“As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
Was unto me, but why that I ne might
Rest I ne wist, for there n’as erthly wight
[As I suppose] had more of hertis ese
Than I, for I n’ad sickness nor disese.”
Chaucer
- What is more gentle than a wind in summer?
- What is more soothing than the pretty hummer
- That stays one moment in an open flower,
- And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?
- What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing
- In a green island, far from all men’s knowing?
- More healthful than the leafiness of dales?
- More secret than a nest of nightingales?
- More serene than Cordelia’s countenance?
- More full of visions than a high romance?
- What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!
- Low murmurer of tender lullabies!
- Light hoverer around our happy pillows!
- Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!
- Silent entangler of a beauty’s tresses!
- Most happy listener! when the morning blesses
- Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes
- That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.
- But what is higher beyond thought than thee?
- Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?
- More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,
- Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?
- What is it? And to what shall I compare it?
- It has a glory, and nought else can share it:
- The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,
- Chacing away all worldliness and folly;
- Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,
- Or the low rumblings earth’s regions under;
- And sometimes like a gentle whispering
- Of all the secrets of some wond’rous thing
- That breathes about us in the vacant air;
- So that we look around with prying stare,
- Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning,
- And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;
- To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,
- That is to crown our name when life is ended.
- Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,
- And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!
- Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,
- And die away in ardent mutterings.
- No one who once the glorious sun has seen,
- And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean
- For his great Maker’s presence, but must know
- What ’tis I mean, and feel his being glow:
- Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,
- By telling what he sees from native merit.
- O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen
- That am not yet a glorious denizen
- Of thy wide heaven—Should I rather kneel
- Upon some mountain-top until I feel
- A glowing splendour round about me hung,
- And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?
- O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen
- That am not yet a glorious denizen
- Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,
- Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,
- Smoothed for intoxication by the breath
- Of flowering bays, that I may die a death
- Of luxury, and my young spirit follow
- The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo
- Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear
- The o’erwhelming sweets, ’twill bring to me the fair
- Visions of all places: a bowery nook
- Will be elysium—an eternal book
- Whence I may copy many a lovely saying
- About the leaves, and flowers—about the playing
- Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade
- Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;
- And many a verse from so strange influence
- That we must ever wonder how, and whence
- It came. Also imaginings will hover
- Round my fire-side, and haply there discover
- Vistas of solemn beauty, where I’d wander
- In happy silence, like the clear meander
- Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot
- Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,
- Or a green hill o’erspread with chequered dress
- Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,
- Write on my tablets all that was permitted,
- All that was for our human senses fitted.
- Then the events of this wide world I’d seize
- Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze
- Till at its shoulders it should proudly see
- Wings to find out an immortality.
- Stop and consider! life is but a day;
- A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way
- From a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleep
- While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep
- Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?
- Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown;
- The reading of an ever-changing tale;
- The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil;
- A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;
- A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,
- Riding the springy branches of an elm.
- O for ten years, that I may overwhelm
- Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed
- That my own soul has to itself decreed.
- Then will I pass the countries that I see
- In long perspective, and continually
- Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I’ll pass
- Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,
- Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,
- And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;
- Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,
- To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,—
- Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white
- Into a pretty shrinking with a bite
- As hard as lips can make it: till agreed,
- A lovely tale of human life we’ll read.
- And one will teach a tame dove how it best
- May fan the cool air gently o’er my rest;
- Another, bending o’er her nimble tread,
- Will set a green robe floating round her head,
- And still will dance with ever varied ease,
- Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:
- Another will entice me on, and on
- Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;
- Till in the bosom of a leafy world
- We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl’d
- In the recesses of a pearly shell.
- And can I ever bid these joys farewell?
- Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,
- Where I may find the agonies, the strife
- Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar,
- O’er sailing the blue cragginess, a car
- And steeds with streamy manes — the charioteer
- Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:
- And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly
- Along a huge cloud’s ridge; and now with sprightly
- Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,
- Tipt round with silver from the sun’s bright eyes.
- Still downward with capacious whirl they glide;
- And now I see them on a green-hill’s side
- In breezy rest among the nodding stalks.
