 | Lyrical Poems |  |
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BOOK III.ERATO.
Πας γουν ποιητης γιγνεται, καν αμουσος η το πριν, ου αν' Ερως αψηται.
—Plato
Oh Love, the song of life! Oh Love,
The music of the world!—
Dobell.
The music of the world!—
Dobell.
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THE BOW-WINDOW.
As I came o'er from Patterdale
To leafy Ambleside,
'Twas there I met the bonnie Scotch lass
That soon should be my bride.
She sate and looked from a bow-window,
By the steepy steepy road;
And down upon me, as I passed,
Her queenly beauty flowed.
To leafy Ambleside,
'Twas there I met the bonnie Scotch lass
That soon should be my bride.
She sate and looked from a bow-window,
By the steepy steepy road;
And down upon me, as I passed,
Her queenly beauty flowed.
I trudged along to Rydal mount,
I came to green Grasmere,
I sate beside the Poet's grave,
I looked on the waters clear.
But through the mount, and the mead, and the mere
One sunny presence flowed,
Of the maid that smiled from the bow-window
At Ambleside on the road.
I came to green Grasmere,
I sate beside the Poet's grave,
I looked on the waters clear.
But through the mount, and the mead, and the mere
One sunny presence flowed,
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At Ambleside on the road.
I wandered up to lone Langdale,
I clomb the lofty Fell,
And the mist came down, and the storm did bray,
And the floods did rudely swell.
But through the mist, and the wind, and the rain,
And the floods that savagely flowed,
That fair face smiled from the bow-window
At Ambleside on the road.
I clomb the lofty Fell,
And the mist came down, and the storm did bray,
And the floods did rudely swell.
But through the mist, and the wind, and the rain,
And the floods that savagely flowed,
That fair face smiled from the bow-window
At Ambleside on the road.
I turned me back to Ambleside,
I might no farther wander;
I flung my guide-book in the beck,
As I tracked its clear meander.
And ever as I nearer came,
More sweetly round me flowed
That witching smile from the bow-window
At Ambleside on the road.
I might no farther wander;
I flung my guide-book in the beck,
As I tracked its clear meander.
And ever as I nearer came,
More sweetly round me flowed
That witching smile from the bow-window
At Ambleside on the road.
I lived a month at Ambleside,
A month and nearly two,
When hills were green, and streams were small,
And skies were cloudless blue.
And every night when the westering sun
With mellowing radiance glowed,
I walked not far from the bow-window
At Ambleside on the road.
A month and nearly two,
When hills were green, and streams were small,
And skies were cloudless blue.
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With mellowing radiance glowed,
I walked not far from the bow-window
At Ambleside on the road.
How then from knowing liking grew,
Let dainty silence cover;
Till Autumn's ripening hour me found
Her bosom's lord, her lover!
'Twas high in Scandale's ferny glen
From her lips the sweet words flowed,
That bade me share her bow-window
At Ambleside on the road.
Let dainty silence cover;
Till Autumn's ripening hour me found
Her bosom's lord, her lover!
'Twas high in Scandale's ferny glen
From her lips the sweet words flowed,
That bade me share her bow-window
At Ambleside on the road.
And now—O Heaven!—what bliss is mine!
I flung my books away,
My Homer and my Sophocles,
All papers grim and grey.
For now I've found my nobler self,
I'm nearer to man and to God,
Since I live on her love in the bow-window
At Ambleside on the road.
I flung my books away,
My Homer and my Sophocles,
All papers grim and grey.
For now I've found my nobler self,
I'm nearer to man and to God,
Since I live on her love in the bow-window
At Ambleside on the road.
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MY LOVE IS LIKE A FLOWERING TREE.
My love is like a flowering tree,
Where strength combines with sweetness,
And hard with soft doth well agree,
To make one rich completeness!
She's like a peach, whose soft skin fair
And mellow pulp containeth
The strong-ribbed, stony kernel, where
The vital virtue reigneth.
Where strength combines with sweetness,
And hard with soft doth well agree,
To make one rich completeness!
She's like a peach, whose soft skin fair
And mellow pulp containeth
The strong-ribbed, stony kernel, where
The vital virtue reigneth.
Meek dovelets I have known and loved,
And cooed to their sweet cooing;
Proud eagles, too, I wandering proved,
Too high to stoop to wooing.
But she is both—Eagle and Dove—
And from her queenly station
Now warms with summer breath of love,
Now awes with admiration.
And cooed to their sweet cooing;
Proud eagles, too, I wandering proved,
Too high to stoop to wooing.
But she is both—Eagle and Dove—
And from her queenly station
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Now awes with admiration.
By Heaven! I scarce believe the bliss
That I for mine have won her,
The witness of that burning kiss
Which stamped my life with honour!
Dear God, if she could look on me,
And with her great heart love me,
I'll grow more bold, and henceforth hold
No post on Earth above me!
That I for mine have won her,
The witness of that burning kiss
Which stamped my life with honour!
Dear God, if she could look on me,
And with her great heart love me,
I'll grow more bold, and henceforth hold
No post on Earth above me!
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LIKE TO LIKE.
Love me, fair one, love me!
I bring thee purest love;
Thine own heart would reprove thee,
Shouldst thou refuse my love.
The God that rules above us,
Source of life divine,
Who to all good doth move us,
Framed my heart for thine;
Framed thy heart for mine, love;
For, since creation's dawn,
By force of law divine, love,
Like to like is drawn.
I bring thee purest love;
Thine own heart would reprove thee,
Shouldst thou refuse my love.
The God that rules above us,
Source of life divine,
Who to all good doth move us,
Framed my heart for thine;
Framed thy heart for mine, love;
For, since creation's dawn,
By force of law divine, love,
Like to like is drawn.
Thou seeest how the blossom,
Many-hued and bright,
Its beauty doth unbosom
To the glowing light;
How in summer weather
Birds of kindred wing
In leafy wood together
Ope their throats, and sing.
So, when with power to win me,
Thy kindred beauty came,
The smothered love within me
Rose into a flame!
Many-hued and bright,
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To the glowing light;
How in summer weather
Birds of kindred wing
In leafy wood together
Ope their throats, and sing.
So, when with power to win me,
Thy kindred beauty came,
The smothered love within me
Rose into a flame!
Then love me, fair one, love me;
And if thy tongue say, No!
There is a Power above thee
A wiser way will show.
As step to step, where dancers
Wheel measured mazes fine,
So to my thought thine answers
By harmony divine.
For since creation's dawn, love,
No other law might be,
But like to like is drawn, love,
As I am drawn to thee!
And if thy tongue say, No!
There is a Power above thee
A wiser way will show.
As step to step, where dancers
Wheel measured mazes fine,
So to my thought thine answers
By harmony divine.
For since creation's dawn, love,
No other law might be,
But like to like is drawn, love,
As I am drawn to thee!
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DORA, HAST THOU EVER SEEN?
Dora, hast thou ever seen
How, from the sharp sheer-sided mountains,
Down the slopes, so ferny green,
Sundered flow the twin-born fountains?
To diverse winds their course they take,
As if to meet no more for ever;
But oft some sudden bend they make,
And mingled flow, one shining river!
How, from the sharp sheer-sided mountains,
Down the slopes, so ferny green,
Sundered flow the twin-born fountains?
To diverse winds their course they take,
As if to meet no more for ever;
But oft some sudden bend they make,
And mingled flow, one shining river!
Dora, so my life from thine
Through long, long years was diverse flowing;
Twin souls were we, but law divine
Had banned us from the bliss of knowing.
But when His destined day came round,
Whose will gives law to wind and weather,
Our parted loves swift union found,
And rushed like two full streams together.
Through long, long years was diverse flowing;
Twin souls were we, but law divine
Had banned us from the bliss of knowing.
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Whose will gives law to wind and weather,
Our parted loves swift union found,
And rushed like two full streams together.
