 | The Errors of Ecstasie |  |
49
POEMS.
[Around this naked brow of mine]
Around this naked brow of mine
No laurels in close chaplet lie,
Parnassus laughs with all his flow'rs
At such a tuneless Bard as I.
For me, no vagrant blossom dares
Slily to cheat the vigil Nine,
But jeer and flout my steps assail—
Yet will I sing of Love and Wine.
No laurels in close chaplet lie,
Parnassus laughs with all his flow'rs
At such a tuneless Bard as I.
For me, no vagrant blossom dares
Slily to cheat the vigil Nine,
But jeer and flout my steps assail—
Yet will I sing of Love and Wine.
Come! let the plunder'd rose look pale,
Whilst Halcyone's cheek its colour wears,
Fast let the brimming charger pour,
And stain my bowl with sanguine tears.
Thus whilst I drain the gold-mouth'd cup,
And press its blazing lip to mine,
Challenged by love-appellant eyes,
I'll sing the joys of Love and Wine.
Whilst Halcyone's cheek its colour wears,
Fast let the brimming charger pour,
And stain my bowl with sanguine tears.
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And press its blazing lip to mine,
Challenged by love-appellant eyes,
I'll sing the joys of Love and Wine.
LET THE BEAKER STAND!
Let the beaker stand!—My blood's in flames!
Fed by th' ethereal spirit of the vine,
No more!—I have sprung where Genius claims
Dominion next to prophecy,
Where souls of inspiréd Bards do hie;
But nought beyond that latter cup, which made this glory mine,
Belongs unto the Nine,
I'll quaff a softer, lovelier juice—there's madness in the wine!
Fed by th' ethereal spirit of the vine,
No more!—I have sprung where Genius claims
Dominion next to prophecy,
Where souls of inspiréd Bards do hie;
But nought beyond that latter cup, which made this glory mine,
Belongs unto the Nine,
I'll quaff a softer, lovelier juice—there's madness in the wine!
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Bind me a wreath, my blooming boy!
Of crimson buds, and Venus' lovely tree,
Of snow-capt lilies, bursting into joy,
At twining blood-roses and myrtles for me.
Spread me a couch too, and spread it of sweet flowers,
Spread me it broad, that the Nymph may recline;
Yet blush not, ye roses, though, mid these dark bowers,
She dare, e'en to press her dewy lip to mine.
Of crimson buds, and Venus' lovely tree,
Of snow-capt lilies, bursting into joy,
At twining blood-roses and myrtles for me.
Spread me a couch too, and spread it of sweet flowers,
Spread me it broad, that the Nymph may recline;
Yet blush not, ye roses, though, mid these dark bowers,
She dare, e'en to press her dewy lip to mine.
Love is the breath that blest Saints sigh,
On am'ranth beds, the heav'nly streams among,
Yet nought unholy's whisper'd i' the sky,
Though flow'rs grew, expressive, or streams found a tongue.
Spread me a couch then, and spread it of sweet flowers,
Spread me it broad, that the Nymph may recline;
Yet droop not, ye lilies, though, mid these dark bowers,
She dare, e'en to press her downy cheek to mine.
On am'ranth beds, the heav'nly streams among,
Yet nought unholy's whisper'd i' the sky,
Though flow'rs grew, expressive, or streams found a tongue.
Spread me a couch then, and spread it of sweet flowers,
Spread me it broad, that the Nymph may recline;
Yet droop not, ye lilies, though, mid these dark bowers,
She dare, e'en to press her downy cheek to mine.
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Hark!—in the boughs, the wind-lyre sings
Of broken hearts—its voice is lovers' sighs;
And ever as burst the sorrows of its strings,
A lost maid laments! or a luckless lover dies.
Spread me a couch then, and spread it of sweet flowers,
Spread me it broad, that the Nymph may recline;
Yet sigh not, sweet Æol, though, mid these dark bowers,
She dare, e'en to press her snowy breast to mine.
