ΤΟ What can I do to drive away Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen, When every fair one that I saw was fair, Not keep me there: When, howe'er poor or particoloured things, And ever ready was to take her course Unintellectual, yet divine to me; Divine, I say! What sea-bird o'er the sea Winging along where the great water throes? How shall I do To get anew Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more Above, above The reach of fluttering Love, And make him cower lowly while I soar? Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism, A heresy and schism Foisted into the canon law of love; No, wine is only sweet to happy men; More dismal cares Seize on me unawares; Where shall I learn to get my peace again? 1819. Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore, Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods, Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind, O for some sunny spell To dissipate the shadows of this hell! Say they are gone,-with the new dawning light Steps forth my lady bright! O, let me once more rest My soul upon that dazzling breast! Let once again these aching arms be placed, The tender gaolers of thy waist! And let me feel that warm breath here and there, To spread a rapture in my very hair; O the sweetness of the pain! Give me those lips again! Enough! Enough! it is enough for me JOHN CLARE. 1793 ["Poems, Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery." 1820.] THE FIRST OF MAY. A BALLAD. FAIR blooms the rose upon the green, Pretending to excel; But who another rose has seen, A different tale can tell. The morning smiles, the lark's begun Be cloudless, skies! look out, bright sun, Though graceful round the maidens move, Soon shall they own my absent love Go, wake your shepherdess, ye lambs! Chide her neglect, ye hoarser dams! Ye happy swains, with each a bride, ་ While slighted maids despaired and sighed, Dry up, ye dews! nor threatening hing, Ye birds! with double vigour sing, Welcome, sun! the dews are fled, The daisy nauntles up its head, Why waits my love so long? As flowrets fade, the pleasures bloom, The day steals on, and showers may come : What now, ye fearful, cringing sheep! No ladies tread our humble green: I witness your mistaken queen CHARLES WOLFE. 1791-1823. SONG. IF I had thought thou could'st have died, That thou could'st mortal be: And still upon that face I look, And think 't will smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain! But when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary, thou art dead! If thou would'st stay e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; |