 | Poems |  |
23
The Recantation.
Yes, I resign thee, witching lyre;
No more thy pathos or thy fire,
Shall wrap me in delusive bliss,
Thy chords my flying fingers kiss;
No more to thy responsive string,
Her lyric lays thy mistress sing;
No more thy soft seducing strain,
Shall wake her joys, or sooth her pain!
No more thy pathos or thy fire,
Shall wrap me in delusive bliss,
Thy chords my flying fingers kiss;
No more to thy responsive string,
Her lyric lays thy mistress sing;
No more thy soft seducing strain,
Shall wake her joys, or sooth her pain!
And with thee, on the willow bough
The laurel rest, that wreath'd my brow;
Once dearer far, its sober green,
Than e'en thy myrtle, Paphian queen!
Or flow'r from thine Adonis sprung,
Or thy immortal rose oft sung:
Tho' in an idle moment found,
Scatter'd o'er oft-trod classic ground!
The laurel rest, that wreath'd my brow;
Once dearer far, its sober green,
Than e'en thy myrtle, Paphian queen!
24
Or thy immortal rose oft sung:
Tho' in an idle moment found,
Scatter'd o'er oft-trod classic ground!
Imagination, glowing maid!
Ah! let thy orient colours fade;
Thy magic tales to others tell,
And from my mind withdraw thy spell;
No more th'alchemic art unfold,
To turn the dross of life to gold;
Thy purple wing young fancy spread,
No more thy gay illusions shed;
Fling o'er my waking hours thy beam,
Or hover o'er the midnight dream;
Thy record page fond mem'ry close;
I'll not retrace thy treasur'd woes;
Withdraw thy visions from my breast,
And give its wearied inmate rest!
Ah! let thy orient colours fade;
Thy magic tales to others tell,
And from my mind withdraw thy spell;
No more th'alchemic art unfold,
To turn the dross of life to gold;
Thy purple wing young fancy spread,
No more thy gay illusions shed;
Fling o'er my waking hours thy beam,
Or hover o'er the midnight dream;
Thy record page fond mem'ry close;
I'll not retrace thy treasur'd woes;
Withdraw thy visions from my breast,
And give its wearied inmate rest!
25
Say, Muse, my idol and my care,
Wilt thou receive my final prayer?
Then take thy bright poetic ray,
That oft illum'd life's cloudy day;
Take back the magic cup you gave,
Still sparkling with th'aonian wave;
The still delicious draught remove,
I will not sing,—I cannot love!
The laurel nor the myrtle wear,
Exempt from bliss, exempt from care.
Flow on ye peaceful, slumb'rous hours,
Indifference!—I hail thy powers;
Come, and each keen sensation lull,
And make me languishingly dull;
My recantative vow receive,
For thine all other creeds I leave!
Take this last sigh, this glowing tear,
This throbbing hope, this anxious fear;
Th'enthusiastic fervor steal,
The nerve to beat, the taste to feel;
The bashful doubt, the wish to please,
And give, oh give, thy convert ease;
Here snatch this painful sweet emotion,
This anguish'd charm's at thy devotion,
It once was Love's; th'Idalian boy,
Exchanged it with me for a toy;
He thought I'd wear it in my breast,
And for a trinket lose my rest;
I saw the urchin's arch design,
Unused by me, the bauble's thine!
Wilt thou receive my final prayer?
Then take thy bright poetic ray,
That oft illum'd life's cloudy day;
Take back the magic cup you gave,
Still sparkling with th'aonian wave;
The still delicious draught remove,
I will not sing,—I cannot love!
The laurel nor the myrtle wear,
Exempt from bliss, exempt from care.
Flow on ye peaceful, slumb'rous hours,
Indifference!—I hail thy powers;
Come, and each keen sensation lull,
And make me languishingly dull;
My recantative vow receive,
For thine all other creeds I leave!
