 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
ODE TO THE STATUE OF A MUSE PLAYING ON A LYRE AND ENTITLED “EUMOUSIA,” IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM.
Oh for a capable ear, like his who stretched
The chords first on the shell, and what his tongue
Failed to shape forth in words, thence, yearning, fetched,
The music of the World when it was young!
Oh for a hearing fine as his who, blind,
Caught, with the larger senses of the soul,
A region-whisper of the Universe:
A music too refined
For mortal hearing; of which none the whole
E'er heard, or what he hears can e'er rehearse!
The chords first on the shell, and what his tongue
Failed to shape forth in words, thence, yearning, fetched,
The music of the World when it was young!
Oh for a hearing fine as his who, blind,
Caught, with the larger senses of the soul,
A region-whisper of the Universe:
A music too refined
For mortal hearing; of which none the whole
E'er heard, or what he hears can e'er rehearse!
Listen! Methinks a murmur, such as throngs
The spiral windings of the sea-tuned shell
With ocean-echoes and faint Mermaid-songs,
Works in mine ear like an enchanter's spell!
Fuller, diviner, on my sense there grows
A deep, sweet melody, that fills all time,
All space: the burthen of six thousand years,
That past me ever flows
In waves of music, upon which sublime
My heart is floated onward to the spheres!
The spiral windings of the sea-tuned shell
With ocean-echoes and faint Mermaid-songs,
Works in mine ear like an enchanter's spell!
Fuller, diviner, on my sense there grows
A deep, sweet melody, that fills all time,
All space: the burthen of six thousand years,
That past me ever flows
In waves of music, upon which sublime
My heart is floated onward to the spheres!
Eumousia! pale marble; sculptured form;
Still is that hand, and voiceless are those strings:
The echoes of thy music in the storm
Of many years have passed with meaner things.
Great hearts have broken like the lyre's chords,
To themes which thou didst touch in ancient days,
But the World's ear is filled with other note:
Ay, more sublime accords
Time on those strings with his own hand shall raise,
And to eternal truth henceforth devote.
Still is that hand, and voiceless are those strings:
The echoes of thy music in the storm
Of many years have passed with meaner things.
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To themes which thou didst touch in ancient days,
But the World's ear is filled with other note:
Ay, more sublime accords
Time on those strings with his own hand shall raise,
And to eternal truth henceforth devote.
Cease, too sweet music! and adown the scale
With full, angelic cadence earthwards come:
Nearer and nearer, till thy sweetness fail
The listening soul, reminded of its home!
'Tis gone! Eumousia, could'st thou match that strain?
Be henceforth marble: thou hast had thy day,
And art thyself become its monument.
Too many strings did pain
Truth's ear with false accords, nor didst thou aye
Make chorus to the World's great argument!
With full, angelic cadence earthwards come:
Nearer and nearer, till thy sweetness fail
The listening soul, reminded of its home!
'Tis gone! Eumousia, could'st thou match that strain?
Be henceforth marble: thou hast had thy day,
And art thyself become its monument.
Too many strings did pain
Truth's ear with false accords, nor didst thou aye
Make chorus to the World's great argument!
TO THE INCOMPARABLE VENUS OF MILO.
Three are, or were, the Graces, all agree;Now are they one, for all are summed in thee:
And, as the ingot doth surpass the ore
In severals, thy sum holds each, and more.
ON ANNIBALE CARACCI'S LANDSCAPE IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY: A WATER SCENE WITH PLEASURE PARTIES.
Oh to embark with that fair-vision'd crew,
And, borne for ever, ever down yon stream,
At Heliconian sources ever new,
Beguile the quenchless thirst of Life's great dream.
How 'mid those fading hills, that to the sky
Uplift their summits, forest-crowned, to take
The kissing sun, that river glides away!
Fold upon fold, it seemeth lovingly
To clasp each rounding headland, and to make
Hill-bosomed mirrors where the shadows play.
And, borne for ever, ever down yon stream,
At Heliconian sources ever new,
Beguile the quenchless thirst of Life's great dream.
How 'mid those fading hills, that to the sky
Uplift their summits, forest-crowned, to take
The kissing sun, that river glides away!
Fold upon fold, it seemeth lovingly
To clasp each rounding headland, and to make
Hill-bosomed mirrors where the shadows play.
To what Hesperian ocean, set with isles
Fairer than those in classic legend old
Named “Fortunate,” 'mid these eternal smiles
Of Nature, does thy course, sweet river, hold?
Prescient of blessed ending, thou dost seem
To dally with thy bliss; to either shore
With moist lip murmuring thy happiness.