In an instant I was thine,
And thou wert mine; no vows we plighted;
Two halves by mystic law divine
Were made one whole, when we united.
And I no greater bliss can know
From God, of all good things the Giver,
Than that our mingled lives may flow
In love, and truth, and joy for ever!
And thou wert mine; no vows we plighted;
Two halves by mystic law divine
Were made one whole, when we united.
And I no greater bliss can know
From God, of all good things the Giver,
Than that our mingled lives may flow
In love, and truth, and joy for ever!
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WHEN A WANDERING ME LISTETH TO GO.
When a wand'ring me listeth to go,
Then lists me to wander alone,
To look from an old grey crag,
Or muse on an old grey stone.
But, alone if me lists not to go,
One only shall wander with me;
And, if her fair name thou wouldst know,
Thyself, lovely maiden, art she!
Then lists me to wander alone,
To look from an old grey crag,
Or muse on an old grey stone.
But, alone if me lists not to go,
One only shall wander with me;
And, if her fair name thou wouldst know,
Thyself, lovely maiden, art she!
For thou'rt a part of mine own heart,
And I, when most alone,
Am full of Thee, and my best thoughts
Are less than half my own.
And I, when most alone,
Am full of Thee, and my best thoughts
Are less than half my own.
When I sit on an old grey stone,
And see the wild roses nod,
So bright, so lucid, so pure,
So fresh from the bosom of God,
I look and I love them; for why?
'Tis a very small matter, a rose!
But I look with a light from thine eye,
And I love but thy bloom in the rose;
And see the wild roses nod,
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So fresh from the bosom of God,
I look and I love them; for why?
'Tis a very small matter, a rose!
But I look with a light from thine eye,
And I love but thy bloom in the rose;
For thou'rt a part, etc.
When I sit on an old green hill,
And see the fresh-bickering fountains
Leap forth, and wander at will
From the heart of the giant-ribbed mountains!
I love the clear becks as they leap;
But who will my fancy condemn,
When I see thy bright thoughts ever keep
A light-racing bicker with them?
And see the fresh-bickering fountains
Leap forth, and wander at will
From the heart of the giant-ribbed mountains!
I love the clear becks as they leap;
But who will my fancy condemn,
When I see thy bright thoughts ever keep
A light-racing bicker with them?
For thou'rt a part, etc.
When I hear the blithe birds in the wood
Their full-souled love-ditties indite,
Making Heaven of green solitude,
And thrilling sweet June with delight;
Think I, all the Muses could never
Invent fitter measures for me;
For such are the ditties that ever
My heart-strings are harping to thee!
Their full-souled love-ditties indite,
Making Heaven of green solitude,
And thrilling sweet June with delight;
Think I, all the Muses could never
Invent fitter measures for me;
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My heart-strings are harping to thee!
For thou'rt a part, etc.
Then, maid, if thee listeth to go,
Me listeth with thee, or alone,
To look from an old grey crag,
Or to muse on an old grey stone.
But if thou don't love solitudes,
Then work here at home like a bee,
While I go and bring from the woods
A bundle of songs made for thee!
Me listeth with thee, or alone,
To look from an old grey crag,
Or to muse on an old grey stone.
But if thou don't love solitudes,
Then work here at home like a bee,
While I go and bring from the woods
A bundle of songs made for thee!
For thou'rt a part of mine own heart,
And I, when most alone,
Am full of Thee, and my best thoughts
Are less than half my own!
And I, when most alone,
Am full of Thee, and my best thoughts
Are less than half my own!
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LOVELY DORA, HAST THOU SEEN?
Lovely Dora, hast thou seen
In the land of high-piled mountains,
When in the night a storm hath been,
A sudden gush of roaring fountains?
Down the gorge, all foaming white,
The rain-god leaps with rattling quiver,
The rill becomes a beck of might,
The beck becomes a rolling river.
In the land of high-piled mountains,
When in the night a storm hath been,
A sudden gush of roaring fountains?
Down the gorge, all foaming white,
The rain-god leaps with rattling quiver,
The rill becomes a beck of might,
The beck becomes a rolling river.
Dora, so my life did creep
In the narrow groove of duty,
Till thou didst come with queenly sweep,
And touched me with the power of beauty.
O then my soul gushed out with might,
A tide of buoyant joy upbore me!
All my thoughts were summer bright,
All my words were song before thee!
In the narrow groove of duty,
Till thou didst come with queenly sweep,
And touched me with the power of beauty.
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A tide of buoyant joy upbore me!
All my thoughts were summer bright,
All my words were song before thee!
Lovely Dora, thou art gone,
But dwells with me thy beauteous presence;
Lives the seed which thou hast sown,
Germs the thought of joy and pleasance.
For I know thou art not far,
And the thought of thy great beauty
Turns to music every jar,
In the dull refrain of duty!
But dwells with me thy beauteous presence;
Lives the seed which thou hast sown,
Germs the thought of joy and pleasance.
For I know thou art not far,
And the thought of thy great beauty
Turns to music every jar,
In the dull refrain of duty!
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LET ME LOOK INTO THINE EYE!
Let me look into thine eye,
Through thine eye into thy soul,
Draw the curtain from the sky,
Where the living pictures roll!
I am weary of smooth faces,
Looks that play a pretty part,
Shallow smiles and gay grimaces;
Show me, show me, maid, thy heart!
Through thine eye into thy soul,
Draw the curtain from the sky,
Where the living pictures roll!
I am weary of smooth faces,
Looks that play a pretty part,
Shallow smiles and gay grimaces;
Show me, show me, maid, thy heart!
When in gay saloon I found thee
Sailing proudly, like a queen,
With an host of fops around thee,
Through the fair and flaunting scene;
Sure, I thought, this stately maiden
Struts her hour with dainty art,
But behind this masquerading
Keeps, I'll swear, a guileless heart.
Sailing proudly, like a queen,
With an host of fops around thee,
Through the fair and flaunting scene;
Sure, I thought, this stately maiden
Struts her hour with dainty art,
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Keeps, I'll swear, a guileless heart.
Let me look into thine eye,
Through thine eye into thy soul,
Of deep thoughts and fancies high
The living-ciphered book unroll!
I am sick of polished faces,
Smiles tricked out for fashion's mart;
Worth a thousand practised graces,
Show me, show me, maid, thy heart!
Through thine eye into thy soul,
Of deep thoughts and fancies high
The living-ciphered book unroll!
I am sick of polished faces,
Smiles tricked out for fashion's mart;
Worth a thousand practised graces,
Show me, show me, maid, thy heart!
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O BLESSED ATMOSPHERE OF LOVE!
O blessed atmosphere of Love,
Thee now I fairly, fully prove!
For not the balmy spring
More sweet through bursting herb and tree
Breathes genial-pulsing energy,
Than me thy fragrant wing
Thee now I fairly, fully prove!
For not the balmy spring
More sweet through bursting herb and tree
Breathes genial-pulsing energy,
Than me thy fragrant wing
Fans constant; O the sweet repose
From iron toils and thorny woes
On gentle woman's breast!
I will unmail me here. Go, boy,
And make my sword a tinkling toy,
And with my haughty crest
From iron toils and thorny woes
On gentle woman's breast!
I will unmail me here. Go, boy,
And make my sword a tinkling toy,
And with my haughty crest
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Brush flies from pleasure's cheek! I will
The stony-faced and Stoic skill
To look on blood forbear.
Here, on sweet woman's gentle breast,
Be every sterner sin confessed,
Thawed every frosty care!
The stony-faced and Stoic skill
To look on blood forbear.
Here, on sweet woman's gentle breast,
Be every sterner sin confessed,
Thawed every frosty care!
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MY FANNY O!
O wat ye wha's in yon house,
Yon stern and stately palace O?
A forest flower's in yon house,
Fresh frae the mountain valleys O!