Of broken hearts—its voice is lovers' sighs;
And ever as burst the sorrows of its strings,
A lost maid laments! or a luckless lover dies.
Spread me a couch then, and spread it of sweet flowers,
Spread me it broad, that the Nymph may recline;
Yet sigh not, sweet Æol, though, mid these dark bowers,
She dare, e'en to press her snowy breast to mine.
THOU HAST SLEPT, O LYRE!
TO MRS. ---
Thou hast slept, O Lyre!
Yet the wild stream weepeth,
The wingéd hours away,
And the vale-flower under her bonnet peepeth,
To ensnare thy praise for her beauteous attire,
Sing again, sweet Lyre, I pray.
Yet the wild stream weepeth,
The wingéd hours away,
And the vale-flower under her bonnet peepeth,
To ensnare thy praise for her beauteous attire,
Sing again, sweet Lyre, I pray.
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“Let the blue rills mourn,
And the flowers cease wooing
My silent chords—in vain!
Their still soul wakes not to such petty suing,
But thy fingers along my strings shall burn,
If thou'lt sing to thy Love again.”
And the flowers cease wooing
My silent chords—in vain!
Their still soul wakes not to such petty suing,
But thy fingers along my strings shall burn,
If thou'lt sing to thy Love again.”
My Love!—At thy pray'r,
Let the slumb'ring minions
Of lyral song arise!
And heav'n-born fame on angelical pinions,
Mounting the springy volumes of the air,
Tell her beauty to the skies!
Let the slumb'ring minions
Of lyral song arise!
And heav'n-born fame on angelical pinions,
Mounting the springy volumes of the air,
Tell her beauty to the skies!
In my breathing bow'rs,
Where the sighing willow,
And wild vine o'er my bed,
Shadowing mine own ambrosial pillow,
Shall lull thee with sighs o' murmuring flow'rs,
Sweet Lady, rest thy head.
Where the sighing willow,
And wild vine o'er my bed,
Shadowing mine own ambrosial pillow,
Shall lull thee with sighs o' murmuring flow'rs,
Sweet Lady, rest thy head.
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Round the fragrant couch
Where thy dear form resteth,
Th' ensanguin'd flow'r shall lie,
And the dearest theme with which Heav'n investeth
A poet's soul, and a minstrel's touch,
My Lyre to thine ear shall sigh.
Where thy dear form resteth,
Th' ensanguin'd flow'r shall lie,
And the dearest theme with which Heav'n investeth
A poet's soul, and a minstrel's touch,
My Lyre to thine ear shall sigh.
When my goblet foams
For thy lip to press it,
Bedew'd by breath of thine,
Reach me mine hallowéd bowl to kiss it,
Whilst o'er, the spirit of thy sweetness roams,
And to nectar turns the wine.
For thy lip to press it,
Bedew'd by breath of thine,
Reach me mine hallowéd bowl to kiss it,
Whilst o'er, the spirit of thy sweetness roams,
And to nectar turns the wine.
And oh! when I kneel
At thy bosom's altar,
Where heav'n's own incense lies,
When mine eye doth swim, and my tongue doth falter,
Seeking to tell what my pulse doth feel,
Shall my lip drink nought but sighs?
At thy bosom's altar,
Where heav'n's own incense lies,
When mine eye doth swim, and my tongue doth falter,
Seeking to tell what my pulse doth feel,
Shall my lip drink nought but sighs?
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Ah me! if that breast
Might enthrone my slumbers,
Lull'd by thy voice divine,
My Lyre would forget her reckless numbers,
For such spell might charm to eternal rest
Souls, far less warm than mine.
Might enthrone my slumbers,
Lull'd by thy voice divine,
My Lyre would forget her reckless numbers,
For such spell might charm to eternal rest
Souls, far less warm than mine.
But my laurel mourns,
And my Lyre sings, “Willow!”
The knell when love doth die;
For thy cheek doth press another's pillow,
And my soul for a second Laura burns,
Though an humbler Petrarch I.