- The charioteer with wond’rous gesture talks
- To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear
- Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,
- Passing along before a dusky space
- Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase
- Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep.
- Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:
- Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;
- Some with their faces muffled to the ear
- Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,
- Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom;
- Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;
- Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways
- Flit onward—now a lovely wreath of girls
- Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;
- And now broad wings. Most awfully intent
- The driver of those steeds is forward bent,
- And seems to listen: O that I might know
- All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.
- The visions all are fled—the car is fled
- Into the light of heaven, and in their stead
- A sense of real things comes doubly strong,
- And, like a muddy stream, would bear along
- My soul to nothingness: but I will strive
- Against all doubtings, and will keep alive
- The thought of that same chariot, and the strange
- Journey it went.
- Is there so small a range
- In the present strength of manhood, that the high
- Imagination cannot freely fly
- As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,
- Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds
- Upon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all?
- From the clear space of ether, to the small
- Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning
- Of Jove’s large eye-brow, to the tender greening
- Of April meadows? Here her altar shone,
- E’en in this isle; and who could paragon
- The fervid choir that lifted up a noise
- Of harmony, to where it aye will poise
- Its mighty self of convoluting sound,
- Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,
- Eternally around a dizzy void?
- Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy’d
- With honors; nor had any other care
- Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.
- Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism
- Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,
- Made great Apollo blush for this his land.
- Men were thought wise who could not understand
- His glories: with a puling infant’s force
- They sway’d about upon a rocking horse,
- And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul’d!
- The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll’d
- Its gathering waves—ye felt it not. The blue
- Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew
- Of summer nights collected still to make
- The morning precious: beauty was awake!
- Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead
- To things ye knew not of,—were closely wed
- To musty laws lined out with wretched rule
- And compass vile: so that ye taught a school
- Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,
- Till, like the certain wands of Jacob’s wit,
- Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:
- A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask
- Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!
- That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,
- And did not know it,—no, they went about,
- Holding a poor, decrepid standard out
- Mark’d with most flimsy mottos, and in large
- The name of one Boileau!
- O ye whose charge
- It is to hover round our pleasant hills!
- Whose congregated majesty so fills
- My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace
- Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,
- So near those common folk; did not their shames
- Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames
- Delight you? Did ye never cluster round
- Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,
- And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu
- To regions where no more the laurel grew?
- Or did ye stay to give a welcoming
- To some lone spirits who could proudly sing
- Their youth away, and die? ‘Twas even so:
- But let me think away those times of woe:
- Now ’tis a fairer season; ye have breathed
- Rich benedictions o’er us; ye have wreathed
- Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard
- In many places;—some has been upstirr’d
- From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,
- By a swan’s ebon bill; from a thick brake,
- Nested and quiet in a valley mild,
- Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild
- About the earth: happy are ye and glad.
- These things are doubtless: yet in truth we’ve had
- Strange thunders from the potency of song;
- Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,
- From majesty: but in clear truth the themes
- Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes
- Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower
- Of light is poesy; ’tis the supreme of power;
- ’Tis might half slumb’ring on its own right arm.
- The very archings of her eye-lids charm
- A thousand willing agents to obey,
- And still she governs with the mildest sway:
- But strength alone though of the Muses born
- Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,
- Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres
- Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,
- And thorns of life; forgetting the great end
- Of poesy, that it should be a friend
- To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.
- Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than
- E’er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds
- Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds
- A silent space with ever sprouting green.
- All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,
- Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,
- Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.
- Then let us clear away the choaking thorns
- From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,
- Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,
- Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown
- With simple flowers: let there nothing be
- More boisterous than a lover’s bended knee;
- Nought more ungentle than the placid look
- Of one who leans upon a closed book;
- Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes
- Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes!
- As she was wont, th’ imagination
- Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone,
- And they shall be accounted poet kings
- Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.
- O may these joys be ripe before I die.
- Will not some say that I presumptuously
- Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace
- ’Twere better far to hide my foolish face?
- That whining boyhood should with reverence bow
- Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!
- If I do hide myself, it sure shall be
- In the very fane, the light of Poesy:
- If I do fall, at least I will be laid
- Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;
- And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;
- And there shall be a kind memorial graven.
