 | The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt |  |
III. VOL III
FOLIAGE
Still climbing trees in the Hesperides.
—Shakspeare.
—Shakspeare.
DEDICATION.
TO Sir JOHN EDWD. SWINBURNE, Bart.
i
GREENWOODS, OR ORIGINAL POEMS.
I doe not know what their sharpe sight may see
Of late, but I should thinke it still might be,
As 'twas, a happy age, when on the plaines
The woodmen met the damsells.
Ben Jonson.
Of late, but I should thinke it still might be,
As 'twas, a happy age, when on the plaines
The woodmen met the damsells.
Ben Jonson.
------ Bitter shame hath spoiled the sweet world's taste.
Shakspeare.
Shakspeare.
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither.
Here shall he see
No enemy.
Shakspeare.
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither.
Here shall he see
No enemy.
Shakspeare.
Quel ch'il ciel da se mostra, e la Natura.
Lorenzo de' Medici.
Lorenzo de' Medici.
Questi fuor di città luoghi, ov'adorna
Letitia sta, non mai lascianvi al core
Spunti la vana Ambition le corna;
Ne pur un breve dì, con lei soggiorna
L'Avaritia, cagion quì d'ogni errore.
Lodovico Paterno.
Letitia sta, non mai lascianvi al core
Spunti la vana Ambition le corna;
Ne pur un breve dì, con lei soggiorna
L'Avaritia, cagion quì d'ogni errore.
Lodovico Paterno.
iii
THE NYMPHS.
IN TWO PARTS.
v
Dique petitorum, dixit, salvete locorum,
Tuque novos cœlo terra datura Deos;
Fluminaque, et Fontes, quibus utitur hospita tellus,
Et Nemorum Divæ, Naïadumque chori.
Ovid.
Tuque novos cœlo terra datura Deos;
Fluminaque, et Fontes, quibus utitur hospita tellus,
Et Nemorum Divæ, Naïadumque chori.
Ovid.
I. PART I.
Spirit, who waftest me where'er I will,
And seest, with finer eyes, what infants see,
Feeling all lovely truth
With the wise health of everlasting youth,
Beyond the motes of Bigotry's sick eye,
Or the blind feel of false Philosophy,—
O Spirit, O Muse of mine,
Frank, and quick-dimpled to all social glee,
And yet most sylvan of the earnest Nine,
Who on the fountain-shedding hill,
Leaning about among the clumpy bays
Look at the clear Apollo while he plays;—
Take me, now, now, and let me stand
On some such lovely land,
Where I may feel me, as I please,
In dells among the trees,
Or on some outward slope, with ruffling hair,
Be level with the air;
For a new smiling sense has shot down through me,
And from the clouds, like stars, bright eyes are beckoning to me.
And seest, with finer eyes, what infants see,
Feeling all lovely truth
With the wise health of everlasting youth,
Beyond the motes of Bigotry's sick eye,
Or the blind feel of false Philosophy,—
vi
Frank, and quick-dimpled to all social glee,
And yet most sylvan of the earnest Nine,
Who on the fountain-shedding hill,
Leaning about among the clumpy bays
Look at the clear Apollo while he plays;—
Take me, now, now, and let me stand
On some such lovely land,
Where I may feel me, as I please,
In dells among the trees,
Or on some outward slope, with ruffling hair,
Be level with the air;
For a new smiling sense has shot down through me,
And from the clouds, like stars, bright eyes are beckoning to me.
Arrived! Arrived! O shady spots of ground,
What calmness ye strike round,
Hushing the soul as if with hand on lips!
And are ye seen then but of animal eyes,
Prone, or side-looking with a blank surmise?
And do ye hear no finer-fancied words
Than the sweet whistle of the repeating birds?
And are ye haunted of no lovelier trips
Than the poor stag's, who startled, as he sips,
Perks up with timid mouth, from which the water drips?
What calmness ye strike round,
vii
And are ye seen then but of animal eyes,
Prone, or side-looking with a blank surmise?
And do ye hear no finer-fancied words
Than the sweet whistle of the repeating birds?
And are ye haunted of no lovelier trips
Than the poor stag's, who startled, as he sips,
Perks up with timid mouth, from which the water drips?
O ye whom ancient wisdom, in it's graces,
Made guardians of these places;
Etherial human shapes, perhaps the souls
Of poets and poetic women, staying
To have their fill of pipes and leafy playing,
Ere they drink heavenly change from nectar-bowls;
You finer people of the earth,
Nymphs of all names, and woodland Geniuses,
I see you, here and there, among the trees,
Shrouded in noon-day respite of your mirth:
This hum in air, which the still ear perceives,
Is your unquarrelling voice among the leaves;
And now I find, whose are the laughs and stirrings
That make the delicate birds dart so in whisks and whirrings.
Made guardians of these places;
Etherial human shapes, perhaps the souls
Of poets and poetic women, staying
To have their fill of pipes and leafy playing,
Ere they drink heavenly change from nectar-bowls;
You finer people of the earth,
Nymphs of all names, and woodland Geniuses,
viii
Shrouded in noon-day respite of your mirth:
This hum in air, which the still ear perceives,
Is your unquarrelling voice among the leaves;
And now I find, whose are the laughs and stirrings
That make the delicate birds dart so in whisks and whirrings.
There are the fair-limbed Nymphs o' the Woods, (Look ye,
Whom kindred Fancies have brought after me!)
There are the fair-limbed Dryads, who love nooks
In the dry depth of oaks;
Or feel the air in groves, or pull green dresses
For their glad heads in rooty wildernesses;
Or on the golden turf, o'er the dark lines,
Which the sun makes when he declines,
Bend their white dances in and out the pines.
They tend all forests old, and meeting trees,
Wood, copse, or queach, or slippery dell o'erhung
With firs, and with their dusty apples strewn;
And let the visiting beams the boughs among,
And bless the trunks from clingings of disease
And wasted hearts that to the night-wind groan.
They screen the cuckoo when he sings; and teach
The mother blackbird how to lead astray
The unformed spirit of the foolish boy
From thick to thick, from hedge to layery beech,
When he would steal the huddled nest away
Of yellow bills, up-gaping for their food,
And spoil the song of the free solitude.
And they, at sound of the brute, insolent horn,
Hurry the deer out of the dewy morn;
And take into their sudden laps with joy
The startled hare that did but peep abroad;
And from the trodden road
Help the bruised hedgehog. But when tired, they love
The back-turned pheasant, hanging from the tree
His sunny drapery;
And handy squirrel, nibbling hastily;
And fragrant-living bee,
So happy, that he will not move, not he,
Without a song; and hidden, amorous dove,
With his deep breath; and bird of wakeful glow,
Whose louder song is like the voice of life,
Triumphant o'er death's image; but whose deep,
Low, lovelier note is like a gentle wife,
A poor, a pensive, yet a happy one,
Stealing, when day-light's common tasks are done,
An hour for mother's work; and singing low,
While her tired husband and her children sleep.
Whom kindred Fancies have brought after me!)
There are the fair-limbed Dryads, who love nooks
In the dry depth of oaks;
Or feel the air in groves, or pull green dresses
For their glad heads in rooty wildernesses;
Or on the golden turf, o'er the dark lines,
Which the sun makes when he declines,
Bend their white dances in and out the pines.
ix
Wood, copse, or queach, or slippery dell o'erhung
With firs, and with their dusty apples strewn;
And let the visiting beams the boughs among,
And bless the trunks from clingings of disease
And wasted hearts that to the night-wind groan.
They screen the cuckoo when he sings; and teach
The mother blackbird how to lead astray
The unformed spirit of the foolish boy
From thick to thick, from hedge to layery beech,
When he would steal the huddled nest away
Of yellow bills, up-gaping for their food,
And spoil the song of the free solitude.
And they, at sound of the brute, insolent horn,
Hurry the deer out of the dewy morn;
And take into their sudden laps with joy
The startled hare that did but peep abroad;
And from the trodden road
x
The back-turned pheasant, hanging from the tree
His sunny drapery;
And handy squirrel, nibbling hastily;
And fragrant-living bee,
So happy, that he will not move, not he,
Without a song; and hidden, amorous dove,
With his deep breath; and bird of wakeful glow,
Whose louder song is like the voice of life,
Triumphant o'er death's image; but whose deep,
Low, lovelier note is like a gentle wife,
A poor, a pensive, yet a happy one,
Stealing, when day-light's common tasks are done,
An hour for mother's work; and singing low,
While her tired husband and her children sleep.
Then, there the Hamadryads are, their sisters,
Simpler crown twisters,
Who of one favourite tree, in some sweet spot,
Make home and leave it not,
Until the ignorant axe downs it's fine head,
And then the nymph is fled.
Simpler crown twisters,
xi
Make home and leave it not,
Until the ignorant axe downs it's fine head,
And then the nymph is fled.