Take this last sigh, this glowing tear,
This throbbing hope, this anxious fear;
26
The nerve to beat, the taste to feel;
The bashful doubt, the wish to please,
And give, oh give, thy convert ease;
Here snatch this painful sweet emotion,
This anguish'd charm's at thy devotion,
It once was Love's; th'Idalian boy,
Exchanged it with me for a toy;
He thought I'd wear it in my breast,
And for a trinket lose my rest;
I saw the urchin's arch design,
Unused by me, the bauble's thine!
And take my tablet and my quill,
Once dip'd in the Pierian rill;
A pilgrim bard the relic gave,
Now plunge it in oblivion's wave!
Ah! now I breathe,—now, now, I'm free,
Come then, insensibility,
Come; with thy slow and even pace,
Thy heavy lids and pallid face;
Ne'er tinted with the sudden flush,
Of rapture's varying, vivid blush;
With soul ne'er rapt in wond'ring trance,
With torpid look, and senseless glance;
With eyes ne'er bath'd in pity's dew,
Nor mouth of smiles, and vermil hue!
Thy chilling vapour o'er me throw,
And weave thy pale rose round my brow;
And o'er my feelings draw thy veil,
And on my senses fix thy seal;
Cold goddess come, and bring with thee,
The drousy wight Inanity,
Who lists to Sloth's lethargic lay,
And yawns his listless life away!
Once dip'd in the Pierian rill;
A pilgrim bard the relic gave,
Now plunge it in oblivion's wave!
Ah! now I breathe,—now, now, I'm free,
Come then, insensibility,
Come; with thy slow and even pace,
Thy heavy lids and pallid face;
Ne'er tinted with the sudden flush,
Of rapture's varying, vivid blush;
27
With torpid look, and senseless glance;
With eyes ne'er bath'd in pity's dew,
Nor mouth of smiles, and vermil hue!
Thy chilling vapour o'er me throw,
And weave thy pale rose round my brow;
And o'er my feelings draw thy veil,
And on my senses fix thy seal;
Cold goddess come, and bring with thee,
The drousy wight Inanity,
Who lists to Sloth's lethargic lay,
And yawns his listless life away!
Then come, delicious Indolence!
And raise me “'bove the sense of sense”;
Thy languid pow'rs around me shed,
Thy ermine mantle o'er me spread;
Inshroud me in thy downy veil,
Thy airy shackles o'er me steal;
Around thy poppy blossoms fling,
Then lay me near some murmuring spring,
Whose lazy stream shall slowly creep,
Inviting, yet preventing sleep;
Or on the soft and mossy sill,
Of some small, tepid, gurgling rill,
Light o'er my form let zephyrs play,
Then skreen each too-enlivening ray;
Around me weave a cypress gloom,
And add the silence of the tomb;
Save that the plaintive wood-dove's note,
On some far distant gale may float,
Or dying on a zephyr near,
Just reach my inattentive ear!
Or buzzing song of hov'ring bee,
Or drone who hums right drowsily;
Nor let my lips imbibe the wave
In which the muses love to lave;
But thine own draught of magic power,
Distill'd from many an opiate flower;
Let each slow pulse confess thy sway,
Each frolic spirit die away;
And let my arm on mossy bed
Reclined, support my languid head;
My feeble hand sustain a book,
In which, perchance, I sometimes look;
But oftener dose, or fix the eye
Half-closing on blank vacancy!
And let no glowing gay delusions,
My slumbers cheer with fair illusions;
No dreams of active life bestow,
No lively pulse, no transient glow:
Nor in the page which meets my eye,
Let glitt'ring forc'd concetti lie;
No splendid metaphor or figure,
No far-fetch'd thought, or line of vigour,
No sweet impassion'd strain of fire,
Breath'd from the chords of Sappho's lyre;
Nor Ovid's, nor Tibullus' lay,
Amidst whose verse the graces play;
Nor doric strain by Bion sung,
On whose lips soft persuasion hung;
Nor Moschus, thy bucolic lay,
Nor Alceaus elegantly gay;
Nor thy sweet strain Theocrites,
Nor philosophic Socrates;
Nor the tub-sophists cynic jest,
Severe in attic terseness drest;
Nor the harmonic supposition
Of Plato's musical position
Nor the astronomic lies
Of Aristotle's chrystal skies;
Nor Euclid's puzzling problem wrought
With force of calculating thought;
Nor ought the reasoning mind to wake,
Or thy bewitching thraldom break!