The city dames are nice and prim,
Tight tied with laces many O;
But she with love doth freely brim,
And thinks nae harm, my Fanny O!
O wat ye wha's in yon big house,
And gars my rhymes sae jingle O?
A lass—O would I had her crouse
The queen of my blithe ingle O!
Yon stern and stately palace O?
A forest flower's in yon house,
Fresh frae the mountain valleys O!
The city dames are nice and prim,
Tight tied with laces many O;
But she with love doth freely brim,
And thinks nae harm, my Fanny O!
O wat ye wha's in yon big house,
And gars my rhymes sae jingle O?
A lass—O would I had her crouse
The queen of my blithe ingle O!
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O wat ye wha's in yon house,
Yon proud and lordly palace O?
Wha would expect in yon house
The bloom o' mountain valleys O?
Though fairer features I ha'e seen,
And forms more slender many O;
Yet twa sic frank and friendly een
I only found in Fanny O!
The learned may mark the lines of art,
Split nice distinctions many O;
But gi'e thou me the truthful heart,
The open eye of Fanny O!
Yon proud and lordly palace O?
Wha would expect in yon house
The bloom o' mountain valleys O?
Though fairer features I ha'e seen,
And forms more slender many O;
Yet twa sic frank and friendly een
I only found in Fanny O!
The learned may mark the lines of art,
Split nice distinctions many O;
But gi'e thou me the truthful heart,
The open eye of Fanny O!
Where Beaumont water glides wi' glee
Frae Cheviot green and grassy O,
There might I wander free wi' thee,
My blithe, true-hearted lassie O!
O shun the arts of city dames!
Nae prickly fashion dress thee O!
O sport not thou with fickle flames,
Nae fopling false caress thee O!
O shun the taint of pride and pelf,
And, 'mid thy lovers many O,
Choose him who loves the simple self
Of fresh, free-hearted Fanny O!
Frae Cheviot green and grassy O,
There might I wander free wi' thee,
My blithe, true-hearted lassie O!
O shun the arts of city dames!
Nae prickly fashion dress thee O!
O sport not thou with fickle flames,
Nae fopling false caress thee O!
O shun the taint of pride and pelf,
And, 'mid thy lovers many O,
Choose him who loves the simple self
Of fresh, free-hearted Fanny O!
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FANNY MACMURDOCH.
Fanny MacMurdoch is blithe and bonnie,
Fanny MacMurdoch is frank and free;
God bless thee ever, Fanny MacMurdoch,
Soothly thou art a joy to see!
Fanny MacMurdoch, Fanny MacMurdoch,
Blithe and blooming Fanny MacMurdoch!
My heart was glad, and my heart was sad,
When first I looked on Fanny MacMurdoch.
Fanny MacMurdoch is frank and free;
God bless thee ever, Fanny MacMurdoch,
Soothly thou art a joy to see!
Fanny MacMurdoch, Fanny MacMurdoch,
Blithe and blooming Fanny MacMurdoch!
My heart was glad, and my heart was sad,
When first I looked on Fanny MacMurdoch.
Fanny MacMurdoch is truthful-hearted,
Truth she wears in her bonnie blue e'e:
Souls of children, where thou comest,
Fanny MacMurdoch, come with thee!
Fanny MacMurdoch, Fanny MacMurdoch,
Truthful-hearted Fanny MacMurdoch!
One look I gave, one look I got,
And I lost my heart to Fanny MacMurdoch!
Truth she wears in her bonnie blue e'e:
Souls of children, where thou comest,
Fanny MacMurdoch, come with thee!
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Truthful-hearted Fanny MacMurdoch!
One look I gave, one look I got,
And I lost my heart to Fanny MacMurdoch!
O Fanny MacMurdoch, Fanny MacMurdoch,
A wicked thought thou gav'st to me;
I wish I were married twenty times over
To thee, and all that's like to thee!
O Fanny MacMurdoch, Fanny MacMurdoch,
Blithe, brave-hearted Fanny MacMurdoch,
I'm married already (and can't be divorced)
In heart to thee, sweet Fanny MacMurdoch!
A wicked thought thou gav'st to me;
I wish I were married twenty times over
To thee, and all that's like to thee!
O Fanny MacMurdoch, Fanny MacMurdoch,
Blithe, brave-hearted Fanny MacMurdoch,
I'm married already (and can't be divorced)
In heart to thee, sweet Fanny MacMurdoch!
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O STANEHIVE IS A BONNIE, BONNIE TOUN!
O Stanehive is a bonnie, bonnie toun,
From its quiet bay bright peeping;
'Twixt the rocks sae hard and bare,
Like a little Eden sleeping.
There aince lived a bonnie, bonnie lass,
And worthy was the man wha got her;
She was like the bonnie toun,
He the rocks of strong Dunottar.
From its quiet bay bright peeping;
'Twixt the rocks sae hard and bare,
Like a little Eden sleeping.
There aince lived a bonnie, bonnie lass,
And worthy was the man wha got her;
She was like the bonnie toun,
He the rocks of strong Dunottar.
She was mine by rights—ae night
In the starry clear December,
She did press my hand sae warm,
Looked sae kindly, I remember.
But for want of needfu' cash,
I was blate to tell my story;
And see I lost my bonnie lass,
And anither cam' afore me.
In the starry clear December,
She did press my hand sae warm,
Looked sae kindly, I remember.
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I was blate to tell my story;
And see I lost my bonnie lass,
And anither cam' afore me.
Truth, she had a laughing e'e,
And her mou' was made for kissing;
Light her step, and when she spak'
Ilka word did seem a blessing.
O she was a bonnie, bonnie lass,
Worthy was the man wha got her;
Ne'er without a tear I pass
Sweet Stanehive and strong Dunottar!
And her mou' was made for kissing;
Light her step, and when she spak'
Ilka word did seem a blessing.
O she was a bonnie, bonnie lass,
Worthy was the man wha got her;
Ne'er without a tear I pass
Sweet Stanehive and strong Dunottar!
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LOVE'S LULLABY.
Ye waters, wildly pouring,
With hollow murmurs roaring,
Plunging o'er the rocky steep
With a furious foamy sweep,
In the cavern'd caldron boiling,
Turning, tumbling, twisting, toiling,
Sounding from the glen's dark throat
Old hymns of deep and drowsy note;
Ye waters, hollow-roaring,
Lull ye, lull my love asleep!
With hollow murmurs roaring,
Plunging o'er the rocky steep
With a furious foamy sweep,
In the cavern'd caldron boiling,
Turning, tumbling, twisting, toiling,
Sounding from the glen's dark throat
Old hymns of deep and drowsy note;
Ye waters, hollow-roaring,
Lull ye, lull my love asleep!
Ye forests, dark-surrounding,
With hollow whispers sounding,
Breath that stirs the horrid woods,
Voice of vasty solitudes,
Like the sea, with murmurs swelling,
Solemn, sacred, awe-compelling,
Speaking to the pious ear
Like God's guardian presence near;
Ye forests, hollow-sounding,
Lull ye, lull my love asleep!
With hollow whispers sounding,
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Voice of vasty solitudes,
Like the sea, with murmurs swelling,
Solemn, sacred, awe-compelling,
Speaking to the pious ear
Like God's guardian presence near;
Ye forests, hollow-sounding,
Lull ye, lull my love asleep!
159
INVITATION.
Not by Leman's lovely lake,
Or Italy far away,
Where the jocund Sun doth make
Perpetual holiday;
Not in fair and festal Rome,
Or where Venice airy
Piles the palace and the dome
On her waters fairy;
On my own, my Scottish braes,
Where the tall pine darkly sways,
O'er the fresh and purple heather
Green-bedappled with the fern,
Fondly, while we stray together,
I will teach, if thou wilt learn,
To love, sweet maid, to love!