And there are the Napeads,—names till now
Scarce known, I know not how,
To the rich bosom of my mother soil;
For they in meads and little corner bowers
Of hedge-row fields take care of the fresh flowers,
Keeping their innocent wealth from early spoil
Of beasts and blasts, and other blind mishaps,
For little children's laps,
And for the poet when he goes to hide him
From the town's sight, and for the lass beside him.
'Tis they who nurse in the moist dells
The mild primrose, and ring the sky-blue bells
To the bee's ear in a grass-gliding breeze;
Tis they encourage, and from tearful wet
Dry up the grateful-breathing violet;
And they that set at ease
The sheath-enfolded fans of rosy bushes,
Ready against their blushes;
And for the Water-Nymphs', their cousins', sake,
Lay out the lily on the lake;
And teach the gentle cattle, when they sup,
To leave the daisy and the buttercup;
That when the bright-eyed Sun
Looks out in May to see what has been done,
The laughing meadows may be bold,
And shew their bosoms to him, white and gold.
Scarce known, I know not how,
To the rich bosom of my mother soil;
For they in meads and little corner bowers
Of hedge-row fields take care of the fresh flowers,
Keeping their innocent wealth from early spoil
Of beasts and blasts, and other blind mishaps,
For little children's laps,
And for the poet when he goes to hide him
From the town's sight, and for the lass beside him.
'Tis they who nurse in the moist dells
The mild primrose, and ring the sky-blue bells
To the bee's ear in a grass-gliding breeze;
Tis they encourage, and from tearful wet
xii
And they that set at ease
The sheath-enfolded fans of rosy bushes,
Ready against their blushes;
And for the Water-Nymphs', their cousins', sake,
Lay out the lily on the lake;
And teach the gentle cattle, when they sup,
To leave the daisy and the buttercup;
That when the bright-eyed Sun
Looks out in May to see what has been done,
The laughing meadows may be bold,
And shew their bosoms to him, white and gold.
Too far for me to see, the Limniad takes
Her pleasure in the lakes;
She, that with hills about her, loves to be
At once at home and at her liberty.
Far off I fancy, 'twixt their bowery isles,
Her and her sisters playing their sweet wiles
About a boat, which one of them sits in
And will not let them win;
Till comes a sudden gust, and parts them with new smiles.
Her pleasure in the lakes;
She, that with hills about her, loves to be
At once at home and at her liberty.
Far off I fancy, 'twixt their bowery isles,
Her and her sisters playing their sweet wiles
xiii
And will not let them win;
Till comes a sudden gust, and parts them with new smiles.
Nor can I see the lightsome-footed maids,
The Oreads, that frequent the lifted mountains;
Though by the Muses' help I still might shew,
How some go leaping by the laughing fountains
Down the touched crags; and some o'er deep ravines
Sit listening to the talking streams below;
And some in sloping glades
Of pines lie musing, or betwixt high screens
Of fern and flowers; or, like pavilioned queens
Covered from heat of the blue silent skies,
Sit perfumed underneath the cedarn shades,
Feeding the gazel with his lamping eyes.
Elsewhere, from ridge to ridge
They lay the tempest-levelled tree for bridge;
And help down the poor goat
That stands close-footed with his shivering coat
On a lone point; and echo the sweet calls
The herdsman makes, when singing to their stalls
The loitering cows with his home-loving strain,
That sighs, and carols, and then sighs again,—
A song the sweeter for a taste of pain:
And these are the kind terrors, that with sounds
Of groans about the air, or earthly quaking,
Or great gigantic shadows, that stand making
Gestures upon the fog, warn the low grounds
Against the dreadful snow-rocks, that at last
Loos'd by the voiceful blast,
Burst down from their heaped ices; and come raking
O'er the crushed trees and dwellings nestling under,
Into the dash'd-up stream, with loads of misty thunder.
And O ye sweet and coy Ephydriads, you,
Why are your names so new
To islands which your liquid lips serene
Keep ever green?
There, there the Ephydriads haunt;—there, where a gap
Betwixt a heap of tree-tops, hollow and dun,
Shews where the waters run,
And whence the fountain's tongue begins to lap.
There lie they, lulled by little whiffling tones
Of rills among the stones,
Or by the rounder murmur, glib and flush,
Of the escaping gush,
That laughs and tumbles, like a conscious thing,
For joy of all its future travelling.
The lizard circuits them; and his grave will
The frog, with reckoning leap, enjoys apart,
Till now and then the woodcock frights his heart
With brushing down to dip his dainty bill.
Close by, from bank to bank,
A little bridge there is, a one-railed plank;
And all is woody, mossy, and watery.
Sometimes a poet from that bridge might see
A Nymph reach downwards, holding by a bough
With tresses o'er her brow,
And with her white back stoop
The pushing stream to scoop
In a green gourd cup, shining sunnily.
The Oreads, that frequent the lifted mountains;
Though by the Muses' help I still might shew,
How some go leaping by the laughing fountains
Down the touched crags; and some o'er deep ravines
Sit listening to the talking streams below;
And some in sloping glades
Of pines lie musing, or betwixt high screens
Of fern and flowers; or, like pavilioned queens
Covered from heat of the blue silent skies,
Sit perfumed underneath the cedarn shades,
Feeding the gazel with his lamping eyes.
Elsewhere, from ridge to ridge
They lay the tempest-levelled tree for bridge;
xiv
That stands close-footed with his shivering coat
On a lone point; and echo the sweet calls
The herdsman makes, when singing to their stalls
The loitering cows with his home-loving strain,
That sighs, and carols, and then sighs again,—
A song the sweeter for a taste of pain:
And these are the kind terrors, that with sounds
Of groans about the air, or earthly quaking,
Or great gigantic shadows, that stand making
Gestures upon the fog, warn the low grounds
Against the dreadful snow-rocks, that at last
Loos'd by the voiceful blast,
Burst down from their heaped ices; and come raking
O'er the crushed trees and dwellings nestling under,
Into the dash'd-up stream, with loads of misty thunder.
xv
Why are your names so new
To islands which your liquid lips serene
Keep ever green?
There, there the Ephydriads haunt;—there, where a gap
Betwixt a heap of tree-tops, hollow and dun,
Shews where the waters run,
And whence the fountain's tongue begins to lap.
There lie they, lulled by little whiffling tones
Of rills among the stones,
Or by the rounder murmur, glib and flush,
Of the escaping gush,
That laughs and tumbles, like a conscious thing,
For joy of all its future travelling.
The lizard circuits them; and his grave will
The frog, with reckoning leap, enjoys apart,
Till now and then the woodcock frights his heart
xvi
Close by, from bank to bank,
A little bridge there is, a one-railed plank;
And all is woody, mossy, and watery.
Sometimes a poet from that bridge might see
A Nymph reach downwards, holding by a bough
With tresses o'er her brow,
And with her white back stoop
The pushing stream to scoop
In a green gourd cup, shining sunnily.
The rills, a little farther onward, leave
The shady hollows; and united, heave
A river forth, that looking out as 'twere
For his fine way, turns, and with widening fair,
Lapses, full-bedded, between lawny brims.
Thence, from the dazzling of the noon, he swims
With darker sides into the woods, and there
Washes the Nymphs, that in sun-sprinkled ease
Haunt the white liquid spots, 'twixt shade-reflecting trees.
The shady hollows; and united, heave
A river forth, that looking out as 'twere
For his fine way, turns, and with widening fair,
Lapses, full-bedded, between lawny brims.
Thence, from the dazzling of the noon, he swims
With darker sides into the woods, and there
xvii
Haunt the white liquid spots, 'twixt shade-reflecting trees.
Those are the Naiads, who keep neat
The banks from sedge, and from the dull-dropp'd feet
Of cattle that break down the fibrous mould.
They snap the selfish nets, that, overbold,
Cross the whole river, and might trip the keels
Of summer boats. Their's are the kind appeals
And unseen beckoning, holding baits of grass,
That win the sheep into their washing-place;
And they too, in their gentleness, uphold
The sighing nostrils of the stag, when he
Takes to the wrapping water wretchedly;
And tow'rds the amorous noon, when some young poet
Comes there to bathe, and yet half thrills to do it,
Hovering with his ripe locks, and fair light limbs,
And trying with cold foot the banks and brims,
They win him to the water with sweet fancies,
Till in the girdling stream he pants and dances.
There's a whole bevy there in that recess
Rounding from the main stream: some sleep, some dress
Each other's locks, some swim about, some sit
Parting their own moist hair, or fingering it
Lightly, to let the curling air go through:
Some make them green and lilied coronets new;
And one there from her tender instep shakes
The matted sedge; a second, as she swims,
Looks round with pride upon her easy limbs;
A third, just holding by a bough, lets float
Her slumberous body like an anchored boat,
Looking with level eye at the glib flakes
And the strange crooked quivering which it makes,
Seen through the weltering of the watery glass:
Others (which make the rest look at them) pass,
Nodding and smiling, in the middle tide,
And luring swans on, which like fondled things
Eye poutingly their hands; yet following, glide
With unsuperfluous lift of their proud wings.
