O winged bark! how swift along the night Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by Lightly of that drear hour the memory, When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood, Unbonneted, and gazed upon the flood, Even till it seem'd a pleasant thing to die, To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave, Or take my portion with the winds that rave.
§ 203. Sonnet written under the Engraving of a Portrait of Rafael, painted by himself when he was young. L. HUNT.
RAFAEL! It must be he; we only miss [fair; Something which manhood gave him, and the A look still sweeter and more thoughtful air; But for the rest, 'tis every feature his,— The oval cheek, clear eye. mouth made to kiss, Terse, lightsome chin, and flush of gentle hair Clipped ere it loitered into ringlets there,- The beauty, the benignity, the bliss. How sweetly sure he looks! how unforlorn! There is but one such visage at a time; 'Tis like the budding of an age new born, Remembered youth, the cuckoo in the prime, The maid's first kiss, or any other thing Most lovely, and alone, and promising.
§ 204. Sonnet. The Nile. L. HUNT.
IT flows through old hushed Ægypt and its sands, [dream,
Like some grave, mighty thought threading And times and things, as in that vision, seem Keeping along it their eternal stands,— Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands That roamed through the young world, the glory extreme
Of high Sesostris, and that Southern beam, The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.
Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong, As of a world left empty of its throng, And the void weighs on us; and then we wake, And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along 'Twixt villages, and think how we shall take Our own calm journey on for human sake.
$ 205. Sonnet. On a sequestered Rivulet. CORNWALL.
THERE is no river in the world more sweet, Or fitter for a sylván poet's dream, Than this romantic, solitary stream, Over whose banks so many branches meet, Entangling-a more shady bower or neat Was never fashioned in a summer dream, Where Nymph or Naiad from the hot sunbeam Might hide, or in the waters cool her feet.
A lovelier rivulet was never seen Wandering amidst Italian meadows, where Clitumnus lapses from his fountain fair; Nor in that land where gods, 'tis said, have
Yet there Cephisus ran through olives green, And on its banks Aglaia bound her hair.
206. Song, Love. COLERIDGE. ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, Are all but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She leant against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listen'd to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve. I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story- An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.
She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace, For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face.
told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he woo'd The Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pin'd ; and, ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.
She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face! But when I told the cruel scorn That craz'd that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade, There came and look'd him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a fiend,
This miserable Knight!
And that, unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band, And sav'd from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land! And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vain; And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that craz'd his brain;
And that she nursed him in a cave; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay ;
His dying words but when I reach'd That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturb'd her soul with pity! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; The music, and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherish'd long! She wept with pity and delight, She blush'd with love and virgin shame; And, like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heav'd-she stept aside, As conscious of my look she stept- Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace; And, bending back her head, look'd up, And gazed upon my face.
"Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.
I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride. And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous bride. $207. Eclogue. The Old Mansion-House. SOUTHEY. Stranger. OLD friend! why, you seem bent on parish duty, Breaking the highway stones,-and 'tis a task Somewhat too hard, methinks,for age like yours! Old Man.
In right good earnest. Here's to be turf, they Round to the door.
trees too Stood in the court-
They've set about it All the front is gone; tell me, and a road There were some yew
Ay, Master! fine old trees! My grandfather could just remember back When they were planted there. It was my task To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me; [wall! All straight and smooth, and like a great green My poor old Lady many a time would come And tell me where to shear, for she had play'd In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride To keep them in their beauty. Plague, I say, On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs And your pert poplar trees;-I could as soon Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down!
Ah! so the new Squire thinks, And pretty work he makes of it! what 'tis To have a stranger come to an old house! Stranger.
Why yes! for one with such a weight of years Upon his back-I've lived here, man and boy, In this same parish, well nigh the full age Of man, being hard upon threescore and ten. It seems you know him not? I can remember, sixty years ago, The beautifying of this mansion here, When my late Lady's father, the old Squire, Came to the estate.
No, sir ; not I. They tell me he's expected daily now; But in my Lady's time he never came But once, for they were very distant kin. If he had play'd about here when a child In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries, And sate in the porch threading the jessamine flowers
Which fell so thick, he had not had the heart To mar all thus!
Stranger. Come-come! all is not wrong;
They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think They're demolish'd too,-To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps As if he could not see through casement glass! A comfort I sha'n't live to see it long. The very red-breasts, that so regular Came to my Lady for her morning crums. Wo'n't know the window now!
It did one good To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom. There was a sweet briar, too, that grew beside; My Lady loved at evening to sit there And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet, And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favorite dog,
She did not love him less that he was old And feeble, and he always had a place By the fire-side; and when he died at last She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. Ah! she was good to all! a woeful day "Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! Stranger.
They lost a friend then?
You're a stranger here, Or you wouldn't ask that question. Were they sick?
She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs She could have taught the doctors. Then at winter,
When weekly she distributed the bread In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear The blessings on her! and I warrant them They were a blessing to her when her wealth Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, sir! It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen Her Christinas kitchen,-how the blazing fire Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs So cheerful red,-and as for mistleoe,- The finest bough that grew in the country round [went Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale So bountiful about! a Christmas cask, And 'twas a noble one!-God help me, sir! But I shall never see such days again.
But sure all changes are not needs for the worse, My friend?
Mayhap they mayn't, sir;-for all that, All this from a child up, and now to lose it, I like what I've been used to. I remember As 'twas I go abroad, and only meet 'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left With men whose fathers I remember boys; The brook that used to run before my door, That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt To climb are down; and I see nothing now That tells me of old times,-except the stones In the church-yard. You are young, sir, and, I hope,
Have many years in store,-but pray to God You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. Stranger,
Well! well! you've one friend more than
you're aware of. [warrant If the Squire's taste don't suit with yours, I That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady Ere broach'd a better cask. You did not know
§ 208. To H. C.-Six years old. WORDSWORTH. O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought! Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, And fittest to unutterable thought The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; Thou fairy voyager! that dost float In such clear water, that thy boat May rather seem
To brood on air than on an earthly stream; Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, [gery; Where earth and heaven do make one ima- O blessed vision! happy child! That art so exquisitely wild,
I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
Things may be better yet than you suppose, Lord of thy house and hospitality; And you should hope the best. And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest Old Man. But when she sate within the touch of thee. It don't look well,-Oh! too industrious folly!
These alterations, sir! I'm an old man, And love the good old fashions; we don't find Old bounty in new houses. They've destroy'd All that my Lady loved! her favorite walk Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row Of elms behind the house, which meet a-top, VOL. VI. Nos. 91 & 92.
Oh! vain and causeless melancholy! Nature will either end thee quite; Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, Preserve for thee, by individual right, A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.
§ 209. Lines written while sailing in a Boat at Evening. WORDSWORTH.
How richly glows the water's breast Before us, tinged with evening hues, While, facing thus the crimson west, The boat her silent course pursues! And see how dark the backward stream! A little moment pass'd so smiling! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other loiterers beguiling.
Such views the youthful bard allure; But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colours shall endure Till peace go with him to the tomb. -And let him nurse his fond deceit, And what if he must die in sorrow! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?
$ 210. Remembrance of Collins, composed upon the Thames, near Richmond. WORDSWORTH.
GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide, O Thames! that other bards may see As lovely visions by thy side As now, fair river! come to me. O glide, fair stream! for ever so, Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, Till all our minds for ever flow, As thy deep waters now are flowing. Vain thought!-Yet be as now thou art, That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart, How bright, how solemn, how serene! Such as did once the poet bless, Who, murmuring here a later ditty, Could find no refuge from distress But in the milder grief of pity. Now let us, as we float along, For him suspend the dashing oar; And pray that never child of song May know that poet's sorrows more. How calm how still! the only sound, The dripping of the oar suspended! -The evening darkness gathers round, By virtue's holiest powers attended.
§ 211. Hester. LAMB.
WHEN maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavor.
A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed, And her together.
A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flush'd her spirit.
I know not by what name beside I shall it call-if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied,,
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet fore-warning?
§ 212. The old familiar Faces. LAMB.
I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces,
I loved a love once, fairest among women! Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces, Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood.
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwell
So might we talk of the old familiar facesHow some they have died, and some they have
left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
§ 213. The common Lot. MONTGOMERY. ONCE, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man:-and WHO was HE? -Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, That man resembled thee.
Unknown the region of his birth, The land in which he died unknown: His name has perished from the earth, This truth survives alone :-
That joy and grief, and hope and fear, Alternate triumph'd in his breast; His bliss and woe, a smile, a tear! -Oblivion hides the rest.
The bounding pulse, the languid limb, The changing spirits' rise and fall; We know that these were felt by him, For these are felt by all.
He suffer'd, but his pangs are o'er; Enjoy'd, but his delights are fled; Had friends,-his friends are now no more; And foes, his foes are dead.
He loved, but whom he loved the grave Hath lost in its unconscious womb: O she was fair :-but nought could save Her beauty from the tomb.
He saw whatever thou hast seen; Encounter'd all that troubles thee; He was whatever thou hast been; He is what thou shalt be.
The rolling seasons, day and night, Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Erewhile his portion, life and light, To him exist in vain.
The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky No vestige where they flew.
The annals of the human race, Their ruins since the world began,
Of HIм afford no other trace Than this,-THERE LIVED A MAN!
§ 214. Ode to the West Wind. SHELLEY,
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
[shed. Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce mænad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, [dirge The locks of the approaching storm. Thou Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: 0, hear!
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baia's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble, and despoil themselves: O, hear! IV.
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O, uncontrollable! if even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed
O, WILD West Wind, thou breath of autumn's As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. being, [dead Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed: Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter flee-A heavy weight of hours has chained and bow
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild spirit which art moving every where; Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!
[proud. One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and
V. What if my leaves are falling like its own! Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth And, by the incantation of this verse,
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