Or Italy far away,
Where the jocund Sun doth make
Perpetual holiday;
Not in fair and festal Rome,
Or where Venice airy
Piles the palace and the dome
On her waters fairy;
On my own, my Scottish braes,
Where the tall pine darkly sways,
O'er the fresh and purple heather
Green-bedappled with the fern,
Fondly, while we stray together,
I will teach, if thou wilt learn,
To love, sweet maid, to love!
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Freshly blows the Autumn breeze
High over Clach-na-Ben,
Fragrant wave the birchen trees
At Dye-brig, low in the glen.
There, if thou with me wilt stray,
Bird in April weather
Never was merrier on the spray
Than we shall be together.
Yes, fair maiden, thou wilt go!
Such sweet silence ne'er meant NO.
Thus my faithful fancy guesses
These bright eyes might ne'er look stern,
And who owns these golden tresses,
She can teach, as well as learn,
To love, sweet maid, to love!
High over Clach-na-Ben,
Fragrant wave the birchen trees
At Dye-brig, low in the glen.
There, if thou with me wilt stray,
Bird in April weather
Never was merrier on the spray
Than we shall be together.
Yes, fair maiden, thou wilt go!
Such sweet silence ne'er meant NO.
Thus my faithful fancy guesses
These bright eyes might ne'er look stern,
And who owns these golden tresses,
She can teach, as well as learn,
To love, sweet maid, to love!
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WHEREFORE NOW NOR SONG NOR SONNET?
Wherefore now nor song nor sonnet
Write I thee, Eliza dear?
Love's a plant, the blossom on it
Rhyme, child of the vernal year:
With the full-grown time it ceases,
Waning as the fruit increases,
Therefore now nor song nor sonnet
Write I thee, Eliza dear!
Write I thee, Eliza dear?
Love's a plant, the blossom on it
Rhyme, child of the vernal year:
With the full-grown time it ceases,
Waning as the fruit increases,
Therefore now nor song nor sonnet
Write I thee, Eliza dear!
Ever as I would be chiming
Pretty pointed lines to thee,
Seems a power to rein my rhyming,
And it reasons thus with me:
“Fool, why wilt thou still be prating?
Truth that's known needs no debating!”
Therefore I nor song nor sonnet
Write, Eliza dear, to thee!
Pretty pointed lines to thee,
Seems a power to rein my rhyming,
And it reasons thus with me:
162
Truth that's known needs no debating!”
Therefore I nor song nor sonnet
Write, Eliza dear, to thee!
163
I'VE MADE A COVENANT WITH MINE EYES.
I've made a covenant with mine eyes
To meet no more thy glances;
Run he whose hand may seize the prize,
Whose speed bright Hope enhances!
But me—I'm sold to stern employ;
I've sworn an oath to Duty,
A soldier's oath; and dare not toy
With tangling nets of Beauty!
To meet no more thy glances;
Run he whose hand may seize the prize,
Whose speed bright Hope enhances!
But me—I'm sold to stern employ;
I've sworn an oath to Duty,
A soldier's oath; and dare not toy
With tangling nets of Beauty!
I've looked on thee too long!—thou hast
A witching spell about thee;
But God hath made me free at last;
Now I can live without thee!
Let every smooth, soft-bearded boy
That flits on wings of leisure,
Taste from thy smiles love's dainty joy!
My work shall be my pleasure.
A witching spell about thee;
But God hath made me free at last;
Now I can live without thee!
164
That flits on wings of leisure,
Taste from thy smiles love's dainty joy!
My work shall be my pleasure.
Then fare thee well!—to grave and gay
Dispense thy charmèd chalice;
Spread harmless pleasures without pay,
Sow sweet harm without malice!
But I, whom thou hadst wounded sore,
The pleasing-painful arrow
Out from my quivering flesh I tore,
And now am healed from sorrow!
Dispense thy charmèd chalice;
Spread harmless pleasures without pay,
Sow sweet harm without malice!
But I, whom thou hadst wounded sore,
The pleasing-painful arrow
Out from my quivering flesh I tore,
And now am healed from sorrow!
165
SPORT NOT WITH LOVE!
Sport not with love, if thou art wise;
Quick from such perilous pastime turn thee!
The light that rays from beauty's eyes
Shall grow into a flame to burn thee!
If the fair maid may not be thine,
In feeding love thou feedest sorrow;
One short hour's bliss may make thee pine
With a life-long wound to-morrow!
Quick from such perilous pastime turn thee!
The light that rays from beauty's eyes
Shall grow into a flame to burn thee!
If the fair maid may not be thine,
In feeding love thou feedest sorrow;
One short hour's bliss may make thee pine
With a life-long wound to-morrow!
'Tis hard, I know, 'tis harsh; but take
The friendly warning that I bring thee:
This singing bird will turn a snake,
And in thy bosom sorely sting thee!
When the ripe peaches on the wall
Are hung too high for thy endeavour,
Even now thy lawless gaze recall,
Or pine with fruitless greed for ever!
The friendly warning that I bring thee:
This singing bird will turn a snake,
And in thy bosom sorely sting thee!
166
Are hung too high for thy endeavour,
Even now thy lawless gaze recall,
Or pine with fruitless greed for ever!
Sport not with love, if thou art wise;
Sport not with love!—a spark is pretty;
But give it breath, and lo! it flies
Rampant abroad, and flames a city!
If the fair maid may not be thine,
From love's luxurious pasture turn thee,
Or these fair eyes that beam benign
Shall grow a scorching flame to burn thee!
Sport not with love!—a spark is pretty;
But give it breath, and lo! it flies
Rampant abroad, and flames a city!
If the fair maid may not be thine,
From love's luxurious pasture turn thee,
Or these fair eyes that beam benign
Shall grow a scorching flame to burn thee!
167
JANET.
I know a lass I will not name,
For in this evil planet
A thousand tongues my praise would blame,
So I'll just call her Janet.
A lass of such fine witching grace,
That, but my sails are furled,
I'd chase her at a rattling pace
For love o'er half the world;
This dainty Janet!
For in this evil planet
A thousand tongues my praise would blame,
So I'll just call her Janet.
A lass of such fine witching grace,
That, but my sails are furled,
I'd chase her at a rattling pace
For love o'er half the world;
This dainty Janet!
Hast seen the swan, whose plumes avail
For smoothest luxury's pillow,
That sails and scarcely seems to sail
Full-bosomed o'er the billow;
So graceful she, so stately mild,
So queenly, so majestic,
Yet sportive as a very child,
With kindly thoughts domestic,
This rare young Janet!
For smoothest luxury's pillow,
That sails and scarcely seems to sail
Full-bosomed o'er the billow;
168
So queenly, so majestic,
Yet sportive as a very child,
With kindly thoughts domestic,
This rare young Janet!
Thou know'st the yellow furze in May,
Its odorous richness flinging
Far o'er brown heath and grassy brae,
When cuckoo's note is ringing;
So rich in golden gleams is she,
Such fragrance floateth from her,
It makes me happy as a bee
Drunk with the breath of Summer
To look on Janet!
Its odorous richness flinging
Far o'er brown heath and grassy brae,
When cuckoo's note is ringing;
So rich in golden gleams is she,
Such fragrance floateth from her,
It makes me happy as a bee
Drunk with the breath of Summer
To look on Janet!
Thou know'st the pure, pellucid lake,
The mountain stream's fair daughter,
Where tree and tower their image make
In the soft-cradling water;
So clear, so soft, fair Janet's eye
Her heart's pure depth discloses,
While eloquent smiles around her fly,
Like hues from bursting roses,
So true is Janet!
The mountain stream's fair daughter,
Where tree and tower their image make
In the soft-cradling water;
So clear, so soft, fair Janet's eye
Her heart's pure depth discloses,
While eloquent smiles around her fly,
Like hues from bursting roses,
So true is Janet!
169
Nor only true, but seeks for truth
With careful, nice endeavour,
And to this service yields her youth,
With every gift God gave her.
