woo its own sad image into nearness:
- Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;
- But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
- So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot,
- Some fainter gleamings o’er his fancy shot;
- Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
- Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo’s bale.
- Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew
- That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,
- That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,
- Coming ever to bless
- The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing
- Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing
- From out the middle air, from flowery nests,
- And from the pillowy silkiness that rests
- Full in the speculation of the stars.
- Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;
- Into some wond’rous region he had gone,
- To search for thee, divine Endymion!
- He was a Poet, sure a lover too,
- Who stood on Latmus’ top, what time there blew
- Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;
- And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow
- A hymn from Dian’s temple; while upswelling,
- The incense went to her own starry dwelling.
- But though her face was clear as infant’s eyes,
- Though she stood smiling o’er the sacrifice,
- The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,
- Wept that such beauty should be desolate:
- So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,
- And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.
- Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen
- Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!
- As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,
- So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.
- O for three words of honey, that I might
- Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!
- Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,
- Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels,
- And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes,
- Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.
- The evening weather was so bright, and clear,
- That men of health were of unusual cheer;
- Stepping like Homer at the trumpet’s call,
- Or young Apollo on the pedestal:
- And lovely women were as fair and warm,
- As Venus looking sideways in alarm.
- The breezes were ethereal, and pure,
- And crept through half closed lattices to cure
- The languid sick; it cool’d their fever’d sleep,
- And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.
- Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting,
- Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:
- And springing up, they met the wond’ring sight
- Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;
- Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,
- And on their placid foreheads part the hair.
- Young men, and maidens at each other gaz’d
- With hands held back, and motionless, amaz’d
- To see the brightness in each others’ eyes;
- And so they stood, fill’d with a sweet surprise,
- Until their tongues were loos’d in poesy.
- Therefore no lover did of anguish die:
- But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
- Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
- Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses,
- That follow’d thine, and thy dear shepherd’s kisses:
- Was there a Poet born?—but now no more,
- My wand’ring spirit must no further soar.—