And my Lyre sings, “Willow!”
The knell when love doth die;
For thy cheek doth press another's pillow,
And my soul for a second Laura burns,
Though an humbler Petrarch I.
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THE REBELLION OF THE WATERS.
[_]
The Sea, in tremendous commotion, calls on its tributary streams for succour, whilst Triton blows his threatning conch in vain. Simois and Scamander, awake from their dream of ages, into pristine glory, and the floods subside not even at the rebuke of Neptune.
“Arise!—the Sea-god's groaning shell
Cries madly from his breathless caves,
And staring rocks its echoes tell
Along the wild and shouting waves.
Arise! awake! ye other streams,
Than wear the plains of ruin'd Troy,
Ida's dark sons, have burst their dreams,
And shake the very hills for joy.”
Cries madly from his breathless caves,
And staring rocks its echoes tell
Along the wild and shouting waves.
Arise! awake! ye other streams,
Than wear the plains of ruin'd Troy,
Ida's dark sons, have burst their dreams,
And shake the very hills for joy.”
Press'd by the King of Tides, from far
With nostril split, and blood-shot eye,
The web-foot minions of his car
Shriek at the wave, they lighten by.
The noise of total hell was there,
As fled the rebel deeps along;
A reckless, joyous prank they dare,
Though thunder fall from Neptune's tongue.
With nostril split, and blood-shot eye,
The web-foot minions of his car
Shriek at the wave, they lighten by.
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As fled the rebel deeps along;
A reckless, joyous prank they dare,
Though thunder fall from Neptune's tongue.
COME, AND SEE!
Come, and see!
Thou, who never think'st to find
Pleasure for the dainty eye
In rural scenery;
Thought how false! and eye how blind!
Come, and see!—The hills, the woods,
The valleys, and the rolling floods,
“Come, and see!” are all a-saying,
All be-word their pray'r, with praying
“Come, and see!
Prithee, come, and see!”
Thou, who never think'st to find
Pleasure for the dainty eye
In rural scenery;
Thought how false! and eye how blind!
Come, and see!—The hills, the woods,
The valleys, and the rolling floods,
“Come, and see!” are all a-saying,
All be-word their pray'r, with praying
“Come, and see!
Prithee, come, and see!”
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Come, and see!
How the summer-valley lies,
Painted all in colours sheen,
Red, yellow, blue, and green,
With a thousand other dyes;
Where the little merry bee
Danceth to the minstrelsie
Of the meadow-bells a-ringing,
And be-words their song, with singing
“Come, and see!
Prithee, come, and see!”
How the summer-valley lies,
Painted all in colours sheen,
Red, yellow, blue, and green,
With a thousand other dyes;
Where the little merry bee
Danceth to the minstrelsie
Of the meadow-bells a-ringing,
And be-words their song, with singing
“Come, and see!
Prithee, come, and see!”
Come, and see!
How the sleepy willows look
With their heads laid i' the stream,
Where silver minnows gleam,
Rowing up and down the brook;
Where the dank reed, river-born,
Blows its melancholy horn
To the whimperin' waves a-creeping,
And be-words their woe, with weeping
“Come, and see!
Prithee, come, and see!”
How the sleepy willows look
With their heads laid i' the stream,
Where silver minnows gleam,
Rowing up and down the brook;
Where the dank reed, river-born,
Blows its melancholy horn
To the whimperin' waves a-creeping,
And be-words their woe, with weeping
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Prithee, come, and see!”
Come, and see!
How the sylvan feathers wave
On the cresty mountain-brow,
Now bending lowly, now
Rearing high their plumage brave;
Where the saucy rufflin' breeze
Pushes through the fretful trees
All in tumult wild a-flying,
And be-words their sigh, with sighing
“Come, and see!
Prithee, come, and see!”
How the sylvan feathers wave
On the cresty mountain-brow,
Now bending lowly, now
Rearing high their plumage brave;
Where the saucy rufflin' breeze
Pushes through the fretful trees
All in tumult wild a-flying,
And be-words their sigh, with sighing
“Come, and see!
