All this long eve, so balmy and serene, And its peculiar tint of yellow green: I see, not feel how beautiful they are! My genial spirits fail; IIL 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 : The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. IV. O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live: And from the soul itself must there be sent V. O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud— And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All colours a suffusion from that light. VI. 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 : Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, For not to think of what I needs must feel, From my own nature all the natural man— VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest without, 'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting woundsAt 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 tempered 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. VIII. 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, Joy lift her spirit, Joy attune her voice: To her may all things live, from pole to pole, O simple spirit, guided from above, SONNET. COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH OF A SON, SEPT. 20, 1796. Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) : We lived, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore. Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Did'st scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve, While we wept idly o'er thy little bier! FIRST PART OF CHRISTABEL. 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, And the owls have awaken'd the crowing cock, Tu-whit! -Tu-whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew. Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff bitch; From her kennel beneath the rock She maketh answer to the clock, Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; Is the night chilly and dark? The moon is behind, and at the full; The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, What makes her in the wood so late, A furlong from the castle gate? Of her own betrothed knight; Dreams that made her moan and leap |