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I
WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made | |
| The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, | |
| This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence | |
| Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade | |
| Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, | 5 |
| Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes | |
| Upon the strings of this Æolian lute, | |
| Which better far were mute. | |
| For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! | |
| And overspread with phantom light, | 10 |
| (With swimming phantom light o’erspread | |
| But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) | |
| I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling | |
| The coming-on of rain and squally blast, | |
| And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, | 15 |
| And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! | |
| Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed | |
| And sent my soul abroad, | |
| Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, | |
| Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! | 20 |
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II
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, | |
| A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, | |
| Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, | |
| In word, or sigh, or tear— | |
| O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, | 25 |
| To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo’d, | |
| All this long eve, so balmy and serene, | |
| Have I been gazing on the western sky, | |
| And its peculiar tint of yellow green; | |
| And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye! | 30 |
| And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, | |
| That give away their motion to the stars: | |
| Those stars, that glide behind them or between, | |
| Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen; | |
| Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew | 35 |
| In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; | |
| I see them all so excellently fair, | |
| I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! | |
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III
My genial spirits fail; | |
| And what can these avail | 40 |
| To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? | |
| It were a vain endeavour, | |
| Though I should gaze for ever | |
| On that green light that lingers in the west; | |
| I may not hope from outward forms to win | 45 |
| The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. | |
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IV
O Lady! we receive but what we give, | |
| And in our life alone does Nature live; | |
| Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! | |
| And would we aught behold, of higher worth, | 50 |
| Than that inanimate cold world allowed | |
| To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, | |
| Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth | |
| A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud | |
| Enveloping the Earth— | 55 |
| And from the soul itself must there be sent | |
| A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, | |
| Of all sweet sounds the life and element! | |
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V
O pure of heart! thou need’st not ask of me | |
| What this strong music in the soul may be! | 60 |
| What, and wherein it doth exist, | |
| This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, | |
| This beautiful and beauty-making power. | |
| Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne’er was given, | |
| Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, | 65 |
| Life, and life’s effluence, cloud at once and shower, | |
| Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, | |
| Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, | |
| A new Earth and new Heaven, | |
| Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud— | 70 |
| Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud— | |
| We in ourselves rejoice! | |
| And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, | |
| All melodies the echoes of that voice, | |
| All colours a suffusion from that light. | 75 |
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VI
There was a time when, though my path was rough, | |
| This joy within me dallied with distress, | |
| And all misfortunes were but as the stuff | |
| Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: | |
| For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, | 80 |
| And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. | |
| But now afflictions bow me down to earth: | |
| Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth; | |
| But oh! each visitation | |
| Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, | 85 |
| My shaping spirit of Imagination. | |
| For not to think of what I needs must feel | |
| But to be still and patient, all I can; | |
| And haply by abstruse research to steal | |
| From my own nature all the natural man— | 90 |
| This was my sole resource, my only plan; | |
| Till that which suits a part infects the whole, | |
| And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. | |
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VII
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, | |
| Reality’s dark dream! | 95 |
| I turn from you, and listen to the wind, | |
| Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream | |
| Of agony by torture lengthened out | |
| That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav’st without, | |
| Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree, | 100 |
| Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, | |
| Or lonely house, long held the witches’ home, | |
| Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, | |
| Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, | |
| Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, | 105 |
| Mak’st Devils’ yule, with worse than wintry song, | |
| The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. | |
| Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! | |
| Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold! | |
| What tell’st thou now about? | 110 |
| ’Tis of the rushing of an host in rout, | |
| With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds— | |
| At once they groan with pain and shudder with the cold! | |
| But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! | |
| And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, | 115 |
| With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over— | |
| It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! | |
| A tale of less affright, | |
| And tempered with delight, | |
| As Otway’s self had framed the tender lay. | 120 |
| ’Tis of a little child, | |
| Upon a lonesome wild, | |
| Not far from home, but she hath lost her way; | |
| And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, | |
| And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. | 125 |
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VIII
’Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: | |
| Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! | |
| Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, | |
| And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, | |
| May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, | 130 |
| Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth! | |
| With light heart may she rise, | |
| Gay fancy, cheerful eyes. | |
| Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; | |
| To her may all things live, from pole to pole, | 135 |
| Their life the eddying of her living soul! | |
| O simple spirit, guided from above, | |
| Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, | |
| Thus may’st thou ever, evermore rejoice. | |
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