Prithee, come, and see!”
Come, and see!
Such is rural beauty; such
Pleasure, to be found for you;
If then, this tale be true,
Couldst thou ever look too much?
Come, and see!—The hills, the woods,
The valleys, and the rolling floods,
“Come, and see!” are all a-saying,
And be-word their pray'r, with praying
“Come, and see!
Prithee, come, and see!”
Such is rural beauty; such
Pleasure, to be found for you;
If then, this tale be true,
Couldst thou ever look too much?
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The valleys, and the rolling floods,
“Come, and see!” are all a-saying,
And be-word their pray'r, with praying
“Come, and see!
Prithee, come, and see!”
TO A STREAM.
Whither, tell me, Stream!
Roll these idle rills,
Down the rocks where Echo lies,
From the bleeding hills:
Kissing ev'ry heedless flow'r
As it droops thy waters o'er,
With a liquid lip of foam?
Roll these idle rills,
Down the rocks where Echo lies,
From the bleeding hills:
Kissing ev'ry heedless flow'r
As it droops thy waters o'er,
With a liquid lip of foam?
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“From the mountain urn
O'er the heath I go,
Where the wild linnet sings,
To the woods below.
O'er the meadow's golden dress,
Rover of the wilderness!
And the sleeping vales, I roam.”
O'er the heath I go,
Where the wild linnet sings,
To the woods below.
O'er the meadow's golden dress,
Rover of the wilderness!
And the sleeping vales, I roam.”
Wild and silly Stream!
Ere the wish be vain,
Turn to thy grassy spring,
Murmurer! again.
Tears, tears of sorrow deep
Rovers o'er their follies weep,
For a dear and distant home.
Ere the wish be vain,
Turn to thy grassy spring,
Murmurer! again.
Tears, tears of sorrow deep
Rovers o'er their follies weep,
For a dear and distant home.
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ON THE DEATH OF A RECLUSE.
Love droop'd when Beauty fled the bow'r,
And languid closed the day,
Wept ev'ry little flow'r,
And turn'd its head away.
And languid closed the day,
Wept ev'ry little flow'r,
And turn'd its head away.
The wind spoke with a fallen tongue,
The green reed sigh'd amain,
And sable forests swung
Rude melody again.
The green reed sigh'd amain,
And sable forests swung
Rude melody again.
Wild caves rang deep, and rocks grew cold,
Whilst rivers wept by them,
All nature's death-bells toll'd
A requiem! a requiem!
Whilst rivers wept by them,
All nature's death-bells toll'd
A requiem! a requiem!
Mid roaring brooks and dark moss-vales
Where speechless Thought abides,
Still her sweet spirit dwells,
That knew no world besides.
Where speechless Thought abides,
Still her sweet spirit dwells,
That knew no world besides.
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Her form, the woodland still retains—
Wound but a creeping flow'r,
Her very life-blood stains
Thee, in a falling show'r.
Wound but a creeping flow'r,
Her very life-blood stains
Thee, in a falling show'r.
Touch but the stream, drink but the air,
Her cheek, her breath is known—
Ravish that red rose there,
And she is all thy own.
Her cheek, her breath is known—
Ravish that red rose there,
And she is all thy own.
LOVERS' PIETY.
The sullen, silent hour of pray'r
Sends many a wand'ring sigh to Heav'n,
From breasts that earth-enthralléd are,
And aye to mortal angels giv'n.
Sends many a wand'ring sigh to Heav'n,
From breasts that earth-enthralléd are,
And aye to mortal angels giv'n.
With transient step, the murmurer roves
From hill to vale, from bell to blossom,
Then turns it to the Heav'n it loves—
A woman's lip! a woman's bosom!
From hill to vale, from bell to blossom,
Then turns it to the Heav'n it loves—
A woman's lip! a woman's bosom!
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THE ANSWER.