The banks from sedge, and from the dull-dropp'd feet
Of cattle that break down the fibrous mould.
They snap the selfish nets, that, overbold,
Cross the whole river, and might trip the keels
Of summer boats. Their's are the kind appeals
And unseen beckoning, holding baits of grass,
That win the sheep into their washing-place;
And they too, in their gentleness, uphold
The sighing nostrils of the stag, when he
Takes to the wrapping water wretchedly;
And tow'rds the amorous noon, when some young poet
Comes there to bathe, and yet half thrills to do it,
xviii
And trying with cold foot the banks and brims,
They win him to the water with sweet fancies,
Till in the girdling stream he pants and dances.
There's a whole bevy there in that recess
Rounding from the main stream: some sleep, some dress
Each other's locks, some swim about, some sit
Parting their own moist hair, or fingering it
Lightly, to let the curling air go through:
Some make them green and lilied coronets new;
And one there from her tender instep shakes
The matted sedge; a second, as she swims,
Looks round with pride upon her easy limbs;
A third, just holding by a bough, lets float
Her slumberous body like an anchored boat,
Looking with level eye at the glib flakes
And the strange crooked quivering which it makes,
xix
Others (which make the rest look at them) pass,
Nodding and smiling, in the middle tide,
And luring swans on, which like fondled things
Eye poutingly their hands; yet following, glide
With unsuperfluous lift of their proud wings.
And far beyond upon another side,
Remembrance almost helps me to discern
Their stouter sisters, the great Nereids, turn
And toss upon the ocean's lifting billows,
Making them banks and pillows,
Upon whose springiness they lean and ride;
Some with an inward back; some upward-eyed,
Feeling the sky; and some with sidelong hips,
O'er which the surface of the water slips.
Sometimes, when morning runs along the sea
In a gold path, they cross it glancingly;
Sometimes they may be seen, going along
By the red sun-set in a silver throng;
And sometimes, when the black clouds send before
Their windy voices, they come past the shore,
Stooping in haste, and driving through the foam
The hunch-backed dolphins home
But most they love sleek seas and springy sands
Under green rocks, on days of golden weather;
And there, in their free beauty, they'll take hands
And dance about a boat, which to the shore
They helped the night before;
Or dress their locks with myrtles or pearl bands;
Or sit and make them fans of many a feather
Which the gull sheds; or colour, like their own,
The parted lips of shells that are up thrown,
With which, and coral, and the glib sea flowers,
They furnish their faint bowers.
I have not told your loves; I have not told
Your perfect loves, ye Nymphs! Those are among
The perfect virtues only to be sung
By your own glorious lovers, who have passed
Death, and all drear mistake, and sit at last
In the clear thrill of their hoped age of gold.
Remembrance almost helps me to discern
Their stouter sisters, the great Nereids, turn
And toss upon the ocean's lifting billows,
Making them banks and pillows,
Upon whose springiness they lean and ride;
Some with an inward back; some upward-eyed,
Feeling the sky; and some with sidelong hips,
O'er which the surface of the water slips.
Sometimes, when morning runs along the sea
In a gold path, they cross it glancingly;
xx
By the red sun-set in a silver throng;
And sometimes, when the black clouds send before
Their windy voices, they come past the shore,
Stooping in haste, and driving through the foam
The hunch-backed dolphins home
But most they love sleek seas and springy sands
Under green rocks, on days of golden weather;
And there, in their free beauty, they'll take hands
And dance about a boat, which to the shore
They helped the night before;
Or dress their locks with myrtles or pearl bands;
Or sit and make them fans of many a feather
Which the gull sheds; or colour, like their own,
The parted lips of shells that are up thrown,
With which, and coral, and the glib sea flowers,
They furnish their faint bowers.
xxi
Your perfect loves, ye Nymphs! Those are among
The perfect virtues only to be sung
By your own glorious lovers, who have passed
Death, and all drear mistake, and sit at last
In the clear thrill of their hoped age of gold.
END OF PART THE FIRST.
xxiii
II. PART II.
As I thought thus, a neighbouring wood of elms
Was moved, and stirred and whispered loftily,
Much like a pomp of warriors with plumed helms,
When some great general whom they long to see
Is heard behind them, coming in swift dignity;
And then there fled by me a rush of air
That stirred up all the other foliage there,
Filling the solitude with panting tongues;
At which the pines woke up into their songs,
Shaking their choral locks; and on the place
There fell a shade as on an awe-struck face;
And overhead, like a portentous rim
Pulled over the wide world, to make all dim,
A grave gigantic cloud came hugely uplifting him.
Was moved, and stirred and whispered loftily,
Much like a pomp of warriors with plumed helms,
When some great general whom they long to see
Is heard behind them, coming in swift dignity;
And then there fled by me a rush of air
That stirred up all the other foliage there,
Filling the solitude with panting tongues;
At which the pines woke up into their songs,
Shaking their choral locks; and on the place
xxiv
And overhead, like a portentous rim
Pulled over the wide world, to make all dim,
A grave gigantic cloud came hugely uplifting him.
It passed with it's slow shadow; and I saw
Where it went down beyond me on a plain,
Sloping it's dusky ladders of thick rain;
And on the mist it made, and blinding awe,
The sun, re-issuing in the opposite sky,
Struck the all-coloured arch of his great eye:
And up, the rest o' the country laughed again:
The leaves were amber; the sunshine
Scored on the ground it's conquering line;
And the quick birds, for scorn of the great cloud,
Like children after fear, were merry and loud.
Where it went down beyond me on a plain,
Sloping it's dusky ladders of thick rain;
And on the mist it made, and blinding awe,
The sun, re-issuing in the opposite sky,
Struck the all-coloured arch of his great eye:
And up, the rest o' the country laughed again:
The leaves were amber; the sunshine
Scored on the ground it's conquering line;
And the quick birds, for scorn of the great cloud,
Like children after fear, were merry and loud.
I turned me tow'rd the west, and felt the air
Thinner and soft, yet nimble on my face;
The sun was shadowed by the elms; and made
A little golden ferment in one place,
A strawy fire;—as when within the shade
He used to get of old, and harbour him
Beside a fountain's brim
To wait for some sweet-eyed and shapely maid,
Who often looking round, came winding there,
Led by the lustre of his beautiful hair.
Thinner and soft, yet nimble on my face;
xxv
A little golden ferment in one place,
A strawy fire;—as when within the shade
He used to get of old, and harbour him
Beside a fountain's brim
To wait for some sweet-eyed and shapely maid,
Who often looking round, came winding there,
Led by the lustre of his beautiful hair.
And lo, there issued from beside the trees,
Through the blue air, a most delicious sight;
A troop of clouds, rich, separate, three parts white,
As beautiful, as pigeons that one sees
Round a glad homestead reeling at their ease,
But large, and slowly; and what made the sight
Such as I say, was not that piled white,
Nor their more rosy backs, nor forward press
Like sails, nor yet their surfy massiveness
Light in it's plenitude, like racks of snow
Sent strangely from some Alp to cool the glow
Of a long summer-time,—but with most fit,
And finishing, soul-satisfying show,
That every cloud had a bright Nymph to it,—
Each for a guide; and so those bodies fair
Obeyed a nobler impulse than the air,
A bright-eyed, visible thought,—beneath whose sway
They went, straight stemming on their far-seen way.
Through the blue air, a most delicious sight;
A troop of clouds, rich, separate, three parts white,
As beautiful, as pigeons that one sees
Round a glad homestead reeling at their ease,
But large, and slowly; and what made the sight
Such as I say, was not that piled white,
Nor their more rosy backs, nor forward press
Like sails, nor yet their surfy massiveness
Light in it's plenitude, like racks of snow
xxvi
Of a long summer-time,—but with most fit,
And finishing, soul-satisfying show,
That every cloud had a bright Nymph to it,—
Each for a guide; and so those bodies fair
Obeyed a nobler impulse than the air,
A bright-eyed, visible thought,—beneath whose sway
They went, straight stemming on their far-seen way.
Most exquisite it was indeed to see
How those blithe damsels guided variously,
Before, behind, beside. Some forward stood
As in well-managed chariots, or pursued
Their trusting way as in self-moving ones;
And some sat up, or as in tilted chair
With silver back seemed slumbering through the air,
Or leaned their cheek against a pillowy place
As if upon their smiling, sleepy face
They felt the air, or heard aërial tunes.
Some were like maids who sit to wash their feet
On rounded banks beside a rivulet;
Some sat in shade beneath a curving jut
As at a small hill's foot;
And some behind upon a sunny mound
With twinkling eyes. Another only shewed
On the far side a foot and leg, that glowed
Under the cloud; a sweeping back another,
Turning her from us like a suckling mother;
She next, a side, lifting her arms to tie
Her locks into a flowing knot; and she
That followed her, a smooth down-arching thigh
Tapering with tremulous mass internally.