With the strong arms of love she clings
To all Earth's living creatures,
And worships in the meanest things
The trace of God's own features,
This high-souled Janet!
With careful, nice endeavour,
And to this service yields her youth,
With every gift God gave her.
With the strong arms of love she clings
To all Earth's living creatures,
And worships in the meanest things
The trace of God's own features,
This high-souled Janet!
Nor knows alone, but liberal throws
The seeds of truth diffusive,
And with sweet breath away she blows
Each filmy mist delusive.
O what a grace has truth, when she
And such as she are preachers!
To spurn God's law may guiltless be
From harsh and thorny teachers,
But not from Janet!
The seeds of truth diffusive,
And with sweet breath away she blows
Each filmy mist delusive.
O what a grace has truth, when she
And such as she are preachers!
To spurn God's law may guiltless be
From harsh and thorny teachers,
But not from Janet!
The Earth is full of lovely things;
Within this teeming planet
To each a separate pleasure springs,
But my delight is Janet.
To ken a star, or gauge a storm,
Some men will mountains move,
But in my heart the blood grows warm
When I behold and love
This rare dear Janet!
Within this teeming planet
To each a separate pleasure springs,
But my delight is Janet.
170
Some men will mountains move,
But in my heart the blood grows warm
When I behold and love
This rare dear Janet!
171
DINNA MIND MY GREY HAIRS.
Dinna mind my grey hairs,
Bonnie, bonnie lady!
My heart is warm and glowing,
My hand is sure and steady.
But if you'll be mine ain wife,
My heart's delight, my joy,
You'll find the man with grey hairs
A young and lusty boy.
Dinna mind my grey hairs,
Bonnie, bonnie lady!
Bonnie, bonnie lady!
My heart is warm and glowing,
My hand is sure and steady.
But if you'll be mine ain wife,
My heart's delight, my joy,
You'll find the man with grey hairs
A young and lusty boy.
Dinna mind my grey hairs,
Bonnie, bonnie lady!
Like a goat or antelope
I can climb a mountain;
From my brain thoughts bright with hope
Leap as from a fountain.
I can foot it in a reel
As light as finch or sparrow,
And often in my heart I feel
Sweet stings from Cupid's arrow.
Dinna mind my grey hairs,
Bonnie, bonnie lady!
I can climb a mountain;
From my brain thoughts bright with hope
Leap as from a fountain.
172
As light as finch or sparrow,
And often in my heart I feel
Sweet stings from Cupid's arrow.
Dinna mind my grey hairs,
Bonnie, bonnie lady!
Dinna mind my grey hairs,
Bonnie, bonnie lady!
My blood is coursing freely,
My wit is quick and ready.
And if you let me circle you
In love's enraptured arms,
You'll find no youth of twenty-two
More worthy of your charms.
Take me with my grey hairs,
Bonnie, bonnie lady!
Bonnie, bonnie lady!
My blood is coursing freely,
My wit is quick and ready.
And if you let me circle you
In love's enraptured arms,
You'll find no youth of twenty-two
More worthy of your charms.
Take me with my grey hairs,
Bonnie, bonnie lady!
173
JENNY'S SOLILOQUY.
O that my braw wooers would study their battle,
A face of more meekness belike I might show them!
But now they rush on with a reasonless rattle,
And forget that before we can love we must know them.
These hot-bloods, they think that we women are pikes,
To devour a red rag, or a leaf of white metal;
But a sensible maiden will look ere she likes,
As a bee smells the flower in the breeze ere it settle.
A face of more meekness belike I might show them!
But now they rush on with a reasonless rattle,
And forget that before we can love we must know them.
These hot-bloods, they think that we women are pikes,
To devour a red rag, or a leaf of white metal;
But a sensible maiden will look ere she likes,
As a bee smells the flower in the breeze ere it settle.
There's huge-whiskered Harry came swashing from town,
On a pair of stout legs that full bravely did carry him;
He thought a red coat with the fair must go down,
So that very night he besought me to marry him.
Quoth I, I can't tell, you might do very well,
You have whiskers and legs, and your brave name is Harry,
But my husband must know me, and Harry must show me
His soul, if he has one, before I can marry!
On a pair of stout legs that full bravely did carry him;
174
So that very night he besought me to marry him.
Quoth I, I can't tell, you might do very well,
You have whiskers and legs, and your brave name is Harry,
But my husband must know me, and Harry must show me
His soul, if he has one, before I can marry!
Then Tommy the student, a smooth-polished man,
Who soon on his shoulders a surplice will carry,
He thought a good wife should be part of his plan,
So fresh from his Greek books he asked me to marry.
Quoth I, you look sleek, and you're well read in Greek,
And a logical thrust you can decently parry;
But whether your soul's a man's or a mole's
I must know, learnèd Tommy, before I can marry!
Who soon on his shoulders a surplice will carry,
He thought a good wife should be part of his plan,
So fresh from his Greek books he asked me to marry.
Quoth I, you look sleek, and you're well read in Greek,
And a logical thrust you can decently parry;
But whether your soul's a man's or a mole's
I must know, learnèd Tommy, before I can marry!
Next, barrister Bobby came flouncing about,
As keen as a hawk that will pounce on the quarry;
He thought I must read my Lord Bob on his snout,
So he said a few smart things, and asked me to marry.
Quoth I, that you're clever no man doubted ever,
With you for an answer no question needs tarry;
But if you claim a part, learnèd sir, in my heart,
You must show me your own first, then ask me to marry!
As keen as a hawk that will pounce on the quarry;
He thought I must read my Lord Bob on his snout,
So he said a few smart things, and asked me to marry.
175
With you for an answer no question needs tarry;
But if you claim a part, learnèd sir, in my heart,
You must show me your own first, then ask me to marry!
And so they go bouncing and blundering on,
The metal before it is hot always striking;
And thus in the end I'll be left quite alone,
Where no fancy has leisure to grow to a liking.
But of one thing I'm sure, no mate I'll endure,
Who thinks I can wed his mere beef and his bone;
But he who would win me must first reign within me,
By the right of a soul, the born lord of my own!
The metal before it is hot always striking;
And thus in the end I'll be left quite alone,
Where no fancy has leisure to grow to a liking.
But of one thing I'm sure, no mate I'll endure,
Who thinks I can wed his mere beef and his bone;
But he who would win me must first reign within me,
By the right of a soul, the born lord of my own!
176
THE BROWN GOWN.
Jenny, what's this?
There's something amiss
About you to-day, though I can't tell what;
'Tis not in the grace
Of your arch-smiling face,
Nor yet in the beautiful bend of your hat.
Yes! now I perceive, you who used to be drest,
Like glorious June in her Sunday vest,
Have doffed your colours, and donned a gown
Of a muddy and meaningless snuffy old brown;
C'est une grande bétise, ma chèere!
There's something amiss
About you to-day, though I can't tell what;
'Tis not in the grace
Of your arch-smiling face,
Nor yet in the beautiful bend of your hat.
Yes! now I perceive, you who used to be drest,
Like glorious June in her Sunday vest,
Have doffed your colours, and donned a gown
Of a muddy and meaningless snuffy old brown;
C'est une grande bétise, ma chèere!
Tell me, did you ever
By lake or by river
See brown primroses prinking the grass?
And wouldn't it be silly,
If rose or lily
Were blooming in brown, when the meadow you pass?
There are flowers of purple, and blue, and gold,
And green is the carpet that covers the mould;
But brown is no blossom, and why should you,
The fairest of flowers, wear so dingy a hue?
C'est une grande bétise, ma chèere!
By lake or by river
See brown primroses prinking the grass?
177
If rose or lily
Were blooming in brown, when the meadow you pass?
There are flowers of purple, and blue, and gold,
And green is the carpet that covers the mould;
But brown is no blossom, and why should you,
The fairest of flowers, wear so dingy a hue?
C'est une grande bétise, ma chèere!
