Delphi Complete Works of John Keats (Illustrated) E-Book

John Keats

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 2584

Beschreibung

This is the first volume of a new series of publications by Delphi Classics, the best-selling publisher of classical works. Many poetry collections are often poorly formatted and difficult to read on eReaders. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature’s finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents the complete poetical works of John Keats, with beautiful illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version: 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Keats’ life and works
* Concise introductions to the poetry and other works
* Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Includes Keats’ letters – spend hours exploring the poet’s personal correspondence
* Features three detailed biographies – discover Keats’ literary life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

CONTENTS:

The Poetry Collections
POEMS, 1817
ENDYMION: A POETIC ROMANCE
LAMIA, ISABELLA, THE EVE OF ST. AGNES, AND OTHER POEMS
POSTHUMOUS AND FUGITIVE POEMS
POEMS WRITTEN LATE IN 1819

The Poems
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Plays
OTHO THE GREAT
KING STEPHEN
The Letters
THE LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS

The Biographies
LIFE OF JOHN KEATS by William Michael Rossetti
A DAY WITH KEATS by May Byron
LIFE OF JOHN KEATS by Sidney Colvin

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Leseprobe

JOHN KEATS

(1795–1821)

Contents

The Poetry Collections

POEMS, 1817

ENDYMION: A POETIC ROMANCE

LAMIA, ISABELLA, THE EVE OF ST. AGNES, AND OTHER POEMS

POSTHUMOUS AND FUGITIVE POEMS

POEMS WRITTEN LATE IN 1819

The Poems

LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Plays

OTHO THE GREAT

KING STEPHEN

The Letters

THE LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS

The Biographies

LIFE OF JOHN KEATS by William Michael Rossetti

A DAY WITH KEATS by May Byron

LIFE OF JOHN KEATS by Sidney Colvin

©Delphi Classics 2012

Version 1

JOHN KEATS

By Delphi Classics, 2012

NOTE

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The Poetry Collections

Finsbury Pavement, London — Keats’ birthplace

POEMS, 1817

Initially, Keats pursued a medical career, registering as a student at Guy’s Hospital in October 1815. However, the training took up large amounts of his writing time and he felt increasingly ambivalent about his choice of career. In 1816, he received his apothecary’s licence which made him eligible to practise as a physician and surgeon, but before the end of the year he resolved to be a poet.

Though he continued his work and training at Guy’s Hospital, Keats devoted more and more of time to the study of poetry, experimenting with various verse forms. In May 1816, Leigh Hunt, a close friend of Byron and Shelley, agreed to publish the sonnet O Solitude in the magazine The Examiner, a leading liberal magazine. It is the first appearance of a poem by Keats in print:

TO SOLITUDE

O SOLITUDE! If I must with thee dwell,   Let it not be among the jumbled heap   Of murky buildings; - climb with me the steep, Nature’s Observatory - whence the dell, Its flowery slopes - its rivers crystal swell,   May seem a span: let me thy vigils keep   ’Mongst boughs pavilioned; where the Deer’s swift leap Startles the wild Bee from the Fox-glove bell. Ah! fain would I frequent such scenes with thee;   But the sweet converse of an innocent mind,   Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d, Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be   Almost the highest bliss of human kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

In March the following year, the first volume of Keats’ verse was published under the simple title Poems, with several verses strongly influenced by Hunt. The collection was a critical failure, arousing little interest, although it was reviewed favourably in The Champion. Keats immediately changed publishers to Taylor and Hessey, on Fleet Street, who were more enthusiastic about his work. Within a month of the publication of Poems, they were planning a new volume and had paid Keats an advance. Hessey became a reliable friend to Keats, making the company’s rooms available for him and other young writers to meet.

Guy’s Hospital, 1815

CONTENTS

I STOOD TIP-TOE UPON A LITTLE HILL

SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A POEM.

CALIDORE.

TO SOME LADIES.

ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL, AND A COPY OF VERSES, FROM THE SAME LADIES.

TO  * * * *

TO HOPE.

IMITATION OF SPENSER.

EPISTLES.

TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW.

TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.

TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE.

SONNETS

TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.

TO  * * * * * *

WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON.

HOW MANY BARDS GILD THE LAPSES OF TIME!

TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME SOME ROSES.

To  G. A. W.

O SOLITUDE! IF I MUST WITH THEE DWELL

TO MY BROTHERS.

KEEN, FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHISP’RING HERE AND THERE

TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN’S HOMER.

ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN EARLY HOUR.

ADDRESSED TO HAYDON.

ADDRESSED TO THE SAME.

ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.

TO KOSCIUSKO.

HAPPY IS ENGLAND! I COULD BE CONTENT

SLEEP AND POETRY

Leigh Hunt by Benjamin Robert Haydon

  ”What more felicity can fall to creature,        Than to enjoy delight with liberty.”

