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28
TO MARGARET.
Not from that vanity of rhyme
Which leads the Muse, in flowery lays,
To lavish an unmeaning praise
On such as haply scorn her verse sublime;
Not from that vain conceit
Which thinks in solemn verse and slow,
With dull monotony of measured feet,
To ease the burthen of another's woe:
Do I intrude
Upon the stillness of thy solitude!
Which leads the Muse, in flowery lays,
To lavish an unmeaning praise
On such as haply scorn her verse sublime;
Not from that vain conceit
Which thinks in solemn verse and slow,
With dull monotony of measured feet,
To ease the burthen of another's woe:
Do I intrude
Upon the stillness of thy solitude!
Far from the giddy throng,
The pensive mind, wrapt in a dream,
Broods o'er the recollected theme
In silent meditation long!
Shadowy thoughts sweep o'er the brain,
Wild Fancy leads the various train:
Some flash like light and flit away,
Some pause awhile upon their way,
Lo! others come—but will they stay?
The many pass—the few remain!
The pensive mind, wrapt in a dream,
Broods o'er the recollected theme
In silent meditation long!
Shadowy thoughts sweep o'er the brain,
Wild Fancy leads the various train:
Some flash like light and flit away,
Some pause awhile upon their way,
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The many pass—the few remain!
Nursed in the silent mind,
The slowly-gathered thought may dwell
Long time, locked in its secret cell,
Because no exit can it find;
For like that flower which, full of grace,
Shrinks from the garish eye of day,
And, when the sun would look into its face,
Folds all its fairness up and turns away:
Yet, when the darker hours serene
Lead up through heaven their radiant Queen,
Expands its bosom to the Moon,
And to the breeze delivers up
The gather'd sweetness of its cup,
Yielding to Night what it withheld from Noon:
The slowly-gathered thought may dwell
Long time, locked in its secret cell,
Because no exit can it find;
For like that flower which, full of grace,
Shrinks from the garish eye of day,
And, when the sun would look into its face,
Folds all its fairness up and turns away:
Yet, when the darker hours serene
Lead up through heaven their radiant Queen,
Expands its bosom to the Moon,
And to the breeze delivers up
The gather'd sweetness of its cup,
Yielding to Night what it withheld from Noon:
So, midst the factious scenes of life,
Scared by the turmoil and the strife,
The pensive mind within itself retires;
And from the crowd's obtrusive gaze
Veiling its lofty thoughts and deep desires,
Nought but the surface of itself displays;
But when at length arrives the peaceful hour,
And, from her home beyond the sky
Descending, heaven-born Poesy
Puts forth about the heart her power;
With ecstacy of pleasure,
The mind, expanding slow, itself unfolds,
And to the Muse (sole mistress of its treasure)
Yields all the gather'd sweetness which it holds.
Scared by the turmoil and the strife,
The pensive mind within itself retires;
And from the crowd's obtrusive gaze
Veiling its lofty thoughts and deep desires,
Nought but the surface of itself displays;
But when at length arrives the peaceful hour,
And, from her home beyond the sky
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Puts forth about the heart her power;
With ecstacy of pleasure,
The mind, expanding slow, itself unfolds,
And to the Muse (sole mistress of its treasure)
Yields all the gather'd sweetness which it holds.
Now comes the sweet, the silent hour!
The Muse puts forth her plastic power,
And sheds her genial influence round:
And from their cavern unconfined,
Wild fancies, passing from my mind,
Shall clothe themselves in sound.
Nor thou, in thine exalted pride,
My lowly verse disdain;
Full well I know, if harshly tried,
My unpremeditated strain
Unto thy critic ear must seem
All too unworthy of its theme;
But such as I can give,—
An offering frail—O scorn not to receive!
The Muse puts forth her plastic power,
And sheds her genial influence round:
And from their cavern unconfined,
Wild fancies, passing from my mind,
Shall clothe themselves in sound.
Nor thou, in thine exalted pride,
My lowly verse disdain;
Full well I know, if harshly tried,
My unpremeditated strain
Unto thy critic ear must seem
All too unworthy of its theme;
But such as I can give,—
An offering frail—O scorn not to receive!
31
I
The year lies bound in wintry chains,The keen frost sparkles in the air,
The snow-sheet whitens all the plains,
The leafless trees are black and bare;
The swallow hath fled o'er the lea,
The songsters make no minstrelsy,
The bitter wind makes hollow moan;
Around each household hearth a throng
Is gathered for the tale or song;
But thou art not the groups among,
Thou sittest in the house alone!
II
The year is up, and full of mirth,The laughing plains are decked with green,
Spring walks upon the happy earth,
The vernal breezes blow serene;
The birds pour song from every tree,
Beneath them hums the murmuring bee,
The air is rife with merriest sound;
All hearts are light—the hour is sweet,
Glad faces in the sunshine meet,
Both young and old leave their retreat,
But thou with Solitude art found!
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III
Thou art not of a sullen mind,For thou art loving, gentle, good;
Thou art no hater of thy kind,
But thou adorest Solitude.
The Seasons change, the fleeting years
Pass on;—in thee no change appears,
Thou art the same from day to day;
Calm, quiet, amorous of rest,
But, with an equal temper blest,
Not bitter to the stranger guest
Who traverses thy lonely way.
IV
All in thy solitary hoursWhat consolation dost thou find?
Large comfort from those heavenly Powers
That brood about the lofty mind;
The spirits of the Great and Good
Attend upon thy solitude,
With Wisdom's philosophic scroll;
And from the bright immortal page
Of bard inspired, and reverend sage,
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Is fed the fountain of thy soul.
V
Then let the silly blockhead prateAbout “the joyous and the free!”
And gravely shake his empty pate,
And mourn the lot of such as thee!
He knoweth not (himself unblest)
The calm contentment of that breast
Where dwells divine Philosophy;
She takes the salt from human tears,
She leaps the gulf of countless years,
And, scorning abject doubts and fears,
Points upwards to her home—the sky!
VI
I will not say that thou art freeFrom thoughts which wring the tender heart:
The reflex of thy memory
May haply cause thy tears to start;
Thou art so full of mystery,
I will not scan thy history,
But let me speak that which I know:
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Thou, having sown thy generous seeds,
Hast reaped in tears a crop of weeds,
Thou hast great comfort in thy woe!
VII
O'er countless wrongs the heart aggrieved,In anguish for a space may brood;
But happy he, who hath received,
And not requited, ill for good!
The shining deeds by Virtue done,
(As through the tempest breaks the Sun)
Their rays through clouds of sorrow dart;
And, whatsoe'er thy griefs, I know
A thousand virtuous acts bestow
(Though breaking through thick mists of woe)
Their heavenly sunshine on thy heart.
VIII
But here I cease my minstrelsy,Too fearful lest I miss my end;
And, tender heart, in wounding thee,
Against my better thought offend.
Thou hast no need of words from me,
For thine own soul's divinity
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And, passing through thy upturned eyes
Into the regions of the skies,
Thy spirit can sublimely rise
Beyond the thoughts of earthly woe!
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