 | The poetical works of Barry Cornwall |  |
191
WISHES.
Now, give me but a cot that's good,
In some great town's neighbourhood:
A garden, where the winds may play
Fresh from the blue hills far away,
And wanton with such trees as bear
Their loads of green through all the year,
Laurel, and dusky juniper:
So may some friends, whose social talk
I love, there take their evening walk
And spend a frequent holiday.
In some great town's neighbourhood:
A garden, where the winds may play
Fresh from the blue hills far away,
And wanton with such trees as bear
Their loads of green through all the year,
Laurel, and dusky juniper:
So may some friends, whose social talk
I love, there take their evening walk
And spend a frequent holiday.
And may I own a quiet room,
Where the morning sun may come,
Stored with books of poesy,
Tale, science, old morality,
Fable, and divine history
Ranged in separate cases round,
Each with living marble crowned;
Here should Apollo stand, and there
Isis, with her sweeping hair;
Here Phidian Jove, or the face of thought
Of Pallas, or Laocoon,
Or Adrian's boy Antinous,
Or the winged Mercurius,
Or some that conquest lately brought
From the land Italian.
Where the morning sun may come,
192
Tale, science, old morality,
Fable, and divine history
Ranged in separate cases round,
Each with living marble crowned;
Here should Apollo stand, and there
Isis, with her sweeping hair;
Here Phidian Jove, or the face of thought
Of Pallas, or Laocoon,
Or Adrian's boy Antinous,
Or the winged Mercurius,
Or some that conquest lately brought
From the land Italian.
And one I'd have, whose heaving breast
Should rock me nightly to my rest,
By holy chains bound fast to me,
Faster by Love's sweet sorcery.
I would not have my beauty as
Juno or Paphian Venus was,
Or Dian with her crested moon,
(Else, haply, she might change as soon,)
Or Portia, that high Roman dame,
Or she who set the world on flame,
Spartan Helen, who did leave
Her husband-king to grieve,
And fled with Priam's shepherd-boy,
And caused the mighty tale of Troy.
She should be a woman who
(Graceful without much endeavour)
Could praise or excuse all I do,
And love me ever.
I'd have her thoughts fair, and her skin
White as the white soul within;
And her fringed eyes of darkest blue,
Which the great soul looketh through,
Like heaven's own gates cerulean:
And these I'd gaze and gaze upon,
As did of old Pygmalion.
Should rock me nightly to my rest,
By holy chains bound fast to me,
Faster by Love's sweet sorcery.
I would not have my beauty as
Juno or Paphian Venus was,
193
(Else, haply, she might change as soon,)
Or Portia, that high Roman dame,
Or she who set the world on flame,
Spartan Helen, who did leave
Her husband-king to grieve,
And fled with Priam's shepherd-boy,
And caused the mighty tale of Troy.
She should be a woman who
(Graceful without much endeavour)
Could praise or excuse all I do,
And love me ever.
I'd have her thoughts fair, and her skin
White as the white soul within;
And her fringed eyes of darkest blue,
Which the great soul looketh through,
Like heaven's own gates cerulean:
And these I'd gaze and gaze upon,
As did of old Pygmalion.
| The poetical works of Barry Cornwall | |