For brown is a colour
No hue can be duller;
Brown are green leaves when their glory is fled,
The cold grey stone
Calls the brown moss its own,
And brown is the dust which we fling on the dead.
Brown are the tadpoles in muddy abodes,
Earwigs and beetles, and adders and toads;
But that a fair maid should envelope her charms
In brown, like a Venus in Pluto's grim arms,
C'est une grande bétise, ma chèere!
No hue can be duller;
Brown are green leaves when their glory is fled,
The cold grey stone
Calls the brown moss its own,
And brown is the dust which we fling on the dead.
Brown are the tadpoles in muddy abodes,
Earwigs and beetles, and adders and toads;
But that a fair maid should envelope her charms
In brown, like a Venus in Pluto's grim arms,
C'est une grande bétise, ma chèere!
Then, Jenny, be wise,
And don't vex my eyes
With a gown of this muddy and meaningless hue;
I'd as soon see Apollo
Ride Heaven's blue hollow,
Like a Capuchin monk, or an Old Clothes Jew.
Put on the bright robe, the delight of young Cupid,
When you look so clever, and men look so stupid;
For not even you for a Grace will go down,
When swathed in wide volumes of snuffy old brown.
Laissez donc cette bétise, ma chèere!
And don't vex my eyes
With a gown of this muddy and meaningless hue;
178
Ride Heaven's blue hollow,
Like a Capuchin monk, or an Old Clothes Jew.
Put on the bright robe, the delight of young Cupid,
When you look so clever, and men look so stupid;
For not even you for a Grace will go down,
When swathed in wide volumes of snuffy old brown.
Laissez donc cette bétise, ma chèere!
179
WHO'S THERE, JANET?
Who's there, Janet? —Come and see!
Come to the window, and peep with me!
Look from the window, my dainty fair,
I'll show you a sight that's somewhat rare.
What you sought, since first you began
To be a woman, I'll show you— a man;
A man complete in body and soul,
With every part that builds up a whole.
There he stands, and leans on the wall,
So firm, so strong, so noble, so tall.
He looks on the village; he's rapt in the view—
Or thinking, it may be, on something like you.
Mark him, Jenny, and measure him well!
Who knows what may yet be true?
He's a perfect man, every inch of the ell,
And made perhaps, just made for you!
None of your perking, critical fops,
Who go sniffling about the booksellers' shops,
Smelling each work before publication,
That they may give an account to the nation.
Fellows who write in the weekly Reviews,
With all men for their theme, and themselves for their Muse,
Swaying with large, unfettered dominion
The rambling realms of babbled opinion,
Hanging this sign from the tip of their nose:
“Ready to meet whate'er you propose
In the shape of a YES with a legion of NOES!”
Men so clever the world yet never
Beheld their like, since the sophists of old
Did Socrates wise to death deliver
For speaking plain truth with raillery bold.
Men who are ever strutting about
With ready-made judgments on their snout,
Who nothing in Heaven or Earth revere,
But think God made all things for a sneer;
On faults of their betters who daintily feed,
As flies on ordure feast with greed,
Thinking the readiest way for the small
To grow great, is by lopping the heads of the tall,
And weening they've turned—O wonderful men!
The balance of fate by a snip of their pen;
Forgetting that they, infallible guides,
Themselves are only a straw on the tides,
And, when they are wisest, direct the people,
Just as the weather-cock does on the steeple!
Come to the window, and peep with me!
Look from the window, my dainty fair,
I'll show you a sight that's somewhat rare.
What you sought, since first you began
To be a woman, I'll show you— a man;
A man complete in body and soul,
With every part that builds up a whole.
There he stands, and leans on the wall,
So firm, so strong, so noble, so tall.
He looks on the village; he's rapt in the view—
Or thinking, it may be, on something like you.
Mark him, Jenny, and measure him well!
Who knows what may yet be true?
He's a perfect man, every inch of the ell,
And made perhaps, just made for you!
180
Who go sniffling about the booksellers' shops,
Smelling each work before publication,
That they may give an account to the nation.
Fellows who write in the weekly Reviews,
With all men for their theme, and themselves for their Muse,
Swaying with large, unfettered dominion
The rambling realms of babbled opinion,
Hanging this sign from the tip of their nose:
“Ready to meet whate'er you propose
In the shape of a YES with a legion of NOES!”
Men so clever the world yet never
Beheld their like, since the sophists of old
Did Socrates wise to death deliver
For speaking plain truth with raillery bold.
Men who are ever strutting about
With ready-made judgments on their snout,
Who nothing in Heaven or Earth revere,
But think God made all things for a sneer;
On faults of their betters who daintily feed,
As flies on ordure feast with greed,
Thinking the readiest way for the small
To grow great, is by lopping the heads of the tall,
181
The balance of fate by a snip of their pen;
Forgetting that they, infallible guides,
Themselves are only a straw on the tides,
And, when they are wisest, direct the people,
Just as the weather-cock does on the steeple!
Who's there, Janet? —Come and see!
Come to the window, and peep with me!
Look from the window, my dainty fair,
I'll show you a sight that's somewhat rare.
What you sought, since first you began
To be a woman, I'll show you—a man;
A man complete in body and soul,
With every part that builds up a whole.
There he stands, and leans on the wall,
So firm, so strong, so noble, so tall.
He looks on the village; he's rapt in the view,
Or thinking, it may be, on something like you.
Mark him, Jenny, and measure him well!
Who knows what may yet be true?
He's a perfect man, every inch of the ell,
And made, perhaps, just made for you.
None of your butter-lipped clerical fops,
All decently drilled in Tutorial shops
Of Oxford and Cambridge, so proper and prim,
With orthodox sentences crammed to the brim.
Men who have eyes, but who never can look
Beyond what their fathers for oracles took,
But through sense and through nonsense will swear to a book.
Greeklings well-furnished with learnèd quotation,
To vamp an address, or patch an oration,
Who lisp in elegant verse or prose
What no one cares for, and every one knows,
And think all common-places uncommonly clever,
If them but a Greek or a Roman deliver.
Men who patter their collects and creeds
As glibly as Papists number their beads,
Who with cross and candle, and cassock and cope,
Help women and weaklings half-way to the Pope,
And send a palsied old Duke or Duchess
Limping to Heaven on priestly crutches;
For such is the nature of man, he would fain
Work out his faith, but it bothers his brain:
So he hires a priest to think for him,
Who prinks out a creed all decent and trim,
That tickles his fancy and suits his whim;
And so by this subtle device we inherit
A charter of quibbles, and count it a merit.
Of briars and brambles a bundle we cherish,
And fret if a single prickle may perish,
Till by hallowing time and long veneration
Sheer nonsense becomes the sole sense of the nation.
These are the men who make nonsense appear
As proper as sense with logic so clear,
You can't but think it a sin and a treason
In matters so sacred to trust to your reason.
You see the advantage of going to school,
You can't but be right when you argue by rule:
From erudite lips, so polite and so civil,
Nought sounds in the pulpit more sweetly than drivel.
Come to the window, and peep with me!
Look from the window, my dainty fair,
I'll show you a sight that's somewhat rare.
What you sought, since first you began
To be a woman, I'll show you—a man;
A man complete in body and soul,
With every part that builds up a whole.
There he stands, and leans on the wall,
So firm, so strong, so noble, so tall.
He looks on the village; he's rapt in the view,
Or thinking, it may be, on something like you.
Mark him, Jenny, and measure him well!
Who knows what may yet be true?
He's a perfect man, every inch of the ell,
And made, perhaps, just made for you.
182
All decently drilled in Tutorial shops
Of Oxford and Cambridge, so proper and prim,
With orthodox sentences crammed to the brim.
Men who have eyes, but who never can look
Beyond what their fathers for oracles took,
But through sense and through nonsense will swear to a book.