Others lay partly sunk, as if in bed,
Shewing a white raised bosom and dark head,
And dropping out an arm. Some who appeared
To railly these fair idlers, stoutly steered
Their clouds and passed them; some kept bustling round,
Moving their shifting racks, as men in boats
To summer winds alter the sail's white coats;
And some pushed gently at the back, and went
On with the launching influence which they lent;
And some drew sideways so. Now you might see
One with grave settled look, as with sweet vaunt,
Riding in front with an upgathered knee,
Like the dusk Indian on his elephant:
Another on a middle heap was raised
As on a camel, who for days has gazed
Along the desart's tawny atmosphere
With sheep-like mouth and patient step sincere,
Hoarding at heart his little watery treasure;
And a third rode upon a rounded rack
As on the eye-retorting dolphin's back,
That let Arion ride him for the pleasure
Of his touched harp. The rest had got at play
Together, passing to each other's cloud,
Or drove them in a crowd,
Till, it would seem, some sweet reminding ray
Came sparkling 'twixt their talk, and then they broke away.
How those blithe damsels guided variously,
Before, behind, beside. Some forward stood
As in well-managed chariots, or pursued
Their trusting way as in self-moving ones;
And some sat up, or as in tilted chair
With silver back seemed slumbering through the air,
Or leaned their cheek against a pillowy place
xxvii
They felt the air, or heard aërial tunes.
Some were like maids who sit to wash their feet
On rounded banks beside a rivulet;
Some sat in shade beneath a curving jut
As at a small hill's foot;
And some behind upon a sunny mound
With twinkling eyes. Another only shewed
On the far side a foot and leg, that glowed
Under the cloud; a sweeping back another,
Turning her from us like a suckling mother;
She next, a side, lifting her arms to tie
Her locks into a flowing knot; and she
That followed her, a smooth down-arching thigh
Tapering with tremulous mass internally.
Others lay partly sunk, as if in bed,
Shewing a white raised bosom and dark head,
And dropping out an arm. Some who appeared
To railly these fair idlers, stoutly steered
xxviii
Moving their shifting racks, as men in boats
To summer winds alter the sail's white coats;
And some pushed gently at the back, and went
On with the launching influence which they lent;
And some drew sideways so. Now you might see
One with grave settled look, as with sweet vaunt,
Riding in front with an upgathered knee,
Like the dusk Indian on his elephant:
Another on a middle heap was raised
As on a camel, who for days has gazed
Along the desart's tawny atmosphere
With sheep-like mouth and patient step sincere,
Hoarding at heart his little watery treasure;
And a third rode upon a rounded rack
As on the eye-retorting dolphin's back,
That let Arion ride him for the pleasure
Of his touched harp. The rest had got at play
xxix
Or drove them in a crowd,
Till, it would seem, some sweet reminding ray
Came sparkling 'twixt their talk, and then they broke away.
And now there was another wond'rous thing;
For this fair troop, instead of holding on
Till they were far and gone,
Began descending in a growing ring
Tow'rds that green standing place of mine, the hill;
And then I found a lovelier wonder still;
For as they stooped them near,
Lo, I could hear
How the smooth silver clouds, lapsing with care,
Make a bland music to the fawning air,
Filling with such a roundly-slipping tune
The hollow of the great attentive noon,
That the tall sky seemed touched; and all the trees
Thrilled with the coming harmonies;
And the fair waters looked as if they lay
Their cheek against the sound, and so went kissed away.
For this fair troop, instead of holding on
Till they were far and gone,
Began descending in a growing ring
Tow'rds that green standing place of mine, the hill;
And then I found a lovelier wonder still;
For as they stooped them near,
Lo, I could hear
How the smooth silver clouds, lapsing with care,
Make a bland music to the fawning air,
Filling with such a roundly-slipping tune
The hollow of the great attentive noon,
xxx
Thrilled with the coming harmonies;
And the fair waters looked as if they lay
Their cheek against the sound, and so went kissed away.
And more remains; (such things are in Heaven's ears
Besides the grander spheres):
For as the racks came sleeking on, one fell
With rain into a dell,
Breaking with scatter of a thousand notes
Like twangling pearl; and I perceived how she
Who loosed it with her hands, pressed kneadingly,
As though it had been wine in grapy coats;
And out it gushed, with that enchanting sound,
In a wet shadow to the ground.
But they came on; and I must tell you now
How they looked at me smilingly; and how
They circled the green mount in a white ring,
Making a crown to it, like large, unspread,
White, dabbled roses upon Flora's head:
For so they did; and thus did they all sing:—
Besides the grander spheres):
For as the racks came sleeking on, one fell
With rain into a dell,
Breaking with scatter of a thousand notes
Like twangling pearl; and I perceived how she
Who loosed it with her hands, pressed kneadingly,
As though it had been wine in grapy coats;
And out it gushed, with that enchanting sound,
In a wet shadow to the ground.
xxxi
How they looked at me smilingly; and how
They circled the green mount in a white ring,
Making a crown to it, like large, unspread,
White, dabbled roses upon Flora's head:
For so they did; and thus did they all sing:—
Ho! We are the Nepheliads, we,
Who bring the clouds from the great sea,
And have within our happy care
All the love 'twixt earth and air.
We it is with soft new showers
Wash the eyes of the young flowers;
And with many a silvery comer
In the sky, delight the summer;
And our bubbling freshness bringing,
Set the thirsty brooks a singing,
Till they run for joy, and turn
Every mill-wheel down the burn.
Who bring the clouds from the great sea,
And have within our happy care
All the love 'twixt earth and air.
We it is with soft new showers
Wash the eyes of the young flowers;
And with many a silvery comer
In the sky, delight the summer;
And our bubbling freshness bringing,
Set the thirsty brooks a singing,
xxxii
Every mill-wheel down the burn.
We too tread the mightier mass
Of clouds that take whole days to pass;
And are sometimes forced to pick
With fiery arrows through the thick,
Till the cracking racks asunder
Roll, and awe the world with thunder.
Then the seeming freshness shoots,
And clears the air, and cleans the fruits,
And runs, heart-cooling, to the roots.
Of clouds that take whole days to pass;
And are sometimes forced to pick
With fiery arrows through the thick,
Till the cracking racks asunder
Roll, and awe the world with thunder.
Then the seeming freshness shoots,
And clears the air, and cleans the fruits,
And runs, heart-cooling, to the roots.
Sometimes on the shelves of mountains
Do we rest our burly fountains;
Sometimes for a rainbow run
Right before the laughing sun;
And if we slip down to earth
With the rain for change of mirth,
Worn-out winds and pattering leaves
Are what we love; and dripping eaves
Dotting on the sleepy stone;
And a leafy nook and lone,
Where the bark on the small treen
Is with moisture always green;
And lime-tree bowers, and grass-edged lanes
With little ponds that hold the rains,
Where the nice-eyed wagtails glance,
Sipping 'twixt their jerking dance.
Do we rest our burly fountains;
Sometimes for a rainbow run
Right before the laughing sun;
xxxiii
With the rain for change of mirth,
Worn-out winds and pattering leaves
Are what we love; and dripping eaves
Dotting on the sleepy stone;
And a leafy nook and lone,
Where the bark on the small treen
Is with moisture always green;
And lime-tree bowers, and grass-edged lanes
With little ponds that hold the rains,
Where the nice-eyed wagtails glance,
Sipping 'twixt their jerking dance.
But at night in heaven we sleep,
Halting our scattered clouds like sheep;
Or are passed with sovereign eye
By the Moon, who rideth by
With her sidelong face serene,
Like a most benignant queen.
Halting our scattered clouds like sheep;
Or are passed with sovereign eye
By the Moon, who rideth by
xxxiv
Like a most benignant queen.
Then on the lofty-striking state
Of the up-coming Sun we wait,
Shewing to the world yet dim
The colours that we catch from him,
Ere he reaches to his height,
And lets abroad his leaping light.
And then we part on either hand
For the day; but take our stand
Again with him at eventide,
Where we stretch on either side
Our lengthened heaps, and split in shows
Of sharp-drawn isles in sable rows,
With some more faint, or flowery red;
And some, like bands of hair that spread
Across a brow with parted tress
In a crisp auburn waviness;
And mellow fervency between
Of fiery orange, gold, and green,
And inward pulpiness intense,
As if great Nature's affluence
Had opened it's rich heart, and there
The ripeness of the world was bare.
And lastly, after that blest pause,
The Sun, down stepping, half withdraws
His head from heaven; and then do we
Break the mute pomp, and ardently
Sing him in glory to the sea.
Of the up-coming Sun we wait,
Shewing to the world yet dim
The colours that we catch from him,
Ere he reaches to his height,
And lets abroad his leaping light.
And then we part on either hand
For the day; but take our stand
Again with him at eventide,
Where we stretch on either side
Our lengthened heaps, and split in shows
Of sharp-drawn isles in sable rows,
With some more faint, or flowery red;
And some, like bands of hair that spread
xxxv
In a crisp auburn waviness;
And mellow fervency between
Of fiery orange, gold, and green,
And inward pulpiness intense,
As if great Nature's affluence
Had opened it's rich heart, and there
The ripeness of the world was bare.
