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But ere she from the church-door stepp'd,
She smiled and told us why; • It was a wicked woman's curse,"
Quoth she, “and what care I ?”
Dear Ellen did not weep at all,
But closelier did she cling, And turn'd her face, and look'd as if She saw some frightful thing.
Then harder, till her grasp at length
Did stipe like a convulsion! Alas! said she, we ne'er can be
Made happy by compulsion !
Within this arbor, which was still
With scarlet berries hung, Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, Just as the first bell rung.
"Tis sweet to hear a brook, 't is sweet
To hear the Sabbath-bell, 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,
Deep in a woody dell.
Late, late yestreen, I saw the new Moon, His limbs along the moss, his head
With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens. That brook e'en on a working day Might chatter one to sleep.
WELL! if the Bard was weather-wise, who made And he had pass'd a restless night,
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, And was not well in health ;
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence The women sat down by his side,
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes “ The sun peeps through the close thick leaves,
Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread) "A tiny sun, and it has got
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, Make up a glory, gay and bright,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast Round that small orb, so blue.'
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst
And sent my soul abroad, And then they argued of those rays,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, What color they might be:
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and Says this, “ they're mostly green;" says that,
live! “ They're amber-like to me.”
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion d grief, Were troubling Edward's rest;
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear-
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene, " A Mother too!” these self-same words Have I been gazing on the western sky, Did Edward mutter plain ;
And its peculiar tint of yellow green: His face was drawn back on itself,
And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Both groan'd at once, for both knew well
Now sparkling, now bedimm’d, but always seen: What thoughts were in his mind;
Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! fle sat upright; and ere the dream
My genial spirits fail,
And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavor,
Though I should gaze for ever,
On that green light that lingers in the west:
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within
IV. Darmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. Tomorrow! O Lady! we receive but what we give, and To-morrow! and To-morrow
And in our life alone does nature live :
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! Makest Devils' yule, with worse than wintry sung,
And would we aught behold, of higher worth, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Than that inanimate cold world allow'd
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to Frenzy bold ! Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,
What tell'st thou now about? A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
"T is of the Rushing of an Host in rout, Enveloping the Earth
With groans of trampled men, with smarting And from the soul itself must there be sent
woundsA sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, At once they groan with pain, and sh der with the Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence ! V. Opare of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, What this strong music in the soul may be!
With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is What, and wherein it doth exist,
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, 'Thuis beautiful and beauty-making power.
A tale of less affright,
And temper'd with delight,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,
'Tis of a little child Life, and Life's EMuence, Cloud at once and
Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, A new Earth and new Heaven,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother
hear. l'adreamt of by the sensual and the proud Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud
VIII. We in ourselves rejoice!
"T is midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! All melodies the echoes of that voice,
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, All colors a suffusion from that light.
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, VI.
Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping Earth. There was a time when, though my path was With light heart may she rise, rough,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, This joy within me dallied with distress,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice : And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
To her may all things live, from Pole to Pole Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :
Their life the eddying of her living soul ! For hope grew mund me, like the twining vine,
O simple spirit, guided froin above, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, But now afflictions bow me down to earth :
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
But oh! each visitation
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF But to be still and patient, all I can;
ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER “PASSAGE
OVER MOUNT GOTHARD."
And hail the Chapel ! bail the Platform wild !
Where Tell directed the avenging Dart,
With well-strung arm, that first preserved his Child
Then aim'd the arrow at the Tyrant's heart.
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream SPLENDOR's fondly foster'd child !
And did you hail the Platform wild, That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest Where once the Austrian fell without,
Beneath the shaft of Tell ?
Whence learnt you that heroic measure ? Op lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Light as a dream your days their circlets ran,
Enchanting music lulld your infant ear,
Detain'd your eye from nature · stately veste
That veiling strove to deck your charms divine,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
Thence learnt you that heroic measure.
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
ODE TO TRANQUILLITY.
TRANQUILLITY! thou better name
Than all the family of Fame! There crowd your finely-fibred frame,
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age All living faculties of bliss ;
To low intrigue, or factious rage ; And Genius to your cradle came,
For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth, His forehead wreathed with lambent flame,
To thee I gave my early youth, And bending low, with godlike kiss
And left the bark, and blest the stedfast shore, Breathed in a more celestial life;
Ere yet the Tempest rose and scared me with its roar But boasts not many a fair compeer A heart as sensitive to joy and fear?
Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife, On him but seldom, power divine, Some few, to nobler being wrought,
Thy spirit rests! Satiety
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope
And dire Remembrance interlope,
To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind :
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind
But me thy gentle hand will lead
At morning through the accustom'd mead; The sordid vices and the abject pains,
And in the sultry summer's heat Which evermore must be
Will build me up a mossy seat; The doom of Ignorance and Penury!
And when the gust of Autumn crowds Bur you, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform wild, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune Where once the Austrian fell
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon Beneath the shaft'of Tell! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
The feeling heart, the searching soul,
To thee I dedicate the whole !
The greatness of some future race,
Aloof with hermit-eye I scan Which Heaven and Nature bless,
The present works of present manI inay not vilely prostitute to those
A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, Whose Infants owe them less
Too foolish for a tear, 100 wicked for a smile! Than the poor Caterpillar owes
Its gaudy Parent Fly.
The Babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye,
TO A YOUNG FRIEND, Which you yourself created. Oh! delight!
ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE A second time to be a Mother,
Without the Mother's bitter groans :
COMPOSED IN 1796.
A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, The Mother of your infant's Soul!
But a green mountain variously up-piled, The Angel of the Earıh, who, while he guides Where o'er the jutting rocks sosi mosses creep, His chariot-planet round the goal of day,
Or color'd lichens with slow oozing weep; All trembling gazes on the Eye of God,
Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; A moment turn'd his awful face away ;
And 'mid the summer torrent’s gentle dash And as he view'd you, from his aspect sweet Dance brightend the red clusters of the ash; New influences in your being rose,
Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be Blest Intuitions and Communions fleet
guiled, With living Nature, in her joys and woes! Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see
Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, The shrine of social Liberty!
That rustling on the bushy clist above, O beautiful! O Nature's child!
With melancholy bleat of anxious love, *Twas thence you haild 'he Platform wild, Made meck inquiry for her wandering lamb