Greeklings well-furnished with learnèd quotation,
To vamp an address, or patch an oration,
Who lisp in elegant verse or prose
What no one cares for, and every one knows,
And think all common-places uncommonly clever,
If them but a Greek or a Roman deliver.
Men who patter their collects and creeds
As glibly as Papists number their beads,
Who with cross and candle, and cassock and cope,
Help women and weaklings half-way to the Pope,
And send a palsied old Duke or Duchess
Limping to Heaven on priestly crutches;
183
Work out his faith, but it bothers his brain:
So he hires a priest to think for him,
Who prinks out a creed all decent and trim,
That tickles his fancy and suits his whim;
And so by this subtle device we inherit
A charter of quibbles, and count it a merit.
Of briars and brambles a bundle we cherish,
And fret if a single prickle may perish,
Till by hallowing time and long veneration
Sheer nonsense becomes the sole sense of the nation.
These are the men who make nonsense appear
As proper as sense with logic so clear,
You can't but think it a sin and a treason
In matters so sacred to trust to your reason.
You see the advantage of going to school,
You can't but be right when you argue by rule:
From erudite lips, so polite and so civil,
Nought sounds in the pulpit more sweetly than drivel.
Who's there, Janet? —Come and see!
Come to the window, and peep with me!
Look from the window, my dainty fair,
I'll show you a sight that's somewhat rare;
What you sought since first you began
To be a woman, I'll show you—a man:
A man complete in body and soul,
With every part that builds up a whole.
There he stands, and leans on the wall,
So firm, so strong, so noble, so tall!
He looks on the village; he's rapt in the view,
Or thinking, it may be, on something like you.
Mark him, Jenny, and measure him well!
Who knows what may yet be true?
He's a perfect man, every inch of the ell,
And made, perhaps, just made for you!
None of your moody, poetical fops,
Who mingle their honey with gall and hops,
Fumes of tobacco, and opiate drops.
Men who think all things here out of joint,
But God did to them this mission appoint,
To dream broad-eyed for a day and a night,
And maunder an Epos to set it all right,
And beget upon clouds a new generation
After their likeness, to model the nation.
These are the men whose heart is broken,
God knows how—but their verse is the token
Who, because they do not find
All things on Earth just made to their mind,
Because the breeze will sometimes blow
Just in their teeth, where they mean to go;
Because a rose has ever a thorn,
And dark clouds oft obscure the morn;
Or because in a shadowless land
A tree won't grow at the word of command;
And an old house of course must stand,
Till a new one is raised by the builder's hand;
Or because a sheep must die,
Before they can feast on a mutton-pie,
Or because a fair girl with a jaunty bonnet
Won't fetch a sigh, when they whimper a sonnet;
Straightway swell with oracular rage,
And blot with bile their fretful page,
And in this beautiful world can see
Nothing but mildew and misery;
Who, when the birds in spring are singing,
And all the woods with joy are ringing,
Sit chiming creation's funeral knell,
And say that the Earth is a seething hell,
Where only devils and dunces dwell,
Where a thousand fools are led by a knave,
And the proudest is ever the foremost slave,
Where a prize to the clown and the flunkey falls,
But the Jove-born poet must sing to the walls!
Come to the window, and peep with me!
184
I'll show you a sight that's somewhat rare;
What you sought since first you began
To be a woman, I'll show you—a man:
A man complete in body and soul,
With every part that builds up a whole.
There he stands, and leans on the wall,
So firm, so strong, so noble, so tall!
He looks on the village; he's rapt in the view,
Or thinking, it may be, on something like you.
Mark him, Jenny, and measure him well!
Who knows what may yet be true?
He's a perfect man, every inch of the ell,
And made, perhaps, just made for you!
None of your moody, poetical fops,
Who mingle their honey with gall and hops,
Fumes of tobacco, and opiate drops.
Men who think all things here out of joint,
But God did to them this mission appoint,
To dream broad-eyed for a day and a night,
And maunder an Epos to set it all right,
And beget upon clouds a new generation
After their likeness, to model the nation.
These are the men whose heart is broken,
God knows how—but their verse is the token
185
All things on Earth just made to their mind,
Because the breeze will sometimes blow
Just in their teeth, where they mean to go;
Because a rose has ever a thorn,
And dark clouds oft obscure the morn;
Or because in a shadowless land
A tree won't grow at the word of command;
And an old house of course must stand,
Till a new one is raised by the builder's hand;
Or because a sheep must die,
Before they can feast on a mutton-pie,
Or because a fair girl with a jaunty bonnet
Won't fetch a sigh, when they whimper a sonnet;
Straightway swell with oracular rage,
And blot with bile their fretful page,
And in this beautiful world can see
Nothing but mildew and misery;
Who, when the birds in spring are singing,
And all the woods with joy are ringing,
Sit chiming creation's funeral knell,
And say that the Earth is a seething hell,
Where only devils and dunces dwell,
186
And the proudest is ever the foremost slave,
Where a prize to the clown and the flunkey falls,
But the Jove-born poet must sing to the walls!
Who's there, Janet? —Come and see!
Come to the window, and peep with me!
Look from the window, my dainty fair,
I'll show you a sight that's somewhat rare;
What you sought since first you began
To be a woman, I'll show you—a man:
A man complete in body and soul,
With every part that builds up a whole.
Clear to see, and quick to discern,
With a child-like eve ever looking to learn;
With a heart where fervid oceans flow,
A firm set will, and a sure-poised blow.
This is a man whose wit never strands
On shores forbid to human intruding,
Nor wildly grasps with violent hands
A mist, which he mistakes for a pudding.
You'll never find him choking with books
The fire within which freely glows,
Nor fumbling in distant library nooks
For what lies plainly before his nose.
This is a man who leaves a trace,
Where he plants his foot, that none may efface.
He looks with wary consideration,
Measures his ground, and ponders his plan;
But, when he once has taken his station,
Is true to his thought as a chief to his clan.
This is a man whose eye discerns
What each thing means in the scheme of Nature,
Who wisely follows and lovingly learns,
Each linked to each by the great Creator.
In a star, or a tree, or a stone,
He sees the secret virtue lurking;
All things good he calls his own,
And all rejoice to acknowledge his working.
Plant him on a broad, bare hill,
To-morrow the grass will there be growing!
Give him a sandy waste to till,
To-morrow the brook will there be flowing!
Make him lord of a wildered parish,
Where all the people are rude and bearish,
He'll build a church, he'll build a school,
And teach each workman to wield his tool.
And, if you oppose him in anything good,
He'll march right on with a conquering mood,
Knowing that fools are fuel and food,
By natural destiny made for the wise,
To feed the flame of their victories.
I've told you his type. What things he has done,
What famous battles he hath won,
Bloody and bloodless, at home and abroad,
Like Paul, a fellow-worker with God,
You'll hear from himself, I hope, very soon.
He means to be here all the month of June;
And if you and he don't come together,
I am no judge of wind and weather.
He was one of the first who began
The close death-grapple at Inkermann;
(You see the medal he worthily wears,
Though many a snob that honour shares).
When he came home and sheathed his sword,
By an uncle's death he was made the lord
Of a magnificent Highland estate,
Worth some five or six thousand a-year,
Where he lives on his property—strange to relate—
And cares much more for the men than the deer.
And now he leads the happiest life,
And wants but one thing—that's a wife,
Not quite unworthy of himself;
For he won't marry for blood or pelf,
Or ev'n for the grace—enough for many—
Of a fair face without a penny;
But he wants a woman whose soul gives a tone
The natural concord of his own.
So he told me. I said there are few
Pitched on the same high key with you;
But I know one who, I think, will do.
And now, my dear Jenny, I've told you all.
You may study him still where he leans on the wall,
So firm, so strong, so noble, so tall.
He looks on the village; he's rapt in the view,
Or thinking, it may be, on something like you.
Mark him, Jenny, and measure him well!
Who knows what may yet be true?