And lastly, after that blest pause,
The Sun, down stepping, half withdraws
His head from heaven; and then do we
Break the mute pomp, and ardently
Sing him in glory to the sea.
Thus chaunted to me that fair blooming throng
Leaning about the hill on silvery beds,
And said to me at last,—Go tell our song
To such as hang their pale home-withered heads
For winter-time, and do our kindness wrong:
And say, that they might bear,
The more they know us, the moist weight of air,
Which stamps upon their fields so fine a green,
So glad, so lasting, yet so little seen.
Bethink thee oftener too. Yet add, for all
The obstinate love and natural,
Which thou hast borne us in despite
Of all thy sunny dreams of southern places,
That thou hast been the first that has had sight
Of what is on the clouds, and the kind faces
Basking on t'other side: and so we take
Our journey up through heaven; and for the sake
Of all thy patient looks into the skies,
We circuit thee, and kiss thy feverish eyes.
Leaning about the hill on silvery beds,
And said to me at last,—Go tell our song
To such as hang their pale home-withered heads
xxxvi
And say, that they might bear,
The more they know us, the moist weight of air,
Which stamps upon their fields so fine a green,
So glad, so lasting, yet so little seen.
Bethink thee oftener too. Yet add, for all
The obstinate love and natural,
Which thou hast borne us in despite
Of all thy sunny dreams of southern places,
That thou hast been the first that has had sight
Of what is on the clouds, and the kind faces
Basking on t'other side: and so we take
Our journey up through heaven; and for the sake
Of all thy patient looks into the skies,
We circuit thee, and kiss thy feverish eyes.
So saying, the white clouds a little stirred,
Like palfreys after rest; and every cloud
Passed close to me; and every lady bowed
A little from it's side without a word;
And swept my lids with breathless lips serene,
As Alan's mouth was stooped to by a queen.
Like palfreys after rest; and every cloud
xxxvii
A little from it's side without a word;
And swept my lids with breathless lips serene,
As Alan's mouth was stooped to by a queen.
xxxix
MISCELLANIES.
FANCY'S PARTY.
A FRAGMENT.
------Juvat ire per ipsum
Aera, et immenso spatiantem vivere cœlo.
Manilius.
Aera, et immenso spatiantem vivere cœlo.
Manilius.
We take our pleasure through the very air,
And breathing the great heav'n, expatiate there.
And breathing the great heav'n, expatiate there.
In this poetic corner
With books about and o'er us,
With busts and flowers,
And pictured bowers,
And the sight of fields before us;
Why think of these fatalities,
And all their dull realities?
'Tis fancies now must charm us;
Nor is the bliss ideal,
For all we feel,
In woe or weal,
Is, while we feel it, real:
Heaven's nooks they are for getting in,
When weeping weather's setting in.
With books about and o'er us,
With busts and flowers,
And pictured bowers,
And the sight of fields before us;
Why think of these fatalities,
And all their dull realities?
xl
Nor is the bliss ideal,
For all we feel,
In woe or weal,
Is, while we feel it, real:
Heaven's nooks they are for getting in,
When weeping weather's setting in.
And now and now I see them,
The poet comes upon me,
My back it springs
With a sense of wings,
And my laurel crown is on me;
The room begins to rise with me,
And all your sparkling eyes with me.
The poet comes upon me,
My back it springs
With a sense of wings,
And my laurel crown is on me;
The room begins to rise with me,
And all your sparkling eyes with me.
Far, far away we're going
From care and common-places,
To spots of bliss
As fine to this,
As your's to common faces;
To spots—but rapture dissipates
The pictures it anticipates.—
From care and common-places,
xli
As fine to this,
As your's to common faces;
To spots—but rapture dissipates
The pictures it anticipates.—
And hey, what's this? the walls, look,
Are wrinkling as a skin does;
And now they are bent
To a silken tent,
And there are chrystal windows;
And look! there's a balloon above,
Round and bright as the moon above.
Are wrinkling as a skin does;
And now they are bent
To a silken tent,
And there are chrystal windows;
And look! there's a balloon above,
Round and bright as the moon above.
Now we loosen—now—take care;
What a spring from earth was there!
Like an angel mounting fierce,
We have shot the night with a pierce;
And the moon, with slant-up beam,
Makes our starting faces gleam.
Lovers below will stare at the sight,
And talk of the double moon last night.
What a spring from earth was there!
Like an angel mounting fierce,
We have shot the night with a pierce;
xlii
Makes our starting faces gleam.
Lovers below will stare at the sight,
And talk of the double moon last night.
What a lovely motion now,
Smoothing on like lady's brow!
Over land and sea we go,
Over tops of mountains,
Through the blue and the golden glow,
And the rain's white fountains.
Smoothing on like lady's brow!
Over land and sea we go,
Over tops of mountains,
Through the blue and the golden glow,
And the rain's white fountains.
What a pleasure 'tis to be
Sailing onward smilingly;
Not an effort, not a will,
Yet proceeding swiftly still!
'Tis to join in one sensation
Business both and contemplation;
Active, without toil or stress;
Passive, without listlessness.
Sailing onward smilingly;
Not an effort, not a will,
Yet proceeding swiftly still!
'Tis to join in one sensation
Business both and contemplation;
xliii
Passive, without listlessness.
Now we pierce the chilly shroud
Of a sight-enfolding cloud;
And could almost crowd together,
As at home in wintery weather:
Now we issue forth to light,
With a swift-eyed scorning;
And with gently stooping flight
Slide us down the sunbeams bright,
And travel towards the morning. [OMITTED]
Of a sight-enfolding cloud;
And could almost crowd together,
As at home in wintery weather:
Now we issue forth to light,
With a swift-eyed scorning;
And with gently stooping flight
Slide us down the sunbeams bright,
And travel towards the morning. [OMITTED]
lxiii
HIS DEPARTED LOVE TO PRINCE LEOPOLD.
A female voice is heard, issuing forth softly and tenderly.My widowed Love!
Recitative of another voice, a man's.
Hark, princely mourner! 'tis the voice of her
You loved on earth, that with her favourite strings
Comes mingling thus, like smiling dreams that stir
The lips of day-sweet Patience. Hark! She sings!
The voice returns.
Look up, look up, and weep not so,
My Leopold! My love!
Thou touchest me with such a woe,
As should not be above.
Pray be, as thou wast all along,
Affectionate and sweet, but strong.
My Leopold! My love!
lxvi
As should not be above.
Pray be, as thou wast all along,
Affectionate and sweet, but strong.
I know, dear love, thou canst not see
The face that looks on thine;
Thou canst not touch or come to me,
But all this power is mine;
And I can touch that bosom still;
And now I do so, by that thrill!
The face that looks on thine;
Thou canst not touch or come to me,
But all this power is mine;
And I can touch that bosom still;
And now I do so, by that thrill!
The night I passed thee from my clay,
And kissed thy brow's despair,
I met upon my moonlight way
A hundred spirits fair,—
A hundred brides, who all, like me,
Died in that first sweet agony.
And kissed thy brow's despair,
I met upon my moonlight way
A hundred spirits fair,—
A hundred brides, who all, like me,
Died in that first sweet agony.
lxvii
And we inhabit wondrous bowers,
Which though they cannot fade,
Have sympathy with the sweet powers
Of those our smiles obeyed;
For as on earth ye spread delight,
The leaves are thick and flowers grow bright.
Which though they cannot fade,
Have sympathy with the sweet powers
Of those our smiles obeyed;
For as on earth ye spread delight,
The leaves are thick and flowers grow bright.
Then turn thee to thy wonted will,
Dry thine and others' tears;
And we will build our palace still,
With tops above the spheres;
And when thou too art fancied dead,
There, there shall be our bridal bed.
Dry thine and others' tears;
And we will build our palace still,
With tops above the spheres;
And when thou too art fancied dead,
There, there shall be our bridal bed.
lxix
EPISTLES.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD BYRON,
ON HIS DEPARTURE FOR ITALY AND GREECE.
Dio ti dia, baron, ventura.
—Pulci.
—Pulci.
Since you resolve, dear Byron, once again
To taste the far-eyed freedom of the main,
And as the coolness lessens in the breeze,
Strike for warm shores that bathe in classic seas,—
May all that hastens, pleases, and secures,
Fair winds and skies, and a swift ship, be yours,
Whose sidelong deck affords, as it cuts on,
An airy slope to lounge and read upon;
And may the sun, cooled only by white clouds,
Make constant shadows of the sails and shrouds;
And may there be sweet, watching moons at night,
Or shows, upon the sea, of curious light;
And morning wake with happy-blushing mouth,
As though her husband still had “eyes of youth;”
While fancy, just as you discern from far
The coasts of Virgil and of Sannazzar,
May see the Nymphs emerging, here and there,
To tie up at the light their rolling hair.