- But off Despondence! miserable bane!
- They should not know thee, who athirst to gain
- A noble end, are thirsty every hour.
- What though I am not wealthy in the dower
- Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know
- The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow
- Hither and thither all the changing thoughts
- Of man: though no great minist’ring reason sorts
- Out the dark mysteries of human souls
- To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls
- A vast idea before me, and I glean
- Therefrom my liberty; thence too I’ve seen
- The end and aim of Poesy. ’Tis clear
- As any thing most true; as that the year
- Is made of the four seasons—manifest
- As a large cross, some old cathedral’s crest,
- Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I
- Be but the essence of deformity,
- A coward, did my very eye-lids wink
- At speaking out what I have dared to think.
- Ah! rather let me like a madman run
- Over some precipice; let the hot sun
- Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down
- Convuls’d and headlong! Stay! an inward frown
- Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.
- An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,
- Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!
- How many days! what desperate turmoil!
- Ere I can have explored its widenesses.
- Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,
- I could unsay those—no, impossible!
- Impossible!
- For sweet relief I’ll dwell
- On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay
- Begun in gentleness die so away.
- E’en now all tumult from my bosom fades:
- I turn full hearted to the friendly aids
- That smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,
- And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.
- The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet
- Into the brain ere one can think upon it;
- The silence when some rhymes are coming out;
- And when they’re come, the very pleasant rout:
- The message certain to be done to-morrow.
- ’Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow
- Some precious book from out its snug retreat,
- To cluster round it when we next shall meet.
- Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs
- Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;
- Many delights of that glad day recalling,
- When first my senses caught their tender falling.
- And with these airs come forms of elegance
- Stooping their shoulders o’er a horse’s prance,
- Careless, and grand — fingers soft and round
- Parting luxuriant curls; — and the swift bound
- Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye
- Made Ariadne’s cheek look blushingly.
- Thus I remember all the pleasant flow
- Of words at opening a portfolio.
- Things such as these are ever harbingers
- To trains of peaceful images: the stirs
- Of a swan’s neck unseen among the rushes:
- A linnet starting all about the bushes:
- A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,
- Nestling a rose, convuls’d as though it smarted
- With over pleasure — many, many more,
- Might I indulge at large in all my store
- Of luxuries: yet I must not forget
- Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:
- For what there may be worthy in these rhymes
- I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes
- Of friendly voices had just given place
- To as sweet a silence, when I ’gan retrace
- The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.
- It was a poet’s house who keeps the keys
- Of pleasure’s temple. Round about were hung
- The glorious features of the bards who sung
- In other ages—cold and sacred busts
- Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts
- To clear Futurity his darling fame!
- Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim
- At swelling apples with a frisky leap
- And reaching fingers, ’mid a luscious heap
- Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane
- Of liny marble, and thereto a train
- Of nymphs approaching fairly o’er the sward:
- One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward
- The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet
- Bending their graceful figures till they meet
- Over the trippings of a little child:
- And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild
- Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.
- See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping
- Cherishingly Diana’s timorous limbs;—
- A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims
- At the bath’s edge, and keeps a gentle motion
- With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean
- Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o’er
- Its rocky marge, and balances once more
- The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam
- Feel all about their undulating home.
- Sappho’s meek head was there half smiling down
- At nothing; just as though the earnest frown
- Of over thinking had that moment gone
- From off her brow, and left her all alone.
- Great Alfred’s too, with anxious, pitying eyes,
- As if he always listened to the sighs
- Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko’s worn
- By horrid suffrance—mightily forlorn.
- Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,
- Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean
- His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!
- For over them was seen a free display
- Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone
- The face of Poesy: from off her throne
- She overlook’d things that I scarce could tell.
- The very sense of where I was might well
- Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came
- Thought after thought to nourish up the flame
- Within my breast; so that the morning light
- Surprised me even from a sleepless night;
- And up I rose refresh’d, and glad, and gay,
- Resolving to begin that very day
- These lines; and howsoever they be done,
- I leave them as a father does his son.