He's a perfect man, every inch of the ell,
And made, I'll swear, just made for you.
Come to the window, and peep with me!
Look from the window, my dainty fair,
I'll show you a sight that's somewhat rare;
What you sought since first you began
To be a woman, I'll show you—a man:
A man complete in body and soul,
With every part that builds up a whole.
Clear to see, and quick to discern,
With a child-like eve ever looking to learn;
With a heart where fervid oceans flow,
A firm set will, and a sure-poised blow.
This is a man whose wit never strands
On shores forbid to human intruding,
Nor wildly grasps with violent hands
A mist, which he mistakes for a pudding.
You'll never find him choking with books
The fire within which freely glows,
187
For what lies plainly before his nose.
This is a man who leaves a trace,
Where he plants his foot, that none may efface.
He looks with wary consideration,
Measures his ground, and ponders his plan;
But, when he once has taken his station,
Is true to his thought as a chief to his clan.
This is a man whose eye discerns
What each thing means in the scheme of Nature,
Who wisely follows and lovingly learns,
Each linked to each by the great Creator.
In a star, or a tree, or a stone,
He sees the secret virtue lurking;
All things good he calls his own,
And all rejoice to acknowledge his working.
Plant him on a broad, bare hill,
To-morrow the grass will there be growing!
Give him a sandy waste to till,
To-morrow the brook will there be flowing!
Make him lord of a wildered parish,
Where all the people are rude and bearish,
He'll build a church, he'll build a school,
And teach each workman to wield his tool.
188
He'll march right on with a conquering mood,
Knowing that fools are fuel and food,
By natural destiny made for the wise,
To feed the flame of their victories.
I've told you his type. What things he has done,
What famous battles he hath won,
Bloody and bloodless, at home and abroad,
Like Paul, a fellow-worker with God,
You'll hear from himself, I hope, very soon.
He means to be here all the month of June;
And if you and he don't come together,
I am no judge of wind and weather.
He was one of the first who began
The close death-grapple at Inkermann;
(You see the medal he worthily wears,
Though many a snob that honour shares).
When he came home and sheathed his sword,
By an uncle's death he was made the lord
Of a magnificent Highland estate,
Worth some five or six thousand a-year,
Where he lives on his property—strange to relate—
And cares much more for the men than the deer.
And now he leads the happiest life,
And wants but one thing—that's a wife,
189
For he won't marry for blood or pelf,
Or ev'n for the grace—enough for many—
Of a fair face without a penny;
But he wants a woman whose soul gives a tone
The natural concord of his own.
So he told me. I said there are few
Pitched on the same high key with you;
But I know one who, I think, will do.
And now, my dear Jenny, I've told you all.
You may study him still where he leans on the wall,
So firm, so strong, so noble, so tall.
He looks on the village; he's rapt in the view,
Or thinking, it may be, on something like you.
Mark him, Jenny, and measure him well!
Who knows what may yet be true?
He's a perfect man, every inch of the ell,
And made, I'll swear, just made for you.
190
THE METAMORPHOSIS OF PLANTS.
—This famous lyric stands single, within the compass of my reading, as a composition combining a great philosophical principle and accuracy of scientific detail with the highest poetical beauty. The measure of the original is elegiac; for which I agree with Bulwer (see his translations from Schiller) that our ballad measure of fourteen syllables is the best substitute. On Goethe's botanical philosophy, generally, the reader will consult the poet's Life, by Lewis, a work which will be long remembered as one of the great biographical masterpieces of the present age. My admiration of this poem of Goethe is so great, that I was induced to try another version of it in Latin, which the reader will find at the end of the present volume.
This garden rich, that spreads it breadth of broidered beauty round?
Names, learnèd names, thou hear'st, a host; a barbar-ous-sounding train
They march, but still, as one comes in, the other leaves the brain.
And yet, belovèd, 'tis one truth, not complex, not profound,
One sacred simple truth, that rules this maze of tangled sound:
191
There is a law that's like in all, but quite the same in none.
O! my heart's chosen, if the thought that subtly stirs the brain,
Can teach the tongue, I'll tell thee now this law, nor tell in vain.
Behold the plant, by what nice rule, from the dark groping root
Step after step it mounts the scale to blossom bright and fruit.
Behold the seed, the little seed, with silent plastic might,
How nurturing Earth the case unfolds, and to the genial light,
The ever-moving holy light, the delicate frame commends,
The slight, thin, leafy frame, that soon to gorgeous height ascends.
Simple the power slept in the seed; a nascent type is there
Of all that shall be, nicely wrapt, and swathed with curious care;
192
Their charmed life all safe from harm by the arid kernel kept,
Till gentle dews and genial rain forth-draw the swell-ing might,
That shoots elastic from its bed of circumambient night.
But simple still the primal shoot; as in the boy the man,
Here lies of the full tree immense, the unexpanded plan.
But mark, anon an impulse new, knot tower'd on knot behold!
And still as higher mounts the stalk, the primal type unrolled
Repeats itself; like, not the same; for in the leafy show
The upper floats with ampler pride than that which grew below.
More deeply cut, and cleft, and carved, and fringed in various trim,
The parts dispread, once closely-twined in the inferior limb.
193
It bursts, a wonder ever old, a wonder ever new;
So giant-ribbed, so straggling free, in swelling breadth dilated,
As Nature's self were weak to check the impulse she created.
But she is wise; and reining here the pride o' the leafy veins,
Gently prepares the higher change, where perfect beauty reigns;
In narrower cells with milder pulse and calmer flow she lingers,
And soon the delicate frame displays the working of her fingers.
Back from the broad and leafy fringe the keen pulsa-tion flows,
And buoyant now the topmost stem more light and graceful grows;
Leafless the tender stalklet's grace shoots eagerly on high,
And soon a shape of wonder bursts, and fills the studious eye.
194
Rise, and, with nice adjustment ranged, their spread-ing wings unfold.
The parted cup unbinds its charge, and free in sunny ray
The million-coloured crowns aloft their blushing wealth display.
Thus Nature triumphs in her work, and in full glory shows
Each step i' the measured scale, through which to such fair height she rose;
And wonder still detains the eye, oft as the breeze stirred blossom,
On delicate stalklet perched sublime, nods o'er the leafy bosom.
But not this gorgeous wealth remains: the strong creative power
Lives in the core; the hand divine stirreth the conscious flower,
And lo! with inward-curling force, each fine and slender thread
Elastic springs to find its mate, and with its like to wed:
195
In nuptial rings they stand around the consecrated shrine,
While Hymen hovers near, and wanton breezes odorous blow,
And clouds of genial dust forth roll, and vital fountains flow.
Asunder now, and cased apart, stands every swelling germ,
Soft-bosomed in the pulpy fruit, that shields its growth from harm;
And Nature here the circle ends of her eternal working,
But still within the old the seed of a new life is lurking.
Link unto link she adds; that thus, as countless ages roll,
Part after part may share the pulse that stirs the mighty whole.
Look now, belovèd, on this web of broidered beauty round,
And feel it ne'er was woven thus so fair but to confound.
196
And every flower, loud and more loud, proclaims the Eternal Cause.
Nor here alone: once recognised the Godhead's mystic trace,
Thou'lt see through each most strange disguise the now familiar face;
In creeping grub, in wingèd moth, in various man thou'lt know
The one great soul that breathes beneath the curious-shifting show.
Bethink thee, then, how, in the hours that first together drew
Our hearts, from light acquaintance' germ familiar converse grew,
From converse sweet by gentle change how potent friendship rose,
Till perfect love within our breasts both flower and fruitage shows.
And this, bethink, what woven web of blest emotions grew,
Phase after phase of various love, the same but ever new!
197
To that high sphere where wish to wish, and thought responds to thought,
Where feeling blent with feeling, raptures thrilled with raptures rare,
In bonds of a diviner life, unite the blissful pair.
| Lyrical Poems | |