Fate of the Butterfly. — SPENSER.

DEDICATION.

TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.

Glory and loveliness have passed away;  For if we wander out in early morn,  No wreathed incense do we see upborneInto the east, to meet the smiling day:No crowd of nymphs soft voic’d and young, and gay,  In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,  Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adornThe shrine of Flora in her early May.But there are left delights as high as these,  And I shall ever bless my destiny,That in a time, when under pleasant trees  Pan is no longer sought, I feel a freeA leafy luxury, seeing I could please  With these poor offerings, a man like thee.

“Places of nestling green for Poets made.”

STORY OF RIMINI.

I STOOD TIP-TOE UPON A LITTLE HILL

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,The air was cooling, and so very still.That the sweet buds which with a modest pridePull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,Had not yet lost those starry diademsCaught from the early sobbing of the morn.The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they sleptOn the blue fields of heaven, and then there creptA little noiseless noise among the leaves,Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:For not the faintest motion could be seenOf all the shades that slanted o’er the green.There was wide wand’ring for the greediest eye,To peer about upon variety;Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim,And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;To picture out the quaint, and curious bendingOf a fresh woodland alley, never ending;Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,Guess were the jaunty streams refresh themselves.I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and freeAs though the fanning wings of MercuryHad played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,And many pleasures to my vision started;So I straightway began to pluck a poseyOf luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.

A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,And let long grass grow round the roots to keep themMoist, cool and green; and shade the violets,That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,And clumps of woodbine taking the soft windUpon their summer thrones; there too should beThe frequent chequer of a youngling tree,That with a score of light green brethen shoots        From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:Round which is heard a spring-head of clear watersBabbling so wildly of its lovely daughtersThe spreading blue bells: it may haply mournThat such fair clusters should be rudely tornFrom their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlesslyBy infant hands, left on the path to die.

Open afresh your round of starry folds,Ye ardent marigolds!Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,For great Apollo bidsThat in these days your praises should be sungOn many harps, which he has lately strung;And when again your dewiness he kisses,Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:So haply when I rove in some far vale,His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,And taper fulgent catching at all things,To bind them all about with tiny rings.

Linger awhile upon some bending planksThat lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks,And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings:They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings.How silent comes the water round that bend;Not the minutest whisper does it sendTo the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grassSlowly across the chequer’d shadows pass.Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reachTo where the hurrying freshnesses aye preachA natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds;Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,Staying their wavy bodies ‘gainst the streams,To taste the luxury of sunny beamsTemper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestleWith their own sweet delight, and ever nestleTheir silver bellies on the pebbly sand.If you but scantily hold out the hand,That very instant not one will remain;But turn your eye, and they are there again.The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses;The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,And moisture, that the bowery green may live:So keeping up an interchange of favours,Like good men in the truth of their behavioursSometimes goldfinches one by one will dropFrom low hung branches; little space they stop;But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.Were I in such a place, I sure should prayThat nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away,Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gownFanning away the dandelion’s down;Than the light music of her nimble toesPatting against the sorrel as she goes.How she would start, and blush, thus to be caughtPlaying in all her innocence of thought.O let me lead her gently o’er the brook,Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;O let me for one moment touch her wrist;Let me one moment to her breathing list;And as she leaves me may she often turnHer fair eyes looking through her locks aubùrne.What next? A tuft of evening primroses,O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes;O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,But that ’tis ever startled by the leapOf buds into ripe flowers; or by the flittingOf diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;Or by the moon lifting her silver rimAbove a cloud, and with a gradual swimComing into the blue with all her light.O Maker of sweet poets, dear delightOf this fair world, and all its gentle livers;Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,Lover of loneliness, and wandering,Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!Thee must I praise above all other gloriesThat smile us on to tell delightful stories.For what has made the sage or poet writeBut the fair paradise of Nature’s light?In the calm grandeur of a sober line,We see the waving of the mountain pine;And when a tale is beautifully staid,We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:When it is moving on luxurious wings,The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;O’er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar,And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubblesCharms us at once away from all our troubles:So that we feel uplifted from the world,Walking upon the white clouds wreath’d and curl’d.So felt he, who first told, how Psyche wentOn the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lipsFirst touch’d; what amorous, and fondling nipsThey gave each other’s cheeks; with all their sighs,And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes:The silver lamp, — the ravishment, — the wonder — The darkness, — loneliness, — the fearful thunder;Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne.So did he feel, who pull’d the boughs aside,That we might look into a forest wide,To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and DryadesComing with softest rustle through the trees;And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fledArcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.Poor nymph, — poor Pan, — how he did weep to find,Nought but a lovely sighing of the windAlong the reedy stream; a half heard strain,Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain.