And raise me “'bove the sense of sense”;
Thy languid pow'rs around me shed,
Thy ermine mantle o'er me spread;
Inshroud me in thy downy veil,
Thy airy shackles o'er me steal;
Around thy poppy blossoms fling,
Then lay me near some murmuring spring,
28
Inviting, yet preventing sleep;
Or on the soft and mossy sill,
Of some small, tepid, gurgling rill,
Light o'er my form let zephyrs play,
Then skreen each too-enlivening ray;
Around me weave a cypress gloom,
And add the silence of the tomb;
Save that the plaintive wood-dove's note,
On some far distant gale may float,
Or dying on a zephyr near,
Just reach my inattentive ear!
Or buzzing song of hov'ring bee,
Or drone who hums right drowsily;
Nor let my lips imbibe the wave
In which the muses love to lave;
But thine own draught of magic power,
Distill'd from many an opiate flower;
Let each slow pulse confess thy sway,
Each frolic spirit die away;
And let my arm on mossy bed
Reclined, support my languid head;
29
In which, perchance, I sometimes look;
But oftener dose, or fix the eye
Half-closing on blank vacancy!
And let no glowing gay delusions,
My slumbers cheer with fair illusions;
No dreams of active life bestow,
No lively pulse, no transient glow:
Nor in the page which meets my eye,
Let glitt'ring forc'd concetti lie;
No splendid metaphor or figure,
No far-fetch'd thought, or line of vigour,
No sweet impassion'd strain of fire,
Breath'd from the chords of Sappho's lyre;
Nor Ovid's, nor Tibullus' lay,
Amidst whose verse the graces play;
Nor doric strain by Bion sung,
On whose lips soft persuasion hung;
Nor Moschus, thy bucolic lay,
Nor Alceaus elegantly gay;
30
Nor philosophic Socrates;
Nor the tub-sophists cynic jest,
Severe in attic terseness drest;
Nor the harmonic supposition
Of Plato's musical position
Nor the astronomic lies
Of Aristotle's chrystal skies;
Nor Euclid's puzzling problem wrought
With force of calculating thought;
Nor ought the reasoning mind to wake,
Or thy bewitching thraldom break!
But give some heavy gloomy page,
The sombre work of Gothic age:
Some sleepy sermonizing lay
Of oft-told truths, some trite essay;
Some theologic disputation,
Some pond'rous tome, some dissertation;
O'er which the torpid senses pore,
Bewilder'd midst scholastic lore!
Or give the work which fix'd thy fame
Immortal, as its author's name!
The minstrels song who erst did tell,
Thy wond'rous arts and magic spell;
Who felt thy soft, voluptuous power,
Infused o'er many a languid hour!
Come then, thou dear oblivious maid
And steal me to thy silent shade;
Let me life's various volume close,
And in thy circling arms repose.
The sombre work of Gothic age:
Some sleepy sermonizing lay
Of oft-told truths, some trite essay;
Some theologic disputation,
Some pond'rous tome, some dissertation;
O'er which the torpid senses pore,
Bewilder'd midst scholastic lore!
31
Immortal, as its author's name!
The minstrels song who erst did tell,
Thy wond'rous arts and magic spell;
Who felt thy soft, voluptuous power,
Infused o'er many a languid hour!
Come then, thou dear oblivious maid
And steal me to thy silent shade;
Let me life's various volume close,
And in thy circling arms repose.
The rose has been celebrated by Anacreon, vide 5th and 53d, in a fragment of Sappho's; and by Ausonius, in his 14th Idyllium. —It is supposed to have sprung from the tears which Venus shed on the death of Adonis.
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