To taste the far-eyed freedom of the main,
And as the coolness lessens in the breeze,
Strike for warm shores that bathe in classic seas,—
May all that hastens, pleases, and secures,
Fair winds and skies, and a swift ship, be yours,
lxx
An airy slope to lounge and read upon;
And may the sun, cooled only by white clouds,
Make constant shadows of the sails and shrouds;
And may there be sweet, watching moons at night,
Or shows, upon the sea, of curious light;
And morning wake with happy-blushing mouth,
As though her husband still had “eyes of youth;”
While fancy, just as you discern from far
The coasts of Virgil and of Sannazzar,
May see the Nymphs emerging, here and there,
To tie up at the light their rolling hair.
I see you now, half eagerness, half ease,
Ride o'er the dancing freshness of the seas;
I see you now (with fancy's eyesight too)
Find, with a start, that lovely vision true,
While on a sudden, o'er the horizon's line
Phœbus looks forth with his long glance divine,
At which old Ocean's white and shapely Daughters
Crowd in the golden ferment of the waters,
And halcyons brood, and there's a glistering show
Of harps, midst bosoms and long arms of snow;
And from the breathing sea, in the God's eye,
A gush of voices breaks up to the sky
To hail the laurelled Bard, that goes careering by.
Ride o'er the dancing freshness of the seas;
I see you now (with fancy's eyesight too)
Find, with a start, that lovely vision true,
lxxi
Phœbus looks forth with his long glance divine,
At which old Ocean's white and shapely Daughters
Crowd in the golden ferment of the waters,
And halcyons brood, and there's a glistering show
Of harps, midst bosoms and long arms of snow;
And from the breathing sea, in the God's eye,
A gush of voices breaks up to the sky
To hail the laurelled Bard, that goes careering by.
And who, thus gifted, but must hear and see
Wonders like these, approaching Italy?—
Enchantress Italy,—who born again
In Gothic fires, woke to a sphery strain,
And rose and smiled, far lovelier than before,
Copier of Greece, and Amazon no more,
But altogether a diviner thing,
Fit for the Queen of Europe's second spring,
With fancies of her own, and finer powers
Not to enslave these mere outsides of ours,
But bend the godlike mind, and crown it with her flowers.
Wonders like these, approaching Italy?—
Enchantress Italy,—who born again
In Gothic fires, woke to a sphery strain,
And rose and smiled, far lovelier than before,
Copier of Greece, and Amazon no more,
lxxii
Fit for the Queen of Europe's second spring,
With fancies of her own, and finer powers
Not to enslave these mere outsides of ours,
But bend the godlike mind, and crown it with her flowers.
Thus did she reign, bright-eyed, with that sweet tone
Long in her ears; and right before her throne
Have sat the intellectual Graces three,
Music, and Painting, and wing'd Poetry,
Of whom were born those great ones, thoughtful-fac'd,
That led the hierarchy of modern taste;—
Heavenly Composers, that with bow symphonious
Drew out, at last, music's whole soul harmonious;
Poets, that knew how Nature should be wooed,
With frank address, and terms heart-understood;
And Painters, worthy to be friends of theirs,
Hands that could catch the very finest airs
Of natural minds, and all that soul express
Of ready concord, which was made to bless,
And forms the secret of true amorousness.
Long in her ears; and right before her throne
Have sat the intellectual Graces three,
Music, and Painting, and wing'd Poetry,
Of whom were born those great ones, thoughtful-fac'd,
That led the hierarchy of modern taste;—
Heavenly Composers, that with bow symphonious
Drew out, at last, music's whole soul harmonious;
lxxiii
With frank address, and terms heart-understood;
And Painters, worthy to be friends of theirs,
Hands that could catch the very finest airs
Of natural minds, and all that soul express
Of ready concord, which was made to bless,
And forms the secret of true amorousness.
Not that our English clime, how sharp soe'er,
Yields in ripe genius to the warmest sphere;
For what we want in sunshine out of doors,
And the long leisure of abundant shores,
By freedom, nay by sufferance, is supplied,
And each man's sacred sunshine, his fire-side.
But all the four great Masters of our Song,
Stars that shine out amidst a starry throng,
Have turned to Italy for added light,
As earth is kissed by the sweet moon at night;—
Milton for half his style, Chaucer for tales,
Spenser for flowers to fill his isles and vales,
And Shakspeare's self for frames already done
To build his everlasting piles upon.
Her genius is more soft, harmonious, fine;
Our's bolder, deeper, and more masculine:
In short, as woman's sweetness to man's force,
Less grand, but softening by the intercourse,
So the two countries are,—so may they be,—
England the high-souled man, the charmer Italy.
Yields in ripe genius to the warmest sphere;
For what we want in sunshine out of doors,
And the long leisure of abundant shores,
By freedom, nay by sufferance, is supplied,
And each man's sacred sunshine, his fire-side.
But all the four great Masters of our Song,
Stars that shine out amidst a starry throng,
Have turned to Italy for added light,
As earth is kissed by the sweet moon at night;—
lxxiv
Spenser for flowers to fill his isles and vales,
And Shakspeare's self for frames already done
To build his everlasting piles upon.
Her genius is more soft, harmonious, fine;
Our's bolder, deeper, and more masculine:
In short, as woman's sweetness to man's force,
Less grand, but softening by the intercourse,
So the two countries are,—so may they be,—
England the high-souled man, the charmer Italy.
But I must finish, and shall chatter less
On Greece, for reasons which yourself may guess.
Only remember what you promised me
About the flask from dark-welled Castaly,—
A draught, which but to think of, as I sit,
Makes the room round me almost turn with wit.
Gods! What may not come true, what dream divine,
If thus we are to drink the Delphic wine!
Remember too elsewhere a certain town,
Whose fame, you know, Cæsar will not hand down.
On Greece, for reasons which yourself may guess.
Only remember what you promised me
About the flask from dark-welled Castaly,—
A draught, which but to think of, as I sit,
Makes the room round me almost turn with wit.
lxxv
If thus we are to drink the Delphic wine!
Remember too elsewhere a certain town,
Whose fame, you know, Cæsar will not hand down.
And pray, my Lord, in Italy take care,
You that are poet, and have pains to bear,
Of lovely girls, that step across the sight,
Like Houris in a heaven of warmth and light,
With rosy-cushioned mouths, in dimples set,
And ripe dark tresses, and glib eyes of jet.
The very language, from a woman's tongue,
Is worth the finest of all others sung.
You that are poet, and have pains to bear,
Of lovely girls, that step across the sight,
Like Houris in a heaven of warmth and light,
With rosy-cushioned mouths, in dimples set,
And ripe dark tresses, and glib eyes of jet.
The very language, from a woman's tongue,
Is worth the finest of all others sung.
And so adieu, dear Byron,—dear to me
For many a cause, disinterestedly;—
First, for unconscious sympathy, when boys,
In friendship, and the Muse's trying joys;—
Next for that frank surprise, when Moore and you
Came to my cage, like warblers kind and true,
And told me, with your arts of cordial lying,
How well I looked, when you both thought me dying;—
Next for a rank worn simply, and the scorn
Of those who trifle with an age free-born;—
For early storms, on Fortune's basking shore,
That cut precocious ripeness to the core;—
For faults unhidden, other's virtues owned;
Nay, unless Cant's to be at once enthroned,
For virtues too, with whatsoever blended,
And e'en were none possessed, for none pretended;—
Lastly, for older friends,—fine hearts, held fast
Through every dash of chance, from first to last;—
For taking spirit as it means to be,—
For a stretched hand, ever the same to me,—
And total, glorious want of vile hypocrisy.
For many a cause, disinterestedly;—
First, for unconscious sympathy, when boys,
In friendship, and the Muse's trying joys;—
lxxvi
Came to my cage, like warblers kind and true,
And told me, with your arts of cordial lying,
How well I looked, when you both thought me dying;—
Next for a rank worn simply, and the scorn
Of those who trifle with an age free-born;—
For early storms, on Fortune's basking shore,
That cut precocious ripeness to the core;—
For faults unhidden, other's virtues owned;
Nay, unless Cant's to be at once enthroned,
For virtues too, with whatsoever blended,
And e'en were none possessed, for none pretended;—
Lastly, for older friends,—fine hearts, held fast
Through every dash of chance, from first to last;—
For taking spirit as it means to be,—
lxxvii
And total, glorious want of vile hypocrisy.
Adieu, adieu:—I say no more.—God speed you!
Remember what we all expect, who read you.
Remember what we all expect, who read you.
Hampstead, April, 1816.
lxxviii
TO THOMAS MOORE.
Ωδε καλον βομβευντι ποτι σμανεσσι μελοσσαι
------ ται δ' επι δενδρω
Ορνιθες λαλαγευντι: ------
------ βαλλει δε και α πιτυς υψοθε κωνους.
Here, here sweetly murmur the bees,
Here talk the quick birds in the trees,
And the pines drop their nuts at their ease.