What first inspired a bard of old to singNarcissus pining o’er the untainted spring?In some delicious ramble, he had foundA little space, with boughs all woven round;And in the midst of all, a clearer poolThan e’er reflected in its pleasant cool,The blue sky here, and there, serenely peepingThrough tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness,To woo its own sad image into nearness:Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot,Some fainter gleamings o’er his fancy shot;Nor was it long ere he had told the taleOf young Narcissus, and sad Echo’s bale.

Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flewThat sweetest of all songs, that ever new,That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,Coming ever to blessThe wanderer by moonlight? to him bringingShapes from the invisible world, unearthly singingFrom out the middle air, from flowery nests,And from the pillowy silkiness that restsFull in the speculation of the stars.Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;Into some wond’rous region he had gone,To search for thee, divine Endymion!

He was a Poet, sure a lover too,Who stood on Latmus’ top, what time there blewSoft breezes from the myrtle vale below;And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slowA hymn from Dian’s temple; while upswelling,The incense went to her own starry dwelling.But though her face was clear as infant’s eyes,Though she stood smiling o’er the sacrifice,The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,Wept that such beauty should be desolate:So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.

Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queenOf all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.O for three words of honey, that I mightTell but one wonder of thy bridal night!

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels,And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes,Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.The evening weather was so bright, and clear,That men of health were of unusual cheer;Stepping like Homer at the trumpet’s call,Or young Apollo on the pedestal:And lovely women were as fair and warm,As Venus looking sideways in alarm.The breezes were ethereal, and pure,And crept through half closed lattices to cureThe languid sick; it cool’d their fever’d sleep,And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting,Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:And springing up, they met the wond’ring sightOf their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,And on their placid foreheads part the hair.Young men, and maidens at each other gaz’dWith hands held back, and motionless, amaz’dTo see the brightness in each others’ eyes;And so they stood, fill’d with a sweet surprise,Until their tongues were loos’d in poesy.Therefore no lover did of anguish die:But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,Made silken ties, that never may be broken.Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses,That follow’d thine, and thy dear shepherd’s kisses:Was there a Poet born? — but now no more,My wand’ring spirit must no further soar. —

SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A POEM.

Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye.Not like the formal crest of latter days:But bending in a thousand graceful ways;So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand,Or e’en the touch of Archimago’s wand,Could charm them into such an attitude.We must think rather, that in playful mood,Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight,To show this wonder of its gentle might.Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;For while I muse, the lance points slantinglyAthwart the morning air: some lady sweet,Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,From the worn top of some old battlementHails it with tears, her stout defender sent:And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would take,It is reflected, clearly, in a lake,With the young ashen boughs, ‘gainst which it rests,And th’ half seen mossiness of linnets’ nests.Ah! shall I ever tell its cruelty,When the fire flashes from a warrior’s eye,And his tremendous hand is grasping it,And his dark brow for very wrath is knit?Or when his spirit, with more calm intent,Leaps to the honors of a tournament,And makes the gazers round about the ringStare at the grandeur of the balancing?          No, no! this is far off: — then how shall IRevive the dying tones of minstrelsy,Which linger yet about lone gothic arches,In dark green ivy, and among wild larches?How sing the splendour of the revelries,When buts of wine are drunk off to the lees?And that bright lance, against the fretted wall,Beneath the shade of stately banneral,Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield?Where ye may see a spur in bloody field.Light-footed damsels move with gentle pacesRound the wide hall, and show their happy faces;Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens:Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens.Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry:Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by?Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight,Rein in the swelling of his ample might?

Spenser! thy brows are arched, open, kind,And come like a clear sun-rise to my mind;And always does my heart with pleasure dance,When I think on thy noble countenance:Where never yet was ought more earthly seenThan the pure freshness of thy laurels green.Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfullyCall on thy gentle spirit to hover nighMy daring steps: or if thy tender care,Thus startled unaware,Be jealous that the foot of other wightShould madly follow that bright path of lightTrac’d by thy lov’d Libertas; he will speak,And tell thee that my prayer is very meek;That I will follow with due reverence,And start with awe at mine own strange pretence.Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hopeTo see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope:The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers:Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers.

CALIDORE.

A Fragment.

Young Calidore is paddling o’er the lake;His healthful spirit eager and awakeTo feel the beauty of a silent eve,Which seem’d full loath this happy world to leave;The light dwelt o’er the scene so lingeringly.He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky,And smiles at the far clearness all around,Until his heart is well nigh over wound,And turns for calmness to the pleasant greenOf easy slopes, and shadowy trees that leanSo elegantly o’er the waters’ brimAnd show their blossoms trim.Scarce can his clear and nimble eye-sight followThe freaks, and dartings of the black-wing’d swallow,Delighting much, to see it half at rest,Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast‘Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon,The widening circles into nothing gone.

