I turn from you, and listen to the wind,* Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthen'd out That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest without, Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,† or blasted tree, 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, Makest 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? 'Tis of the rushing of a 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! *O wherefore did I let it haunt my mind, This dark distressful dream? I turn from it, and listen to the wind-1802. + Tairn is a small lake, generally if not always applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country. With many groans of men-1802. And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings-all is over It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and A tale of less affright, And temper'd with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 'Tis of a little child Upon a lonesome wild, [loud! Not far from home, but she hath lost her way: 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, Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping Earth. With light heart may she rise, Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,* Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; * Here followed in the original version these lines : "And sing his lofty song, and teach me to rejoice! O Edmund, friend of my devoutest choice, O raised from anxious dread and busy care Joy lifts thy spirit, joy attunes," &c.-1802. To her may all things live, from pole to pole, TO A FRIEND WHO HAD DECLARED HIS INTENTION OF WRITING NO MORE POETRY.* DEAR Charles! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I ween That Genius plunged thee in that wizard fount And promised for thee, that thou shouldst renounce Yes-thou wert plunged, but with forgetful hand To weave unwithering flowers! But take thou heed: And I have arrows + mystically dipt, * Printed in The Annual Anthology, Bristol, vol. ii. (1800). † Pind. Olymp, ii. 1. 156. Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead? Ghost of Mecenas! hide thy blushing face! Oh! for shame return! On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian mount, The illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility! 1796. * Verbatim from Burns' Dedication of his Poems to the Nobility and Gentry of the Caledonian Hunt. TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN FR INDIVIDUAL MIND.* RIEND of the wise! and teacher of the good! Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) Theme hard as high Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears And currents self-determined, as might seem, *The Prelude, commenced in the beginning of 1799 and completed in May, 1805, was read by Wordsworth to Coleridge after the return of the latter from Malta. This poem was not published until after the author's death in 1850.-ED. † Like the secret soul-1817. |