Theocritus.
------ ται δ' επι δενδρω
Ορνιθες λαλαγευντι: ------
------ βαλλει δε και α πιτυς υψοθε κωνους.
Here, here sweetly murmur the bees,
Here talk the quick birds in the trees,
And the pines drop their nuts at their ease.
Theocritus.
Dear Tom, who enjoying your brooks and your bowers,
Live just like a bee, when he's flushest of flowers,—
A maker of sweets, busy, sparkling, and singing,
Yet armed with an exquisite point too for stinging,—
I owe you a letter, and having this time
A whole series to write to you, send them in rhyme;
For rhyme, with its air, and its step-springing tune,
Helps me on, as a march does a soldier in June;
And when chattering to you, I've a something about me,
That makes all my spirits come dancing from out me.
Live just like a bee, when he's flushest of flowers,—
A maker of sweets, busy, sparkling, and singing,
Yet armed with an exquisite point too for stinging,—
lxxix
A whole series to write to you, send them in rhyme;
For rhyme, with its air, and its step-springing tune,
Helps me on, as a march does a soldier in June;
And when chattering to you, I've a something about me,
That makes all my spirits come dancing from out me.
I told you, you know, you should have a detail
Of Hampstead's whole merits,—heath, wood, hill, and vale,
And threatened in consequence (only admire
The metal one's turned to by dint of desire)
To draw you all near me,—vain dog that I was,—
As the bees are made swarm by the clinking of brass.
Of Hampstead's whole merits,—heath, wood, hill, and vale,
And threatened in consequence (only admire
The metal one's turned to by dint of desire)
To draw you all near me,—vain dog that I was,—
As the bees are made swarm by the clinking of brass.
(By the bye, this comparison, well understood,—
Is, modestly speaking, still better than good;
For a man who once kept them in London, they say,
Found out that they came here to dine every day.)
Is, modestly speaking, still better than good;
lxxx
Found out that they came here to dine every day.)
But at present, for reasons I'll give when we meet,
I shall spare you the trouble,—I mean to say treat;
And yet how can I touch, and not linger a while,
On the spot that has haunted my youth like a smile?
On its fine breathing prospects, its clump-wooded glades,
Dark pines, and white houses, and long-allied shades,
With fields going down, where the bard lies and sees
The hills up above him with roofs in the trees?
Now too, while the season,—half summer, half spring,—
Brown elms and green oaks,—makes one loiter and sing;
And the bee's weighty murmur comes by us at noon,
And the cuckoo repeats his short indolent tune,
And little white clouds lie about in the sun,
And the wind's in the west, and hay-making begun?
I shall spare you the trouble,—I mean to say treat;
And yet how can I touch, and not linger a while,
On the spot that has haunted my youth like a smile?
On its fine breathing prospects, its clump-wooded glades,
Dark pines, and white houses, and long-allied shades,
With fields going down, where the bard lies and sees
The hills up above him with roofs in the trees?
Now too, while the season,—half summer, half spring,—
Brown elms and green oaks,—makes one loiter and sing;
And the bee's weighty murmur comes by us at noon,
And the cuckoo repeats his short indolent tune,
lxxxi
And the wind's in the west, and hay-making begun?
Even now while I write, I'm half stretched on the ground
With a cheek-smoothing air coming taking me round,
Betwixt hillocks of green, plumed with fern and wild flowers,
While my eye closely follows the bees in their bowers.
People talk of “poor insects,” (although, by the way,
Your old friend, Anacreon, was wiser than they);
But lord, what a set of delicious retreats
The epicures live in,—shades, colours, and sweets!
The least clumps of verdure, on peeping into 'em,
Are emerald groves, with bright shapes winding through 'em;
And sometimes I wonder, when poking down by 'em,
What odd sort of giant the rogues may think I am.
Here perks from his arbour of crimson or green
A beau, who slips backward as though he were seen:—
Here, over my paper another shall go,
Looking just like the traveller lost in the snow,—
Till he reaches the writing,—and then, when he's eyed it,
What nodding, and touching, and coasting beside it!
No fresh-water spark, in his uniform fine,
Can be graver when he too first crosses the line:—
Now he stops at a question, as who should say “Hey?”
Now casts his round eye up the yawn of an A;
Now resolves to be bold, half afraid he shall sink,
And like Giffard before him, can't tell what to think.
With a cheek-smoothing air coming taking me round,
Betwixt hillocks of green, plumed with fern and wild flowers,
While my eye closely follows the bees in their bowers.
People talk of “poor insects,” (although, by the way,
Your old friend, Anacreon, was wiser than they);
But lord, what a set of delicious retreats
The epicures live in,—shades, colours, and sweets!
The least clumps of verdure, on peeping into 'em,
Are emerald groves, with bright shapes winding through 'em;
And sometimes I wonder, when poking down by 'em,
What odd sort of giant the rogues may think I am.
lxxxii
A beau, who slips backward as though he were seen:—
Here, over my paper another shall go,
Looking just like the traveller lost in the snow,—
Till he reaches the writing,—and then, when he's eyed it,
What nodding, and touching, and coasting beside it!
No fresh-water spark, in his uniform fine,
Can be graver when he too first crosses the line:—
Now he stops at a question, as who should say “Hey?”
Now casts his round eye up the yawn of an A;
Now resolves to be bold, half afraid he shall sink,
And like Giffard before him, can't tell what to think.
Oh the wretched transition to insects like these
From those of the country! To town from the trees!
Ah, Tom,—you who've run the gay circle of life,
And squared it, at last, with your books and a wife,—
Who in Bond-street by day, when the press has been thickest,
Have had all the “digito monstror” and “hic est,”
Who've shone at great houses in coach-crowded streets,
Amidst lights, wits, and beauties, and musical treats,
And had the best pleasure a guest could befall,
In being, yourself, the best part of it all,—
Can the town (and I'm fond of it too, when I'm there)
Can the town, after all, with the country compare?
From those of the country! To town from the trees!
Ah, Tom,—you who've run the gay circle of life,
And squared it, at last, with your books and a wife,—
lxxxiii
Have had all the “digito monstror” and “hic est,”
Who've shone at great houses in coach-crowded streets,
Amidst lights, wits, and beauties, and musical treats,
And had the best pleasure a guest could befall,
In being, yourself, the best part of it all,—
Can the town (and I'm fond of it too, when I'm there)
Can the town, after all, with the country compare?
But this is a subject I keep for my last,
Like the fruit in green leaves, which conclude a repast.—
Adieu. In my next you'll hear more of the town;
Till when, and for ever, dear Coz.
Like the fruit in green leaves, which conclude a repast.—
Adieu. In my next you'll hear more of the town;
Till when, and for ever, dear Coz.
Harry Brown.
lxxxiv
EXTRACT FROM ANOTHER LETTER TO THE SAME.
Per me si va nella città dolente.
—Dante.
—Dante.
Through me you go into the city,—grieving.
Would you change, my dear Tom, your old mode of proceeding,
And make a dull end to a passage worth reading,—
I mean would you learn how to let your wit down,
You'd walk some fine morning from Hampstead to town.
And make a dull end to a passage worth reading,—
I mean would you learn how to let your wit down,
You'd walk some fine morning from Hampstead to town.
What think you of going by gardens and bowers,
Through fields of all colours, refreshed by night-showers,—
Some spotted with hay-cocks, some dark with ploughed mould,
Some changed by the mower from green to pale gold,—
A scene of ripe sunshine the hedges betwixt,
With here and there farm-houses, tree-intermixed,
And an air in your face, ever fanning and sweet,
And the birds in your ears, and a turf for your feet;—
And then, after all, to encounter a throng of
Canal-men, and hod-men, unfit to make song of,
Midst ale-houses, puddles, and backs of street-roads,
And all sorts of rubbish, and crashing cart-loads,
And so on, eye-smarting, and ready to choke,
Till you end in hot narrowness, clatter, and smoke!
Through fields of all colours, refreshed by night-showers,—
lxxxv
Some changed by the mower from green to pale gold,—
A scene of ripe sunshine the hedges betwixt,
With here and there farm-houses, tree-intermixed,
And an air in your face, ever fanning and sweet,
And the birds in your ears, and a turf for your feet;—
And then, after all, to encounter a throng of
Canal-men, and hod-men, unfit to make song of,
Midst ale-houses, puddles, and backs of street-roads,
And all sorts of rubbish, and crashing cart-loads,
And so on, eye-smarting, and ready to choke,
Till you end in hot narrowness, clatter, and smoke!
'Tis Swift after Spenser, or daylight with candles,
A sea-song succeeding a pastoral of Handel's,
A step unexpected, that jars one's inside,
The shout-raising fall at the end of a slide,
A yawn to a kiss, a flock followed by dust,
The hoop of a beauty seen after her bust,
A reckoning, a parting, a snake in the grass,
A time when a man says, “What! Come to this pass!”