And now the sharp keel of his little boatComes up with ripple, and with easy float,And glides into a bed of water lillies:Broad leav’d are they and their white canopiesAre upward turn’d to catch the heavens’ dew.Near to a little island’s point they grew;Whence Calidore might have the goodliest viewOf this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shoreWent off in gentle windings to the hoarAnd light blue mountains: but no breathing manWith a warm heart, and eye prepared to scanNature’s clear beauty, could pass lightly byObjects that look’d out so invitinglyOn either side. These, gentle CalidoreGreeted, as he had known them long before.

The sidelong view of swelling leafiness,Which the glad setting sun, in gold doth dress;Whence ever, and anon the jay outsprings,And scales upon the beauty of its wings.

The lonely turret, shatter’d, and outworn,Stands venerably proud; too proud to mournIts long lost grandeur: fir trees grow around,Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground.

The little chapel with the cross aboveUpholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove,That on the windows spreads his feathers light,And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight.

Green tufted islands casting their soft shadesAcross the lake; sequester’d leafy glades,That through the dimness of their twilight showLarge dock leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glowOf the wild cat’s eyes, or the silvery stemsOf delicate birch trees, or long grass which hemsA little brook. The youth had long been viewingThese pleasant things, and heaven was bedewingThe mountain flowers, when his glad senses caughtA trumpet’s silver voice. Ah! it was fraughtWith many joys for him: the warder’s kenHad found white coursers prancing in the glen:Friends very dear to him he soon will see;So pushes off his boat most eagerly,And soon upon the lake he skims along,Deaf to the nightingale’s first under-song;Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly:His spirit flies before him so completely.

And now he turns a jutting point of land,Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand:Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches,Before the point of his light shallop reachesThose marble steps that through the water dip:Now over them he goes with hasty trip,And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors:Anon he leaps along the oaken floorsOf halls and corridors.

Delicious sounds! those little bright-eyed thingsThat float about the air on azure wings,Had been less heartfelt by him than the clangOf clattering hoofs; into the court he sprang,Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain,Were slanting out their necks with loosened rein;While from beneath the threat’ning portcullisThey brought their happy burthens. What a kiss,What gentle squeeze he gave each lady’s hand!How tremblingly their delicate ancles spann’d!Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone,While whisperings of affectionMade him delay to let their tender feetCome to the earth; with an incline so sweetFrom their low palfreys o’er his neck they bent:And whether there were tears of languishment,Or that the evening dew had pearl’d their tresses,He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blessesWith lips that tremble, and with glistening eyeAll the soft luxuryThat nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand,Fair as some wonder out of fairy land,Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowersOf whitest Cassia, fresh from summer showers:And this he fondled with his happy cheekAs if for joy he would no further seek;When the kind voice of good Sir ClerimondCame to his ear, like something from beyondHis present being: so he gently drewHis warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new,From their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending,Thank’d heaven that his joy was never ending;While ‘gainst his forehead he devoutly press’dA hand heaven made to succour the distress’d;A hand that from the world’s bleak promontoryHad lifted Calidore for deeds of glory.

Amid the pages, and the torches’ glare,There stood a knight, patting the flowing hairOf his proud horse’s mane: he was withalA man of elegance, and stature tall:So that the waving of his plumes would beHigh as the berries of a wild ash tree,Or as the winged cap of Mercury.His armour was so dexterously wroughtIn shape, that sure no living man had thoughtIt hard, and heavy steel: but that indeedIt was some glorious form, some splendid weed,In which a spirit new come from the skiesMight live, and show itself to human eyes.’Tis the far-fam’d, the brave Sir Gondibert,Said the good man to Calidore alert;While the young warrior with a step of graceCame up, — a courtly smile upon his face,And mailed hand held out, ready to greetThe large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heatOf the aspiring boy; who as he ledThose smiling ladies, often turned his headTo admire the visor arched so gracefullyOver a knightly brow; while they went byThe lamps that from the high-roof’d hall were pendent,And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent.

Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated;The sweet-lipp’d ladies have already greetedAll the green leaves that round the window clamber,To show their purple stars, and bells of amber.Sir Gondibert has doff’d his shining steel,Gladdening in the free, and airy feelOf a light mantle; and while ClerimondIs looking round about him with a fond,And placid eye, young Calidore is burningTo hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurningOf all unworthiness; and how the strong of armKept off dismay, and terror, and alarmFrom lovely woman: while brimful of this,He gave each damsel’s hand so warm a kiss,And had such manly ardour in his eye,That each at other look’d half staringly;And then their features started into smilesSweet as blue heavens o’er enchanted isles.

Softly the breezes from the forest came,Softly they blew aside the taper’s flame;Clear was the song from Philomel’s far bower;Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower;Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpet’s tone;Lovely the moon in ether, all alone:Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals,As that of busy spirits when the portalsAre closing in the west; or that soft hummingWe hear around when Hesperus is coming.Sweet be their sleep. * * * * * * * * *

TO SOME LADIES.

