Chapter XX: Book XXII: The Visit Concluded (9)

’Tis by Contrast we shine; without Withers and Prynne,
What had Butler or Wits of that Century been?
Or how, without Dunces, had Dryden or Pope
The strength of their great Reputation kept up?
The Pleasures we share from the Dawning of Light
Are doubled by Thoughts of its following Night;
And Virtue and Sweetness like yours shall repay us
For poring so long over Satan’s Affairs.
At your Company then do not think to repine:
You the fairer appear—for by Contrast we shine. 10
What a Life, my dear Maid, do the Heavens decree
For the Dreamers of Dreams, for the Learned—for me:
Where pale Disappointment awakes to molest
The Study-vex’d Head, and the Sorrow-torn Breast.
Pity much, though you blame, the dull Spleen of your Swain,
Who has Cause to deplore and, he thinks, to complain:
That Fortune has soil’d the gay Dress of each Dream;
That Time has o’erthrown every fairy-built Scheme;
That thinking has slacken’d the Force of his Nerves,
And his Study has met with——the Fate it deserves. 20
What a Plague was my Meaning to add to my own
The Cares of a Kind which I need not have known!
When Nature and Fortune had given their Part,
’Twas stupid to borrow Dejection from Art,
And, with Trouble a pretty large Portion before,
To pilfer Perplexities out of her Store.
See the Fate of Ambition—contented with Rhyme,
I had softened the Features of Sorrow and Time;
Had play’d with the Evils I might not refuse,
And soften’d their Frowns with the Tears of the Muse; 30
Had mov’d in Life’s Path with a Sigh and a Song,
And laugh’d at her Rubs as I stumbled along.
But, smitten with Science, I’ve laboured to lay
A thousand impediments more in my way;
And, because my poor Muse was too gentle a Guide
To smooth the rough Way, and to sing by my Side,
I’ve coveted Learning, a dangerous Thing
To drag through the Road, and who never could sing.
Of Substance I’ve thought, and the various Disputes
On the Nature of Man, and the Notions of Brutes; 40
Of simple and complex Ideas I’ve read,
How they rose into Life and spring up in my Head;
That the Frolicks I love, and the Fashions I hate,
Are from Causes without, and they rule not innate;
I’ve studied with stupid Attention and Skill
The Destiny’s Law, and the Bounds of the Will;
Of Systems confuted, and Systems explain’d;
Of Science disputed, and Tenets maintain’d;
How Matter and Spirit dissent or unite;
How vary the Natures of Fire and of Light; 50
How Bodies excentric, concentric shall be;
How Authors divide where they seem to agree;
How dissenting unite, by a Touch of the Quill
Which bodies a Meaning, in what Form they will:
These and such Speculations, on these Kind of Things,
Have robb’d my poor Muse of her Plume and her Wings;
Consum’d the Phlogiston you us’d to admire;
The Spirit extracted, extinguished the Fire;
Let out all the Aether so pure and refin’d,
And left but a mere Caput-Mortuum behind. 60
Ah, Priestley! thou Foe to my Numbers, what need
To shock my poor Muses? Thou dost not my Creed,
With Schemes, Dissertations, and Arguments strong
Which I know not how right, and I care not how wrong.
Thou great Necessarian, must I suppose
The Flight of my Verse is o’er rul’d by thy prose;
And that Matters have been unavoidably led,
That thou must have written, and I must have read?
’Tis certain—for what but a Bias of Fate
Could have tied me so long to the Subjects I hate? 70
O! blest be the Time, when, my Mira, we stray’d
Where the Nightingale perch’d, and the wanton winds play’d;
Where these were the Secrets of Nature we knew,
That her Roses were red, and her Vi’lets were blue;
That soft was the Gloom of the Summer-swell’d shade,
And melting the Fall of the dying Cascade.
Blest, the Song shall repeat, be the Pleasures that reign
In the plenty-prest Vale, on the green-vested Plain!
Give Locke to the Winds, and lay Hume on the Fire;
Let Metaphysicians in Darkness expire, 80
And Fatalists, Fabulists, Logicians fall by
The Laws which Necessity modulates all by;
Let the Slumber of Sense, and the Silence of Spleen,
Lay hold upon Priestley, that learned Machine;
Or, what will to us, my dear Maid, be the same,
May we cease to admire each ostensible Name,
And, blest with those Pleasures the Muses desire,
See Learning, unenvied, to Students retire!