Heav'n's flow'rs are red an' rare,
Ev'ry sigh to heav'n-bed roamin'
Cowereth too contently there,
To think on sinfu' breast o' woman.
Ev'ry sigh to heav'n-bed roamin'
Cowereth too contently there,
To think on sinfu' breast o' woman.
Woman's smile is chare enough,
And her kiss is not ungratefu',
But to sighs, so far aloof
From sin, must sure be very hatefu'.
And her kiss is not ungratefu',
But to sighs, so far aloof
From sin, must sure be very hatefu'.
EPIGRAM ON A LADY.
No longer shall Venus, as poets have told,With Pallas in enmity be,
For later and better mythologists hold
That both are united in thee.
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THE BEE.
TO MRS. ---
[_]
The Bee is chidden, for that in his providence of the merely useful things of life, he hath neglected the pleasures thereof and its sweeter enjoyments. Whilst his brothers of the hive are abroad in the fields, engaged in the dearer office of collecting the treasures o' flowers, he, the Solitary, remaineth locked within his cell, employed in the toilsome and ungrateful duty of extruction. He is advised to quit that dull life, nor be so wholly studious as to neglect pleasure. Inducements are mentioned, and at the name of his favourite flower, the pale Sweet-pea, his bosom riseth, and he goeth forth singing and very loving. But he is rebuked in that this flower is in possession of another, and exhorted rather to return to his former obscurity, than follow such unholy loves.
From th' intricate, though gainful,
Thy wax-wrought knavery,
From sweetless and from painful,
Come forth, thou drowsy Bee.
Thy wax-wrought knavery,
From sweetless and from painful,
Come forth, thou drowsy Bee.
Long season thou'st been rearing
Thy scientific bowers,
And o'er the future peering,
Forgat the present flowers.
Thy scientific bowers,
And o'er the future peering,
Forgat the present flowers.
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Come, rouse thee from thy slumbers,
And shake thy trumpet-wing,
In small, sonorous numbers,
Thou tiny poet sing.
And shake thy trumpet-wing,
In small, sonorous numbers,
Thou tiny poet sing.
O'er od'rous bells and blossoms
See others how they hie,
And pillow'd by sweet bosoms,
They murmur as they lie.
See others how they hie,
And pillow'd by sweet bosoms,
They murmur as they lie.
The coronet fresh o' the fountain,
The lily i' the vale,
Queen daisy on her mountain,
And primrose prink-the-dale;
The lily i' the vale,
Queen daisy on her mountain,
And primrose prink-the-dale;
The time's-scythe mocking myrtle,
The rose in blushes drest,
Like virgin without kirtle,
Laid in her lover's breast;
The rose in blushes drest,
Like virgin without kirtle,
Laid in her lover's breast;
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Sweet-pea 'n pale pink—Thou minion!
Ay, now thy breast's on fire,
Thou spread'st thy flimsy pinion,
And wak'st thy meadow lyre.
Ay, now thy breast's on fire,
Thou spread'st thy flimsy pinion,
And wak'st thy meadow lyre.
Thou fool! will nought content thee
Less than such flow'r divine?
Repent ye, ah! repent ye,
Whilst yet the pow'r is thine.
Less than such flow'r divine?
Repent ye, ah! repent ye,
Whilst yet the pow'r is thine.
What though aspirant Zephyrs,
On most Hyblæan wing,
With rival breaths, sweet favours
Into her bosom bring;
On most Hyblæan wing,
With rival breaths, sweet favours
Into her bosom bring;
Her beauteous head reclining
Upon majestic stem,
Ambitious pale, entwining
Her floral diadem;
Upon majestic stem,
Ambitious pale, entwining
Her floral diadem;
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Though odours amaranthine,
Rapt from empyreal bow'rs,
Her slender limbs might grant thine,
The queen o' graceful flow'rs!
Rapt from empyreal bow'rs,
Her slender limbs might grant thine,
The queen o' graceful flow'rs!