What though while the wonders of nature exploring,  I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,  Bless Cynthia’s face, the enthusiast’s friend:

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes,  With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove;Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,  Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?  Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?Ah! you list to the nightingale’s tender condoling,  Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air.

’Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,  I see you are treading the verge of the sea:And now! ah, I see it — you just now are stooping  To pick up the keep-sake intended for me.

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,  Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven;And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,  The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;

It had not created a warmer emotion  Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you,Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean  Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.

For, indeed, ’tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,  (And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)To possess but a span of the hour of leisure,  In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.

ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL, AND A COPY OF VERSES, FROM THE SAME LADIES.

Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem  Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain?Bright as the humming-bird’s green diadem,  When it flutters in sun-beams that shine through a fountain?

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?  That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?And splendidly mark’d with the story divine  Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold?

Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?  Hast thou a sword that thine enemy’s smart is?Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing?  And wear’st thou the shield of the fam’d Britomartis?

What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave,  Embroidered with many a spring peering flower?Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave?  And hastest thou now to that fair lady’s bower?

Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown’d;  Full many the glories that brighten thy youth!I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound  In magical powers to bless, and to sooth.

On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair  A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain;And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare  Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain.

This canopy mark: ’tis the work of a fay;  Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish,When lovely Titania was far, far away,  And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish.

There, oft would he bring from his soft sighing lute  Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listened;The wondering spirits of heaven were mute,  And tears ‘mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened.

In this little dome, all those melodies strange,  Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh;Nor e’er will the notes from their tenderness change;  Nor e’er will the music of Oberon die.

So, when I am in a voluptuous vein,  I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose,And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain,  Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.

Adieu, valiant Eric! with joy thou art crown’d;  Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,I too have my blisses, which richly abound  In magical powers, to bless and to sooth.

.

TO  * * * *

Hadst thou liv’d in days of old,O what wonders had been told Of thy lively countenance,And thy humid eyes that danceIn the  midst of their own brightness;In the very fane of lightness.Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,Picture out each lovely meaning:In a dainty bend they lie,Like two streaks across the sky,Or the feathers from a crow,Fallen on a bed of snow.Of thy dark hair that extendsInto many graceful bends:As the leaves of HelleboreTurn to whence they sprung before.And behind each ample curlPeeps the richness of a pearl.Downward too flows many a tressWith a glossy waviness;Full, and round like globes that riseFrom the censer to the skiesThrough sunny air. Add too, the sweetnessOf thy honied voice; the neatnessOf thine ankle lightly turn’d:With those beauties, scarce discrn’d,Kept with such sweet privacy,That they seldom meet the eyeOf the little loves that flyRound about with eager pry.Saving when, with freshening lave,Thou dipp’st them in the taintless wave;Like twin water lillies, bornIn the coolness of the morn.O, if thou hadst breathed then,Now the Muses had been ten.Couldst thou wish for lineage higherThan twin sister of Thalia?At least for ever, evermore,Will I call the Graces four.

Hadst thou liv’d when chivalryLifted up her lance on high,Tell me what thou wouldst have been?Ah! I see the silver sheenOf thy broidered, floating vestCov’ring half thine ivory breast;Which, O heavens! I should see,But that cruel destinyHas placed a golden cuirass there;Keeping secret what is fair.Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nestedThy locks in knightly casque are rested:O’er which bend four milky plumesLike the gentle lilly’s bloomsSpringing from a costly vase.See with what a stately paceComes thine alabaster steed;Servant of heroic deed!O’er his loins, his trappings glowLike the northern lights on snow.Mount his back! thy sword unsheath!Sign of the enchanter’s death;Bane of every wicked spell;Silencer of dragon’s yell.Alas! thou this wilt never do:Thou art an enchantress too,And wilt surely never spillBlood of those whose eyes can kill.

TO HOPE.

When by my solitary hearth I sit,  And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;When no fair dreams before my “mind’s eye” flit,  And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;    Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,    And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head.

Whene’er I wander, at the fall of night,  Where woven boughs shut out the moon’s bright ray,Should sad Despondency my musings fright,  And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,    Peep with the moon-beams through the leafy roof,    And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof.

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,  Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,  Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:    Chace him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,    And fright him as the morning frightens night!

Whene’er the fate of those I hold most dear  Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer;  Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:    Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,    And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head!

Should e’er unhappy love my bosom pain,  From cruel parents, or relentless fair;O let me think it is not quite in vain  To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!    Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed.    And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head!

In the long vista of the years to roll,  Let me not see our country’s honour fade:O let me see our land retain her soul,  Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom’s shade.    From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed —     Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!

Let me not see the patriot’s high bequest,  Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!With the base purple of a court oppress’d,  Bowing her head, and ready to expire:    But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings    That fill the skies with silver glitterings!

