« AnteriorContinuar »
O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of mc
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower A new Earth and new Heaven, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proudJoy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloudWe in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All colours a suffusion from that light.
There was a time when, though my path was rough,
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine But now afflictions bow me down to earth: Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth,
But oh! each visitation
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 manThis was my sole resource, my only plan: Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest without,
What a scream
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
What tell'st thou now about?
'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.
'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
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,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
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)
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,
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 lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The lady sprang up suddenly,
On the other side it seems to be
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
There she sees a damsel bright,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone: