Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, Even as a maid, whose stately brow The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd, Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, The black earth with brilliance rare. III. Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, And with the evening cloud, Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast, (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind Never grow sere, When rooted in the garden of the mind, Because they are the earliest of the year). In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest The eddying of her garments caught from thee The light of thy great presence; and the cope Of the half-attain'd futurity, Though deep not fathomless, Was cloven with the million stars which tremble O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. The illimitable years. Oh strengthen me, enlighten me! I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. IV. Come forth I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, The seven elms, the poplars four That stand beside my father's door, The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland. Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. Large dowries doth the raptured eye When first she is wed; And like a bride of old In triumph led, With music and sweet showers Of festal flowers, Unto the dwelling she must sway. Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, With royal frame-work of wrought gold; Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay, And foremost in thy various gallery Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls For the discovery And newness of thine art so pleased thee, That all which thou hast drawn of fairest Or boldest since, but lightly weighs With thee unto the love thou bearest Ever retiring thou dost gaze On the prime labour of thine early days: No matter what the sketch might be ; Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Overblown with murmurs harsh, Or even a lowly cottage whence we see Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh, Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity, The trenched waters run from sky to sky; Or a garden bower'd close With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, Or opening upon level plots Of crowned lilies, standing near Purple-spiked lavender : Whither in after life retired From brawling storms, From weary wind, With youthful fancy reinspired, |