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star  Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;Brightening the half veil’d face of heaven afar:  So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,    Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,    Waving thy silver pinions o’er my head.

February, 1815.

IMITATION OF SPENSER.

Now Morning from her orient chamber came,  And her first footsteps touch’d a verdant hill;  Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,  Silv’ring the untainted gushes of its rill;  Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill,  And after parting beds of simple flowers,  By many streams a little lake did fill,  Which round its marge reflected woven bowers,And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.

  There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright  Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below;  Whose silken fins, and golden scales’ light  Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow:  There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,  And oar’d himself along with majesty;  Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show  Beneath the waves like Afric’s ebony,And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.

  Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle  That in that fairest lake had placed been,  I could e’en Dido of her grief beguile;  Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen:  For sure so fair a place was never seen,  Of all that ever charm’d romantic eye:  It seem’d an emerald in the silver sheen  Of the bright waters; or as when on high,Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the coerulean sky.

  And all around it dipp’d luxuriously  Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,  Which, as it were in gentle amity,  Rippled delighted up the flowery side;  As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,  Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!  Haply it was the workings of its pride,  In strife to throw upon the shore a gemOutvieing all the buds in Flora’s diadem.

Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,  Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;  Without that modest softening that enhancesThe downcast eye, repentant of the painThat its mild light creates to heal again:  E’en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,  E’en then my soul with exultation dancesFor that to love, so long, I’ve dormant lain:But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,  Heavens! how desperately do I adoreThy winning graces; — to be thy defender  I hotly burn — to be a Calidore — A very Red Cross Knight — a stout Leander —   Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;  Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,  Are things on which the dazzled senses restTill the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare.From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare  To turn my admiration, though unpossess’d  They be of what is worthy, — though not drestIn lovely modesty, and virtues rare.Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark;  These lures I straight forget, — e’en ere I dine,Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark  Such charms with mild intelligences shine,My ear is open like a greedy shark,  To catch the tunings of a voice divine.

Ah! who can e’er forget so fair a being?  Who can forget her half retiring sweets?  God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleatsFor man’s protection. Surely the All-seeing,Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,  Will never give him pinions, who intreats  Such innocence to ruin, — who vilely cheatsA dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeingOne’s thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear  A lay that once I saw her hand awake,Her form seems floating palpable, and near;  Had I e’er seen her from an arbour takeA dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,  And o’er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.

EPISTLES.

“Among the rest a shepheard (though but young Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill.”

Britannia’s Pastorals. — BROWNE.

TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW.

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song;Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to viewA fate more pleasing, a delight more trueThan that in which the brother Poets joy’d,Who with combined powers, their wit employ’dTo raise a trophy to the drama’s muses.The thought of this great partnership diffusesOver the genius loving heart, a feelingOf all that’s high, and great, and good, and healing.

Too partial friend! fain would I follow theePast each horizon of fine poesy;Fain would I echo back each pleasant noteAs o’er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float‘Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted,Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted:But ’tis impossible; far different caresBeckon me sternly from soft “Lydian airs,”And hold my faculties so long in thrall,That I am oft in doubt whether at allI shall again see Phoebus in the morning:Or flush’d Aurora in the roseate dawning!Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream;Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam;Or again witness what with thee I’ve seen,The dew by fairy feet swept from the green,After a night of some quaint jubileeWhich every elf and fay had come to see:When bright processions took their airy marchBeneath the curved moon’s triumphal arch.

But might I now each passing moment giveTo the coy muse, with me she would not liveIn this dark city, nor would condescend‘Mid contradictions her delights to lend.Should e’er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind,Ah! surely it must be whene’er I findSome flowery spot, sequester’d, wild, romantic,That often must have seen a poet frantic;Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing,And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing;Where the dark-leav’d laburnum’s drooping clustersReflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres,And intertwined the cassia’s arms unite,With its own drooping buds, but very white.Where on one side are covert branches hung,‘Mong which the nightingales have always sungIn leafy quiet; where to pry, aloof,Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof,Would be to find where violet beds were nestling,And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling.There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy,To say “joy not too much in all that’s bloomy.”

Yet this is vain — O Mathew lend thy aidTo find a place where I may greet the maid — Where we may soft humanity put on,And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton;And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet himFour laurell’d spirits, heaven-ward to intreat him.With reverence would we speak of all the sagesWho have left streaks of light athwart their ages:And thou shouldst moralize on Milton’s blindness,And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindnessTo those who strove with the bright golden wingOf genius, to flap away each stingThrown by the pitiless world. We next could tellOf those who in the cause of freedom fell:Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell;Of him whose name to ev’ry heart’s a solace,High-minded and unbending William Wallace.While to the rugged north our musing turnsWe well might drop a tear for him, and Burns.

