Smoothed for intoxication by the breath Of flowering bays, that I may die a death Of luxury, and my young spirit follow The morning sunbeams to the great Apollo, Like a fresh sacrifice; or if I can bear
The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fair Visions of all places: a bowery nook
Will be elysium-an eternal book
Whence I may copy many a lovely saying About the leaves, and flowers-about the playing Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid; And many a verse from so strange influence That we must ever wonder how and whence It came. Also imaginings will hover Round my fireside, and haply there discover Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander In happy silence, like the clear meander Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot, Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dress Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness, Write on my tablets all that was permitted, All that was for our human senses fitted. Then the events of this wide world I'd seize Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease Till at its shoulders it should proudly see Wings to find out an immortality.
Stop and consider! life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan? Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown ;
The reading of an ever-changing tale; The light uplifting of a maiden's veil; A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air ; A laughing schoolboy, without grief or care, Riding the springy branches of an elm.
O for ten years, that I may overwhelm Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed That my own soul has to itself decreed. Then will I pass the countries that I see In long perspective, and continually
Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll pass Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass, Feed upon apples red, and strawberries, And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees; Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places, To woo sweet kisses from averted faces-
Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white Into a pretty shrinking with a bite
As hard as lips can make it: till agreed,
A lovely tale of human life we'll read.
And one will teach a tame dove how it best May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest; Another, bending o'er her nimble tread, Will set a green robe floating round her head, And still will dance with ever varied ease, Smiling upon the flowers and the trees: Another will entice me on, and on
Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon; Till in the bosom of a leafy world We rest in silence, like two gems upcurled
In the recesses of a pearly shell.
And can I ever bid these joys farewell? Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, Where I may find the agonies, the strife
Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar, O'er sailing the blue cragginess, a car
And steeds with streamy manes-the charioteer Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear : And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly Wheel downward come they into fresher skies, Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes. Still downward with capacious whirl they glide; And now I see them on a green hill's side In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. The charioteer with wondrous gesture talks
To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear, Passing along before a dusky space
Made by some mighty oaks : as they would chase Some ever-fleeting music, on they sweep.
Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep: Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;
Some with their faces muffled to the ear
Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom, Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom; Some looking back, and some with upward gaze; Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways Flit onward now a lovely wreath of girls Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls; And now broad wings. Most awfully intent The driver of those steeds is forward bent, And seems to listen: O that I might know All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.
The visions all are fled-the car is fled Into the light heaven, and in their stead A sense of real things comes doubly strong, And, like a muddy stream, would bear along
My soul to nothingness: but I will strive Against all doubtings, and will keep alive
The thought of that same chariot, and the strange Journey it went.
Is there so small a range
In the present strength of manhood, that the high Imagination cannot freely fly
As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds, Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds Upon the clouds? Has she not shown us all? From the clear space of ether, to the small Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning Of Jove's large eyebrow, to the tender greening Of April meadows? Here her altar shone, E'en in this isle; and who could paragon The fervid choir that lifted up a noise Of harmony, to where it aye will poise Its mighty self of convoluting sound, Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, Eternally round a dizzy void?
Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloyed. With honours; nor had any other care Than to sing out and soothe their wavy hair.
Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism Nurtured by foppery and barbarism, Made great Apollo blush for this his land. Men were thought wise who could not understand His glories: with a puling infant's force They swayed about upon a rocking-horse, And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal souled! The winds of heaven blew, the ocean rolled Its gathering waves--ye felt it not. Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew Of summer nights collected still to make The morning precious: beauty was awake!
Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead To things ye knew not of,—were closely wed To musty laws lined out with wretched rule And compass vile: so that ye taught a school Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit, Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, Their verses tallied. Easy was the task : A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!
That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face, And did not know it,-no, they went about, Holding a poor, decrepit standard out, Marked with most flimsy mottoes, and in large The name of one Boileau !*
It is to hover round our pleasant hills!
Whose congregated majesty so fills
My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,
So near those common folk; did not their shames Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames Delight you? Did ye never cluster round Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound, And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu To regions where no more the laurel grew? Or did ye stay to give a welcoming To some lone spirits who could proudly sing Their youth away, and die? 'Twas even so: But let me think away those times of woe: Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathed Rich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathed
* A celebrated French poet and satirist. He wrote "L'Art poetique," Le Lutrin," &c. "Boileau is the analogue of Pope," says Hallam," in French literature. The Art of Poetry' has been the model of the Essay on Criticism. Few poems more resemble each other." He was born 1636, died 1711.
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