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| FULL many a dreary hour have I past, | |
| My brain bewilder’d, and my mind o’ercast | |
| With heaviness; in seasons when I’ve thought | |
| No spherey strains by me could e’er be caught | |
| From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze | 5 |
| On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays; | |
| Or, on the wavy grass outstretch’d supinely, | |
| Pry ’mong the stars, to strive to think divinely: | |
| That I should never hear Apollo’s song, | |
| Though feathery clouds were floating all along | 10 |
| The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, | |
| The golden lyre itself were dimly seen: | |
| That the still murmur of the honey bee | |
| Would never teach a rural song to me: | |
| That the bright glance from beauty’s eyelids slanting | 15 |
| Would never make a lay of mine enchanting | |
| Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold | |
| Some tale of love and arms in time of old. | |
| |
| But there are times, when those that love the bay, | |
| Fly from all sorrowing far, far away; | 20 |
| A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see | |
| In water, earth, or air, but poesy. | |
| It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it, | |
| (For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,) | |
| That when a Poet is in such a trance, | 25 |
| In air he sees white coursers paw, and prance, | |
| Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel, | |
| Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel, | |
| And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call, | |
| Is the swift opening of their wide portal, | 30 |
| When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear, | |
| Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet’s ear. | |
| When these enchanted portals open wide, | |
| And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide, | |
| The Poet’s eye can reach those golden halls, | 35 |
| And view the glory of their festivals: | |
| Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem | |
| Fit for the silv’ring of a seraph’s dream; | |
| Their rich brimm’d goblets, that incessant run | |
| Like the bright spots that move about the sun; | 40 |
| And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar | |
| Pours with the lustre of a falling star. | |
| Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers, | |
| Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers; | |
| And ’tis right just, for well Apollo knows | 45 |
| ’Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose. | |
| All that’s reveal’d from that far seat of blisses, | |
| Is, the clear fountains’ interchanging kisses, | |
| As gracefully descending, light and thin, | |
| Like silver streaks across a dolphin’s fin, | 50 |
| When he upswimmeth from the coral caves, | |
| And sports with half his tail above the waves. | |
| |
| These wonders strange he sees, and many more, | |
| Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore. | |
| Should he upon an evening ramble fare | 55 |
| With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, | |
| Would he naught see but the dark, silent blue | |
| With all its diamonds trembling through and through? | |
| Or the coy moon, when in the waviness | |
| Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, | 60 |
| And staidly paces higher up, and higher, | |
| Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire? | |
| Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight— | |
| The revelries, and mysteries of night: | |
| And should I ever see them, I will tell you | 65 |
| Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you. | |
| These are the living pleasures of the bard: | |
| But richer far posterity’s award. | |
| What does he murmur with his latest breath, | |
| While his proud eye looks through the film of death? | 70 |
| “What though I leave this dull, and earthly mould, | |
| “Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold | |
| “With after times.—The patriot shall feel | |
| “My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel; | |
| “Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers | 75 |
| “To startle princes from their easy slumbers. | |
| “The sage will mingle with each moral theme | |
| “My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem | |
| “With lofty periods when my verses fire him, | |
| “And then I’ll stoop from heaven to inspire him. | 80 |
| “Lays have I left of such a dear delight | |
| “That maids will sing them on their bridal night. | |
| “Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, | |
| “When they have tired their gentle limbs with play, | |
| “And form’d a snowy circle on the grass, | 85 |
| “And plac’d in midst of all that lovely lass | |
| “Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head | |
| “Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red: | |
| “For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing, | |
| “Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying: | 90 |
| “Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, | |
| “A bunch of violets full blown, and double, | |
| “Serenely sleep:—she from a casket takes | |
| “A little book,—and then a joy awakes | |
| “About each youthful heart,—with stifled cries, | 95 |
| “And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes: | |
| “For she’s to read a tale of hopes, and fears; | |
| “One that I foster’d in my youthful years: | |
| “The pearls, that on each glist’ning circlet sleep, | |
| “Gush ever and anon with silent creep, | 100 |
| “Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest | |
| “Shall the dear babe, upon its mother’s breast, | |
| “Be lull’d with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu! | |
| “Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view: | |
| “Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions, | 105 |
| “Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions. | |
| “Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air, | |
| “That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair, | |
| “And warm thy sons!” Ah, my dear friend and brother, | |
| Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother, | 110 |
| For tasting joys like these, sure I should be | |
| Happier, and dearer to society. | |
| At times, ’tis true, I’ve felt relief from pain | |
| When some bright thought has darted through my brain: | |
| Through all that day I’ve felt a greater pleasure | 115 |
| Than if I’d brought to light a hidden treasure. | |
| As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them, | |
| I feel delighted, still, that you should read them. | |
| Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment, | |
| Stretch’d on the grass at my best lov’d employment | 120 |
| Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought | |
| While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught. | |
| E’en now I’m pillow’d on a bed of flowers | |
| That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers | |
| Above the ocean-waves. The stalks, and blades, | 125 |
| Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades. | |
| On one side is a field of drooping oats, | |
| Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats; | |
| So pert and useless, that they bring to mind | |
| The scarlet coats that pester human-kind. | 130 |
| And on the other side, outspread, is seen | |
| Ocean’s blue mantle streak’d with purple, and green. | |
| Now ’tis I see a canvass’d ship, and now | |
| Mark the bright silver curling round her prow. | |
| I see the lark down-dropping to his nest, | 135 |
| And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest; | |
| For when no more he spreads his feathers free, | |
| His breast is dancing on the restless sea. | |
| Now I direct my eyes into the west, | |
| Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest: | 140 |
| Why westward turn? ’Twas but to say adieu! | |
’Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!
August, 1816. | |
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| See Notes. |
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