Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground; Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE,
Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart.
PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day; Which stopped that band of travellers on their way, Ere they were lost within the shady wood
And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood For ever anchored in her sheltering bay.
Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noon-tide, Even, Do serve with all their changeful pageantry; Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given To one brief moment caught from fleeting time The appropriate calm of blest eternity.
THE fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade; The sweetest notes must terminate and die ; O Friend! thy flute has breathed a harmony Softly resounded through this rocky glade; Such strains of rapture as* the Génius played In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high ; He who stood visible to Mirza's eye, Never before to human sight betrayed. Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread! The visionary Arches are not there, Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas; Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, Whence I have risen, uplifted on the breeze † Of harmony, above all earthly care.
'WEAK is the will of Man, his judgment blind; 'Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays; 'Heavy is woe;-and joy, for human-kind, ‘A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!' Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days Who wants the glorious faculty assigned To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
* See the Vision of Mirza in the Spectator.
From which I have been lifted on the breeze.-Edit. 1815.
Imagination is that sacred power, Imagination lofty and refined:
'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower
Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
HAIL, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour! Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night; But studious only to remove from sight Day's mutable distinctions.—Ancient Power! Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower, To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen The self-same Vision which we now behold,
At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth; These mighty barriers, and the gulf between ;
The flood, the stars,- —a spectacle as old
As the beginning of the heavens and earth!
THE Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said,
Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art bright!" Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether spread
And penetrated all with tender light,
She cast away, and showed her fulgent head Uncovered; dazzling the Beholder's sight As if to vindicate her beauty's right,
Her beauty thoughtlessly disparagèd. Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown aside, Went floating from her, darkening as it went ; And a huge mass, to bury or to hide, Approached this glory of the firmament; Who meekly yields, and is obscured-content With one calm triumph of a modest pride.
How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood! An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks, And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks, Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks
At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,— When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,
Such place to me is sometimes like a dream
Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link, Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink, And leap at once from the delicious stream.
* Like to a bonny lass, who plays her pranks.-Edit. 1815.
WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go! Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,* Festively she puts forth in trim array;
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry ?-Neither friend nor foe She cares for; let her travel where she may, She finds familiar names, a beaten way Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark? And, almost as it was when ships were rare, (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!
EVEN as a dragon's eye that feels the stress Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp, So burns yon Taper 'mid a black recess Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless : The lake below reflects it not; the sky Muffled in clouds, affords no company To mitigate and cheer its loneliness. Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing Which sends so far its melancholy light,
* As vigorous as a lark at break of day.-Edit. 1815.
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