A sea-song succeeding a pastoral of Handel's,
lxxxvi
The shout-raising fall at the end of a slide,
A yawn to a kiss, a flock followed by dust,
The hoop of a beauty seen after her bust,
A reckoning, a parting, a snake in the grass,
A time when a man says, “What! Come to this pass!”
lxxxvii
EXTRACT FROM ANOTHER TO THE SAME.
THE BERKELEIAN SYSTEM.
You know, my dear Tom, that the objects we see,
Are not, on the whole, what we take 'em to be;
And that colour, shape, surface, are modifications,
At least more or less, of our purblind sensations.
A set now of needles, like certain smooth souls,
Are as rough, on inspection, as old iron poles;
The sun, to us dim little critics, Lord love us!
Seems hardly worth measuring, he's so much above us;
And mountains, like lovers, whatever their hue,
When kept at a distance, are sure to look blue.
Are not, on the whole, what we take 'em to be;
And that colour, shape, surface, are modifications,
At least more or less, of our purblind sensations.
A set now of needles, like certain smooth souls,
Are as rough, on inspection, as old iron poles;
The sun, to us dim little critics, Lord love us!
Seems hardly worth measuring, he's so much above us;
lxxxviii
When kept at a distance, are sure to look blue.
The thing is notorious. Nay, as for that matter,
To talk about colour is only to chatter;
For like a complexion put on for the night,
'Tis all but a business of optics and light;
And a pair of red garters, although 'twould be wrong to—
Are just, in the dark,—like the girl they belong to.
To talk about colour is only to chatter;
For like a complexion put on for the night,
'Tis all but a business of optics and light;
And a pair of red garters, although 'twould be wrong to—
Are just, in the dark,—like the girl they belong to.
This truth, though it's stale to the present deep age,
Had once such effect on a good mitred sage,
That mistrusting those brilliant deceivers the eyes,
He resolved to put faith in no sort of disguise;
And (how he contrived, I don't know, with St. Paul)
Concluded there really was nothing at all.
Friends, pictures, books, gardens, like things in romances,
To him were but fictions,—agreeable fancies;
And things not so pleasant, of course, such as aches,
Wounds, fractures, and thumps, were but cruel mistakes.
Did he cry, “A thought strikes me,” you turn'd round to know
What thought 'twas he spoke of, a kick or bon-mot;
Had your brains been displaced by a bullet of lead,
'Twas a painful idea had got into your head;
And did any one speak of a wreck on the ocean,
He fell, as the crew had done, into a notion.
Had once such effect on a good mitred sage,
That mistrusting those brilliant deceivers the eyes,
He resolved to put faith in no sort of disguise;
And (how he contrived, I don't know, with St. Paul)
Concluded there really was nothing at all.
lxxxix
To him were but fictions,—agreeable fancies;
And things not so pleasant, of course, such as aches,
Wounds, fractures, and thumps, were but cruel mistakes.
Did he cry, “A thought strikes me,” you turn'd round to know
What thought 'twas he spoke of, a kick or bon-mot;
Had your brains been displaced by a bullet of lead,
'Twas a painful idea had got into your head;
And did any one speak of a wreck on the ocean,
He fell, as the crew had done, into a notion.
cxvii
SONNETS.
WRITTEN UNDER THE ENGRAVING OF A PORTRAIT OF RAFAEL, PAINTED BY HIMSELF WHEN HE WAS YOUNG.
Rafael! It must be he; we only missSomething which manhood gave him, and the fair;
A look still sweeter and more thoughtful air;
But for the rest, 'tis every feature his,
The oval cheek, clear eye, mouth made to kiss,
Terse lightsome chin, and flush of gentle hair
Clipped ere it loitered into ringlets there,—
The beauty, the benignity, the bliss.
How sweetly sure he looks! how unforlorn!
There is but one such visage at a time;
'Tis like the budding of an age new born,
Remembered youth, the cuckoo in the prime,
The maid's first kiss, or any other thing
Most lovely, and alone, and promising.
cxxiii
[TO PERCY SHELLEY.]
Yet, Percy, not for this, should he whose eyeSees loveliness, and the unselfish joy
Of justice, turn him, like a peevish boy,
At hindrances and thwartings; and deny
Wisdom's divinest privilege, constancy;
That which most proves him free from the alloy
Of useless earth,—least prone to the decoy
That clamours down weak pinions from the sky.
The Spirit of Beauty, though by solemn quires
Hourly blasphemed, stoops not from it's calm end,
And forward breathing love, but ever on
Rolls the round day, and calls the starry fires
To their glad watch. Therefore, high-hearted friend,
Be still with thine own task in unison.
cxxv
TO JOHN KEATS.
'Tis well you think me truly one of those,Whose sense discerns the loveliness of things;
For surely as I feel the bird that sings
Behind the leaves, or dawn as it up grows,
Or the rich bee rejoicing as he goes,
Or the glad issue of emerging springs,
Or overhead the glide of a dove's wings,
Or turf, or trees, or, midst of all, repose.
And surely as I feel things lovelier still,
The human look, and the harmonious form
Containing woman, and the smile in ill,
And such a heart as Charles's, wise and warm,—
As surely as all this, I see, ev'n now,
Young Keats, a flowering laurel on your brow.
cxxvi
ON RECEIVING A CROWN OF IVY FROM THE SAME.
A crown of ivy! I submit my headTo the young hand that gives it,—young, 'tis true,
But with a right, for 'tis a poet's too.
How pleasant the leaves feel! and how they spread
With their broad angles, like a nodding shed
Over both eyes! and how complete and new,
As on my hand I lean, to feel them strew
My sense with freshness,—Fancy's rustling bed!
Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and grapes
Come dancing by, and downward piping cheeks,
And up-thrown cymbals, and Silenus old
Lumpishly borne, and many trampling shapes,—
And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent,
Bacchus,—whose bride has of his hand fast hold.
cxxvii
ON THE SAME.
It is a lofty feeling, yet a kind,Thus to be topped with leaves;—to have a sense
Of honour-shaded thought,—an influence
As from great Nature's fingers, and be twined
With her old, sacred, verdurous ivy-bind,
As though she hallowed with that sylvan fence
A head that bows to her benevolence,
Midst pomp of fancied trumpets in the wind.
'Tis what's within us crowned. And kind and great
Are all the conquering wishes it inspires,—
Love of things lasting, love of the tall woods,
Love of love's self, and ardour for a state
Of natural good befiittng such desires,
Towns without gain, and haunted solitudes.
cxxviii
TO HORATIO SMITH.
With what a fine unyielding wish to bless,Does Nature, Horace, manage to oppose
The town's encroachments! Vulgar he, who goes
By suburb gardens which she deigns to dress,
And does not recognize her green caress
Reaching back to us in those genial shows
Of box-encircled flowers and poplar rows,
Or other nests for evening weariness.
Then come the squares, with noon-day nymphs about;
Then vines, and ivy; tree tops that look out
Over back walls; green in the windows too;—
And even where gain huddles it's noisiest rout,
The smile of her sweet wisdom will break through,
For there, dear Horace, has she planted you.
cxxix
TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON.
Haydon, whom now the conquered toil confessesPainter indeed, gifted, laborious, true,
Fit to be numbered in succession due
With Michael, whose idea austerely presses,
And sweet-soul'd Raphael with his amorous tresses;
Well hast thou urged thy radiant passage through
A host of clouds; and he who with thee grew,
The bard and friend, congratulates and blesses.
'Tis glorious thus to have one's own proud will,
And see the crown acknowledged that we earn;
But nobler yet, and nearer to the skies,
To feel one's-self, in hours serene and still,
One of the spirits chosen by heaven to turn
The sunny side of things to human eyes.
1816.
cxxx
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS,
ON HIS LINES UPON THE STORY OF RIMINI.
Reynolds, whose Muse, from out thy gentle embraces,Holding a little crisp and dewy flower,
Came to me in my close-entwined bower,
Where many fine-eyed Friendships and glad Graces,
Parting the boughs, have looked in with like faces,
And thanked the song which had sufficient power
With Phœbus to bring back a warmer hour,
And turn his southern eye to our green places:
Not for this only, but that thou dost long
For all men's welfare, may there be a throng
Of kind regards, wherever thou appearest;
And in thy home, firm-handed Health, a song
Girt with rich-hearted friends, and she the nearest
To whom the warble of thy lip is dearest.
cxxxii
TO THE SAME,
ON THE SAME OCCASION.
A liberal taste, and a wise gentlenessHave ever been the true physician's dower,
As still is visible in the placid power
Of those old Grecian busts; and helps to bless
The balmy name of Haller, and the address
Of cordial Garth; and him in Cowley's bower,
Harvey; and Milton's own exotic flower,
Young Deodati, plucked from his caress.
To add to these an ear for the sweet hold
Of music, and an eye, ay and a hand
For forms which the smooth Graces tend and follow,
Shews thee indeed true offspring of the bland
And vital god, whom she of happy mould,
The Larissæan beauty, bore Apollo.
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