And oh, ye airs, that stir this pictured dream
Soft as a lover's breath, fill evermore
Those sails, and waft them beyond sight and guess.
Fairer than those in classic legend old
Named “Fortunate,” 'mid these eternal smiles
Of Nature, does thy course, sweet river, hold?
Prescient of blessed ending, thou dost seem
To dally with thy bliss; to either shore
With moist lip murmuring thy happiness.
And oh, ye airs, that stir this pictured dream
Soft as a lover's breath, fill evermore
Those sails, and waft them beyond sight and guess.
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O still-deluding Fancy, serve me yet
Another turn, for thou hast sway o'er sense,
And mak'st thy spell-bound votary forget
The shackles which forbid his going hence.
Set me aboard that fairy-bark, with Youth,
And Hope, and Love, the rosy cherub-crew,
With soberer Faith, still steering by the stars;
And we will make a long, fair voyage for Truth,
And at the Muse's and her springs renew
Our store, behind us leaving all earth's jars.
Another turn, for thou hast sway o'er sense,
And mak'st thy spell-bound votary forget
The shackles which forbid his going hence.
Set me aboard that fairy-bark, with Youth,
And Hope, and Love, the rosy cherub-crew,
With soberer Faith, still steering by the stars;
And we will make a long, fair voyage for Truth,
And at the Muse's and her springs renew
Our store, behind us leaving all earth's jars.
THE WIDOWER.
I see the cup of happiness I never more may taste,
And pass it to my neighbour in a sorrow and a haste;
For if I held it long in hand, the bitter of my tears
Might dash the full, fresh flavour which to other lips it bears.
And pass it to my neighbour in a sorrow and a haste;
For if I held it long in hand, the bitter of my tears
Might dash the full, fresh flavour which to other lips it bears.
'Tis not of others' happiness that envy wrings my heart,
Nor would I others' joy were less to lessen my own smart;
But I feel that, in the shadow of a grief that may not cease,
I only mar the joy I see without obtaining ease.
Nor would I others' joy were less to lessen my own smart;
But I feel that, in the shadow of a grief that may not cease,
I only mar the joy I see without obtaining ease.
O God, how heavy lies Thy hand through all these dreary years!
Truly our life's a pilgrimage, and this a vale of tears;
How heavy upon heart and brain the pressure ever lies,
When no heart beats back to our heart, no loving look replies.
Truly our life's a pilgrimage, and this a vale of tears;
How heavy upon heart and brain the pressure ever lies,
When no heart beats back to our heart, no loving look replies.
Somewhiles I seem to hear her voice, with its sweet mellow fall,
Like the sound of Sabbath chimes when soft heavenwards they call;
And as the prisoner at his bars pants for a little air,
My heart leaps up half-stifled from the depth of its despair.
Like the sound of Sabbath chimes when soft heavenwards they call;
And as the prisoner at his bars pants for a little air,
My heart leaps up half-stifled from the depth of its despair.
O God, have mercy on me, for the flesh is very weak,
Though our humbled hearts like withies bend, with too much they will break;
Quench not the smoking flax, O God, but blow into a flame
Its little spark, that even thus 't may glorify Thy name.
Though our humbled hearts like withies bend, with too much they will break;
Quench not the smoking flax, O God, but blow into a flame
Its little spark, that even thus 't may glorify Thy name.
Break not the bruisèd reed on which I lean in fear and doubt,
But strengthen it, that so it may, like Faith's staff, still hold out;
O Thou whose yoke is easy, make this burthen also light,
All else on this side fails if we walk not by faith but sight.
But strengthen it, that so it may, like Faith's staff, still hold out;
O Thou whose yoke is easy, make this burthen also light,
All else on this side fails if we walk not by faith but sight.
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THE WIFE: A SONG.
My wife's a winsome wee thing,
She is like an April day,
With sunshine through tears stealing,
Which the soft winds kiss away.
She is like an April day,
With sunshine through tears stealing,
Which the soft winds kiss away.
She's like a rose half open,
Full of sweetness, dew, and bloom,
With the promise and the token
Of more beauty and perfume.
Full of sweetness, dew, and bloom,
With the promise and the token
Of more beauty and perfume.
She's good as fair, and tender,
And so winsome in her ways,
The angels scarce could mend her,
Whatsoe'er she does or says.
And so winsome in her ways,
The angels scarce could mend her,
Whatsoe'er she does or says.
Oh I love her ever dearer,
Day by day I love more true,
To my heart she still grows nearer,
Till Love weld in one the two.
Day by day I love more true,
To my heart she still grows nearer,
Till Love weld in one the two.
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| Stones from The Quarry | |