 | Poems |  |
Not from that vanity of rhyme
Which leads the Muse, in flowery lays,
To lavish an unmeaning praise
On such as haply scorn her verse sublime;
Not from that vain conceit
Which thinks in solemn verse and slow,
With dull monotony of measured feet,
To ease the burthen of another's woe:
Do I intrude
Upon the stillness of thy solitude!
Which leads the Muse, in flowery lays,
To lavish an unmeaning praise
On such as haply scorn her verse sublime;
Not from that vain conceit
Which thinks in solemn verse and slow,
With dull monotony of measured feet,
To ease the burthen of another's woe:
Do I intrude
Upon the stillness of thy solitude!
Far from the giddy throng,
The pensive mind, wrapt in a dream,
Broods o'er the recollected theme
In silent meditation long!
Shadowy thoughts sweep o'er the brain,
Wild Fancy leads the various train:
Some flash like light and flit away,
Some pause awhile upon their way,
Lo! others come—but will they stay?
The many pass—the few remain!
The pensive mind, wrapt in a dream,
Broods o'er the recollected theme
In silent meditation long!
Shadowy thoughts sweep o'er the brain,
Wild Fancy leads the various train:
Some flash like light and flit away,
Some pause awhile upon their way,
29
The many pass—the few remain!
Nursed in the silent mind,
The slowly-gathered thought may dwell
Long time, locked in its secret cell,
Because no exit can it find;
For like that flower which, full of grace,
Shrinks from the garish eye of day,
And, when the sun would look into its face,
Folds all its fairness up and turns away:
Yet, when the darker hours serene
Lead up through heaven their radiant Queen,
Expands its bosom to the Moon,
And to the breeze delivers up
The gather'd sweetness of its cup,
Yielding to Night what it withheld from Noon:
The slowly-gathered thought may dwell
Long time, locked in its secret cell,
Because no exit can it find;
For like that flower which, full of grace,
Shrinks from the garish eye of day,
And, when the sun would look into its face,
Folds all its fairness up and turns away:
Yet, when the darker hours serene
Lead up through heaven their radiant Queen,
Expands its bosom to the Moon,
And to the breeze delivers up
The gather'd sweetness of its cup,
Yielding to Night what it withheld from Noon:
So, midst the factious scenes of life,
Scared by the turmoil and the strife,
The pensive mind within itself retires;
And from the crowd's obtrusive gaze
Veiling its lofty thoughts and deep desires,
Nought but the surface of itself displays;
But when at length arrives the peaceful hour,
And, from her home beyond the sky
Descending, heaven-born Poesy
Puts forth about the heart her power;
With ecstacy of pleasure,
The mind, expanding slow, itself unfolds,
And to the Muse (sole mistress of its treasure)
Yields all the gather'd sweetness which it holds.
Scared by the turmoil and the strife,
The pensive mind within itself retires;
And from the crowd's obtrusive gaze
Veiling its lofty thoughts and deep desires,
Nought but the surface of itself displays;
But when at length arrives the peaceful hour,
And, from her home beyond the sky
30
Puts forth about the heart her power;
With ecstacy of pleasure,
The mind, expanding slow, itself unfolds,
And to the Muse (sole mistress of its treasure)
Yields all the gather'd sweetness which it holds.
Now comes the sweet, the silent hour!
The Muse puts forth her plastic power,
And sheds her genial influence round:
And from their cavern unconfined,
Wild fancies, passing from my mind,
Shall clothe themselves in sound.
Nor thou, in thine exalted pride,
My lowly verse disdain;
Full well I know, if harshly tried,
My unpremeditated strain
Unto thy critic ear must seem
All too unworthy of its theme;
But such as I can give,—
An offering frail—O scorn not to receive!
The Muse puts forth her plastic power,
And sheds her genial influence round:
And from their cavern unconfined,
Wild fancies, passing from my mind,
Shall clothe themselves in sound.
Nor thou, in thine exalted pride,
My lowly verse disdain;
Full well I know, if harshly tried,
My unpremeditated strain
Unto thy critic ear must seem
All too unworthy of its theme;
But such as I can give,—
An offering frail—O scorn not to receive!
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