Yet see! churl coyness gathers,
Back! to thy cell again!
Her bosom is another's,
Thy song is all in vain.
Back! to thy cell again!
Her bosom is another's,
Thy song is all in vain.
TO THE SAME.
FOUND FAITHLESS.
Thou think'st I'll weep, thou think'st I'll sigh,Thou think'st for thy false faith I'll die,
No, no—I've broke the spell;
But thou shalt weep, and thou shalt sigh,
And thou shalt live to wish to die,
And die to live in Hell!
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THE FAIRY-SESSION.
Round the stem of a sleeping flower,
Whilst the voice of the night was still,
Sat a synod of wondrous power,
On the blades of a grassy hill.
Whilst the voice of the night was still,
Sat a synod of wondrous power,
On the blades of a grassy hill.
There were fays of the river and fell,
There were elves of the wood and glen,
There were spirits of the grot and cell,
There were wraiths of the moor and fen.
There were elves of the wood and glen,
There were spirits of the grot and cell,
There were wraiths of the moor and fen.
The hymnal bands of the traceless tune,
Heard i' the bosom of the sky,
And the riders of the radiant lune,
On a down-beam, hither-borne, hie.
Heard i' the bosom of the sky,
And the riders of the radiant lune,
On a down-beam, hither-borne, hie.
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Some piped on tubes of invisible span,
Some wept o'er th'inaudible lyre,
And ever as the melody ran,
Rung the bells of the heav'nly quire.
Some wept o'er th'inaudible lyre,
And ever as the melody ran,
Rung the bells of the heav'nly quire.
And I heard down the willowy bourne,
Like th'echo of a broken dream,
A chant; as a wind-shook reed might mourn,
Or the song of a running stream.
Like th'echo of a broken dream,
A chant; as a wind-shook reed might mourn,
Or the song of a running stream.
FAIRIES ADDRESS TO THE MOON.
Listen, O moonbeam, listen!
To hollow reeds we fill,
And rest on this green bosom,
The sweetest of the hill.
To hollow reeds we fill,
And rest on this green bosom,
The sweetest of the hill.
Rest, rest, O rest, mountain flowers are dreaming,
And the dale-queens wink, i' the glittering blaze,
In silver veils o'er the red-rose streaming,
And bow'ring the blue-bell in a bright shade of rays.
And the dale-queens wink, i' the glittering blaze,
In silver veils o'er the red-rose streaming,
And bow'ring the blue-bell in a bright shade of rays.
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These weepers, these weepers of the roral tear!
How can they weep for the Sun,
When their green robes sweetest and brightest appear,
And have such a livery on?
How can they weep for the Sun,
When their green robes sweetest and brightest appear,
And have such a livery on?
The gorgeous fount is a ring of light,
The river is a flood of beams,
And the woods as they shiver in the winds of night
Seem cover'd with a thousand streams.
The river is a flood of beams,
And the woods as they shiver in the winds of night
Seem cover'd with a thousand streams.
The rushes start like icicles
Bright from the shining lake,
And each fond reed its pleasure tells
In whispers through the brake.
Bright from the shining lake,
And each fond reed its pleasure tells
In whispers through the brake.
Hail then, fair fount of effluent light! Hail, hail!
Thou sun of night! thou glory of the sky!
White rose of Heaven! sweet Queen o' the blue-bosom'd vale,
Where grow the pale star-flowers, and the long-hair'd meteors fly!
Thou sun of night! thou glory of the sky!
White rose of Heaven! sweet Queen o' the blue-bosom'd vale,
Where grow the pale star-flowers, and the long-hair'd meteors fly!
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Fly away, Moon!
Spirits, begone!
For the east begins to flare.
To the wood! to the glen!
To the moor! to the fen!
To the grot! to the river! to the air!
Spirits, begone!
For the east begins to flare.
To the wood! to the glen!
To the moor! to the fen!
To the grot! to the river! to the air!
| The Errors of Ecstasie | |