Minor Poems, including Napoleon :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mild melodist! whose artless note,
At foggy eve, at chilly morn,
From nature's quiet haunts remote,
Here seems a harmony forlorn;
Fain would I give thee, for thy song,
A carol simple as thy own;
For thou, sweet bird! awak'st a throng
Of thoughts which rise for thee alone.

120

II

It is not that thy lay is fraught
With music, like the sky-lark's strain,
Or nightingale's, so sweetly caught
By listening ear, in midnight's reign;
Nor has thy note that deeper sound,
O which my heart has felt the thrall,
When I have heard, from groves profound,
The lone wood-pigeon's frequent call.

III

But these, each one, and all, give vent
To song, where song is wont to flow;
Thou, thou art sweetly eloquent,
With nothing near to wake that glow
Of music, in the haunts of men,
Which, amid buildings cluster'd round,
From time to time arrests my pen,
And makes me listen to its sound.

121

IV

Oh! hearts that feel, and eyes that see
All as it truly is, can find,
Ev'n in an object mean as thee,
Food for the meditative mind:
But thus it is,—we close our hearts,
Our ears, our eyes, to things which, view'd
With the keen sense that truth imparts,
Might fill our souls with gratitude.

V

And this absurd and frigid pride,
By which our nature is disgrac'd,
Philosophy has dignified
With the proud name of manly taste.
It seems a proof of childishness
Thy song to love, thy praise to speak,
And he who should its power confess
Must be the weakest of the weak.

122

VI

Well! be it so:—if life have taught
To me one truth distinctly clear,
'Tis this, that unto wakeful thought
The humblest source of joy is dear.
The lowliest object that can wake
Our better feelings by its power,
The minstrel for his theme may take,
In contemplation's musing hour.

VII

Canst thou not waken such, sweet bird?
Yes; while I listen to thy lay,
Thought's hidden stream again seems stirr'd
By breezes, which were wont to play
Over its current's dimpled course,
As once it flow'd so sweetly wild,
In happy childhood, when its source
Was by no worthless weeds defiled.

123

VIII

For then thy song to me express'd
All I conceiv'd of harmony;
And the red plumage of thy breast
Was beautiful to childhood's eye.
While tales, by infancy held dear,
Of funeral rites by thee perform'd,
Made, what was music to my ear,
A spell that deeper feelings warm'd.

IX

And since thou now bring'st back again
The memory of such hours to me,
Shall I, beguil'd by that sweet strain,
Blush for this tribute paid to thee?
No, never! if on wisdom's plan,
(All worldly precepts far above,)
“The child be father of the man,”
I justly owe thee praise and love.

124

X

But not for me, alone, thy song
Dost thou at eve and morn awake;
On other ears, amid this throng
Of buildings, it may sweetly break:
Bed-ridden age, perchance, may hear
Those soft and simple strains of thine;
And scenes, and hours long past, may cheer
Its grief, as they have lighten'd mine.

XI

One more reflection yet remains;
Or wise, or foolish, 'twill intrude;
I trace in thee, and in thy strains,
My own, my song's similitude.
Like thee, in scenes adverse to song,
I act the minstrel's humble part;
Like thine, my numbers, weak or strong,
Nor seek, nor own the aid of art.

125

XII

And I, methinks, were well content,
Like thee, to be by most unheeded,
If with my artless strains there went,
As with thy own, a charm that pleaded
For Nature, Tenderness, and Truth,—
Which childhood's innocence possesses,
Which beautify e'en blooming youth,
And honour age's silver tresses.