And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground I hear the far-off Curfeu sound Over some wide-water'd shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar: Or, if the air will not permit, Some still removéd place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman's drowsy charm To bless the doors from nightly harm. Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds or what vast regions hold The immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook: And of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true consent With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In scepter'd pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine; Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musaeus from his bower, Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek
And made Hell grant what Love did seek! Or call up him that left half-told
The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canacé to wife
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass; And of the wondrous horse of brass On which the Tartar king did ride: And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung Of turneys, and of trophies hung, Of forests, and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear,
Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont With the Attic Boy to hunt,
But kercheft in a comely cloud
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves With minute drops from off the eaves. And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring To archéd walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude axe, with heavéd stroke, Was never heard the nymphs to daunt Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. There in close covert by some brook Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honey'd thigh
That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring,
With such consort as they keep Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in airy stream Of lively portraiture display'd, Softly on my eyelids laid:
And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister's pale, And love the high-embowéd roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced choir below In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live.
POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the ground, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease; For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
WHEN first the fiery-mantled Sun His heavenly race began to run, Round the earth and ocean blue His children four the Seasons flew. First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel-grace; Rosy Summer next advancing, Rush'd into her sire's embrace-
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep
Or India's citron-cover'd isles:
More remote, and buxom-brown,
The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne: A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afar
To hills that prop the polar star; And loves on deer-borne car to ride With barren darkness by his side, Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale,
« PreviousContinue » |