Felton! without incitements such as these,How vain for me the niggard Muse to tease:For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace,And make “a sun-shine in a shady place:”For thou wast once a flowret blooming wild,Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefil’d,Whence gush the streams of song: in happy hourCame chaste Diana from her shady bower,Just as the sun was from the east uprising;And, as for him some gift she was devising,Beheld thee, pluck’d thee, cast thee in the streamTo meet her glorious brother’s greeting beam.I marvel much that thou hast never toldHow, from a flower, into a fish of goldApollo chang’d thee; how thou next didst seemA black-eyed swan upon the widening stream;And when thou first didst in that mirror traceThe placid features of a human face:That thou hast never told thy travels strange.And all the wonders of the mazy rangeO’er pebbly crystal, and o’er golden sands;Kissing thy daily food from Naiad’s pearly hands.

November, 1815.

TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.

Full many a dreary hour have I past,My brain bewilder’d, and my mind o’ercastWith heaviness; in seasons when I’ve thoughtNo spherey strains by me could e’er be caughtFrom the blue dome, though I to dimness gazeOn 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 alongThe purple west, and, two bright streaks between,The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:That the still murmur of the honey beeWould never teach a rural song to me:That the bright glance from beauty’s eyelids slantingWould never make a lay of mine enchanting,Or warm my breast with ardour to unfoldSome 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;A sudden glow comes on them, nought they seeIn 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,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,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,And view the glory of their festivals:Their ladies fair, that in the distance seemFit for the silv’ring of a seraph’s dream;Their rich brimm’d goblets, that incessant runLike the bright spots that move about the sun;And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jarPours 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’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,When he upswimmeth from the coral caves.And sports with half his tail above the waves.

These wonders strange be sees, and many more,Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.Should he upon an evening ramble fareWith forehead to the soothing breezes bare,Would he naught see but the dark, silent blueWith all its diamonds trembling through and through:Or the coy moon, when in the wavinessOf whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,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 youSuch 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?“What though I leave this dull, and earthly mould,Yet shall my spirit lofty converse holdWith after times. — The patriot shall feelMy stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;Or, in the senate thunder out my numbersTo startle princes from their easy slumbers.The sage will mingle with each moral themeMy happy thoughts sententious; he will teemWith lofty periods when my verses fire him,And then I’ll stoop from heaven to inspire him.Lays have I left of such a dear delightThat maids will sing them on their bridal night.Gay villagers, upon a morn of MayWhen they have tired their gentle limbs, with play,And form’d a snowy circle on the grass,And plac’d in midst of all that lovely lassWho chosen is their queen, — with her fine headCrowned with flowers purple, white, and red:For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,A bunch of violets full blown, and double,Serenely sleep: — she from a casket takesA little book, — and then a joy awakesAbout each youthful heart, — with stifled cries,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,Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet restShall 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,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,For tasting joys like these, sure I should beHappier, and dearer to society.At times, ’tis true, I’ve felt relief from painWhen some bright thought has darted through my brain:Through all that day I’ve felt a greater pleasureThan 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 employmentOf scribbling lines for you. These things I thoughtWhile, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.E’en now I’m pillow’d on a bed of flowersThat crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towersAbove the ocean-waves. The stalks, and blades,Chequer my tablet with their, quivering shades.On one side is a field of drooping oats,Through which the poppies show their scarlet coatsSo pert and useless, that they bring to mindThe scarlet coats that pester human-kind.And on the other side, outspread, is seenOcean’s blue mantle streak’d with purple, and green.Now ’tis I see a canvass’d ship, and nowMark the bright silver curling round her prow.I see the lark down-dropping to his nest.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:Why westward turn? ’Twas but to say adieu!’Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!

August, 1816.

TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE.

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;He slants his neck beneath the waters brightSo silently, it seems a beam of lightCome from the galaxy: anon he sports, — With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,Or ruffles all the surface of the lakeIn striving from its crystal face to takeSome diamond water drops, and them to treasureIn milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.But not a moment can he there insure them,Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;For down they rush as though they would be free,And drop like hours into eternity.Just like that bird am I in loss of time,Whene’er I venture on the stream of rhyme;With shatter’d boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent,I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;Still scooping up the water with my fingers,In which a trembling diamond never lingers.

