IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF
It is not to be thought of that the Flood a
Of British freedom, which, to the open seat
Thou faery 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, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;
O blessed vision! happy child! Thou 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.
Lord of thy house and hospitality; And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest But when she sate within the touch of
O too industrious folly!
O 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.
What hast thou to do with sorrow, Or the injuries of to-morrow? Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,
Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, Or to be trailed along the soiling earth; A gem that glitters while it lives, And no forewarning gives;
But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
Slips in a moment out of life.
IN youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy; But now my own delights I make,- My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake, Of Thee, sweet Daisy !
Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly decks his few gray hairs; Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
That she may sun thee;
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right; And Autumn, melancholy Wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane;
Pleased at his greeting thee again;
Yet nothing daunted.
Nor grieved if thou be set at nought: And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought When such are wanted.
Be violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose Proud be the rose, with rains and dew Her head impearling:
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed by many a claim
The Poet's darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie
Near the green holly,
And wearily at length should fare; He needs but look about, and there Thou art a friend at hand, to scar His melancholy.
A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour. Have I derived from thy sweet power
Some apprehension;
Some steady love; some brief delight Some memory that had taken flight: Some chime of fancy wrong or right;
If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to Thee should tur I drink out of an humbler urn
A lowlier pleasure:
The homely sympathy that heeds The common life our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure.
Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, When thou art up, alert and gay, Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits p With kindred gladness: And when, at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness.
And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing:
An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence, Coming one knows not how, nor whet Nor whither going.
A little cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy.
That thought comes next-and instantly The freak is over,
The shape will vanish-and behold A silver shield with boss of gold, That spreads itself, some faery bold In fight to cover!
I see thee glittering from afar- And then thou art a pretty star; Not quite so fair as many are
In heaven above thee!
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Sef-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;- May peace come never to his nest, Who shall reprove thee!
Se, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the bonos formerly paid to this flower. (Wordsworth.)
There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, (Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)
Lies gathered to his Father's side, Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied Some sad delight:
For he is safe, a quiet bed Hath early found among the dead, Harbored where none can be misled, Wronged, or distrest;
And surely here it may be said That such are blest.
And oh for Thee, by pitying grace Checked oft-times in a devious race, May He who halloweth the place Where Man is laid Receive thy Spirit in the embrace For which it prayed!
Sighing I turned away; but ere Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, Music that sorrow comes not near, A ritual hymn,
Chanted in love that casts out fear By Seraphim.
AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND
This delightful creature and her demeanor are particularly described in my Sister's Journal. (Wordsworth.)
SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head: And these gray rocks; that household lawn;
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay; a quiet road That holds in shelter thy Abode- In truth together do ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream ; Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! But, O fair Creature! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright, I bless Thee, Vision as thou art I bless thee with a human heart; God shield thee to thy latest years! Thee neither know I, nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
« AnteriorContinuar » |