A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,

In word, or sigh, or tear,

O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
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!
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 bedimm'd, but always seen;
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!

My genial spirits fail;

And what can these avail,

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
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

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,

Than that inanimate cold world allow'd

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;

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!

O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be;
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,

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,-
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.

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,
And fruits and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth;
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth:
But O! each visitation

Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth,
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,
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.

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality's dark dream!

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 rav'st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tarn, 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,
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, e'en 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;

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 loud!
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,

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.

"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;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice!

TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE

WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY.

HENCE that fantastic wantonness of woe,

O Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear!
To plunder'd want's half-shelter'd hovel go,
Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear
Moan haply in a dying mother's ear:

Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood

O'er the rank church-yard with sere elm-leaves strew'd,

Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part
Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs

The flocking flesh-birds scream'd! Then, while thy heart
Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims,

Know, (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind,)
What Nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal!

O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd,

All effortless thou leave life's common-weal

A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind.

1

TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME.

CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first
I scann'd that face of feeble infancy:
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst
All I had been, and all my child might be!
But when I saw it on its mother's arm,
And hanging at her bosom, (she the while
Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile,)
Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm
Impress'd a father's kiss: and, all beguiled
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,
I seem'd to see an angel-form appear,
'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild!
So, for the mother's sake the child was dear,
And dearer was the mother for the child.

TO THE RIVER OTTER.

DEAR native brook! wild streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have past,
What happy, and what mournful hours, since last
I skimm❜d the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,

But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing-plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that, vein'd with various dies,
Gleam'd through, thy bright transparence! On my way,
Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled.

Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
Ah! that once more I were a careless child!

WORK WITHOUT HOPE.

ALL Nature seems at work. Stags leave their lair-
The bees are stirring - birds are on the wing,
And Winter, slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And hope without an object cannot live.

[1827

LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION.

O'ER wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm rule,
And sun thee in the light of happy faces;

Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces
And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
For, as old Atlas on his broad neck places
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it, so
Do these upbear the little world below
Of Education,-Patience, Love and Hope.
Methinks I see them group'd, in seemly show,
The straighten'd arms upraised, the palms aslope,
And robes that, touching as adown they flow,
Distinctly blend, like snow emboss'd in snow.
O, part them never! If Hope prostrate lie,
Love too will sink and die.

But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive
From her own life that Hope is yet alive;
And, bending o'er with soul-transfusing eyes,

And the soft murmurs of the mother dove,

Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half-supplies:

Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love Yet haply there will come a weary day,

When overtask'd at length

Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way.
Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength,
Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,
And, both supporting, does the work of both.