By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly seeWhy I have never penn’d a line to thee:Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,And little fit to please a classic ear;Because my wine was of too poor a savourFor one whose palate gladdens in the flavourOf sparkling Helicon: — small good it wereTo take him to a desert rude, and bare.Who had on Baiae’s shore reclin’d at ease,While Tasso’s page was floating in a breezeThat gave soft music from Armida’s bowers,Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:Small good to one who had by Mulla’s streamFondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,And lovely Una in a leafy nook,And Archimago leaning o’er his book:Who had of all that’s sweet tasted, and seen,From silv’ry ripple, up to beauty’s queen;From the sequester’d haunts of gay Titania,To the blue dwelling of divine Urania:One, who, of late, had ta’en sweet forest walksWith him who elegantly chats, and talks — The wrong’d Libert as, — who has told you storiesOf laurel chaplets, and Apollo’s glories;Of troops chivalrous prancing; through a city,And tearful ladies made for love, and pity:With many else which I have never known.Thus have I thought; and days on days have flownSlowly, or rapidly — unwilling stillFor you to try my dull, unlearned quill.Nor should I now, but that I’ve known you long;That you first taught me all the sweets of song:The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine;What swell’d with pathos, and what right divine:Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,And float along like birds o’er summer seas;Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness;Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve’s fair slenderness.Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudlyUp to its climax and then dying proudly?Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?Shew’d me that epic was of all the king,Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn’s ring?You too upheld the veil from Clio’s beauty,And pointed out the patriot’s stern duty;The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fellUpon a tyrant’s head. Ah! had I never seen,Or known your kindness, what might I have been?What my enjoyments in my youthful years,Bereft of all that now my life endears?And can I e’er these benefits forget?And can I e’er repay the friendly debt?No, doubly no; — yet should these rhymings please,I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease:For I have long time been my fancy feedingWith hopes that you would one day think the readingOf my rough verses not an hour misspent;Should it e’er be so, what a rich content!Some weeks have pass’d since last I saw the spiresIn lucent Thames reflected: — warm desiresTo see the sun o’er peep the eastern dimness,And morning shadows streaking into slimnessAcross the lawny fields, and pebbly water;To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter;To feel the air that plays about the hills,And sips its freshness from the little rills;To see high, golden corn wave in the lightWhen Cynthia smiles upon a summer’s night,And peers among the cloudlet’s jet and white,As though she were reclining in a bedOf bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed.No sooner had I stepp’d into these pleasuresThan I began to think of rhymes and measures:The air that floated by me seem’d to say“Write! thou wilt never have a better day.”And so I did. When many lines I’d written,Though with their grace I was not oversmitten,Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I’d betterTrust to my feelings, and write you a letter.Such an attempt required an inspirationOf a peculiar sort, — a consummation; — Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have beenVerses from which the soul would never wean:But many days have past since last my heartWas warm’d luxuriously by divine Mozart;By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden’d;Or by the song of Erin pierc’d and sadden’d:What time you were before the music sitting,And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.Since I have walk’d with you through shady lanesThat freshly terminate in open plains,And revel’d in a chat that ceased notWhen at night-fall among your books we got:No, nor when supper came, nor after that, — Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;No, nor till cordially you shook my handMid-way between our homes: — your accents blandStill sounded in my ears, when I no moreCould hear your footsteps touch the grav’ly floor.Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;You chang’d the footpath for the grassy plain.In those still moments I have wish’d you joysThat well you know to honour: — ”Life’s very toysWith him,” said I, “will take a pleasant charm;It cannot be that ought will work him harm.”These thoughts now come o’er me with all their might: — Again I shake your hand, — friend Charles, good night.

September, 1816.

SONNETS

I.

TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.

Many the wonders I this day have seen:  The sun, when first he kist away the tears  That fill’d the eyes of morn; — the laurel’d peersWho from the feathery gold of evening lean: — The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,  Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, —   Its voice mysterious, which whoso hearsMust think on what will be, and what has been.E’en now, dear George, while this for you I write,  Cynthia is from her silken curtains peepingSo scantly, that it seems her bridal night,  And she her half-discover’d revels keeping.But what, without the social thought of thee,Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?

II.

TO  * * * * * *

Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs  Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,  Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so wellWould passion arm me for the enterprize:But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;  No cuirass glistens on my bosom’s swell;  I am no happy shepherd of the dellWhose lips have trembled with a maiden’s eyes;Yet must I dote upon thee, — call thee sweet.  Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honied roses    When steep’d in dew rich to intoxication.Ah! I will taste that dew, for me ’tis meet,  And when the moon her pallid face discloses,    I’ll gather some by spells, and incantation.

III.

WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON.

What though, for showing truth to flatter’d state  Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,  In his immortal spirit, been as freeAs the sky-searching lark, and as elate.Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?  Think you he nought but prison walls did see,  Till, so unwilling, thou unturn’dst the key?Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate!In Spenser’s halls he strayed, and bowers fair,  Culling enchanted flowers; and he flewWith daring Milton through the fields of air:  To regions of his own his genius trueTook happy flights. Who shall his fame impair  When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?

IV.

HOW MANY BARDS GILD THE LAPSES OF TIME!

How many bards gild the lapses of time!  A few of them have ever been the food  Of my delighted fancy, — I could broodOver their beauties, earthly, or sublime:And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,  These will in throngs before my mind intrude:  But no confusion, no disturbance rudeDo they occasion; ’tis a pleasing chime.So the unnumber’d sounds that evening store;