[FROM BELVOIR CASTLE.]

[About 1782–3.]

Oh! had I but a little hut
That I might hide my head in;
Where never guest might dare molest,
Unwelcome or unbidden.

I’d take the jokes of other folks
And mine should then succeed ’em;
Nor would I chide a little pride,
Or heed a little freedom.

THE LADIES OF THE LAKE.

[Normanston, 1785.]

Shall I, who oft have woo’d the Muse
For gentle Ladies’ sake,
So fair a theme as this refuse—
The Ladies of the Lake?

Hail, happy pair! ’tis yours to share
Life’s elegance and ease:
The bliss of wealth without the care,
The will and power to please—

To please, but not alone our eyes,
Nor yet alone our mind; 10
Your taste, your goodness, charm the wise—
Your manners all mankind.

The pleasant scenes that round you glow,
Like caskets fraught with gold,
Though beauteous in themselves, yet owe
Their worth to what they hold.

Trees may be found, and lakes, as fair;
Fresh lawns, and gardens green;
But where again the Sister-pair
Who animate the scene? 20

Where sense of that superior kind,
Without man’s haughty air?
And where, without the trifling mind,
The softness of the fair?

Folly, with wealth, may idly raise
Her hopes to shine like you,
And humble flattery sound her praise,
Till she believes it true;

But wealth no more can give that grace
To souls of meaner kind, 30
Than summer’s fiery sun can chase
Their darkness from the blind.

But drop, you’ll say, the useless pen!
Reluctant, I obey;
Yet let me take it once again,
If not to praise, to pray:

That you, with partial grace, may deign
This poor attempt to take,
And I may oft behold again
The Ladies of the Lake. 40

INFANCY—A FRAGMENT.

Who on the new-born light can back return,
And the first efforts of the soul discern—
Waked by some sweet maternal smile, no more
To sleep so long or fondly as before?
No! Memory cannot reach, with all her power,
To that new birth, that life-awakening hour.
No! all the traces of her first employ
Are keen perceptions of the senses’ joy,
And their distaste—what then could they impart?—
That figs were luscious, and that rods had smart. 10
But, though the Memory in that dubious way
Recalls the dawn and twilight of her day,
And thus encounters, in the doubtful view,
With imperfection and distortion too:
Can she not tell us, as she looks around,
Of good and evil, which the most abound?
Alas! and what is earthly good? ’tis lent
Evil to hide, to soften, to prevent,
By scenes and shows that cheat the wandering eye,
While the more pompous misery passes by— 20
Shifts and amusements that awhile succeed;
And heads are turn’d, that bosoms may not bleed.
For what is Pleasure, that we toil to gain?
’Tis but the slow or rapid flight of Pain.
Set Pleasure by, and there would yet remain,
For every nerve and sense the sting of Pain:
Set Pain aside, and fear no more the sting,
And whence your hopes and pleasures can ye bring?
No! there is not a joy beneath the skies,
That from no grief nor trouble shall arise. 30
Why does the Lover with such rapture fly
To his dear mistress?—He shall show us why:—
Because her absence is such cause of grief
That her sweet smile alone can yield relief.—
Why, then, that smile is Pleasure!—True, yet still
’Tis but the absence of the former ill:
For, married, soon at will he comes and goes; }
Then pleasures die, and pains become repose, }
And he has none of these, and therefore none of those. }
Yes! looking back as early as I can, 40}
I see the griefs that seize their subject Man; }
That in the weeping Child their early reign began. }
Yes! though Pain softens, and is absent since,
He still controls me like my lawful prince.
Joys I remember, like phosphoric light
Or squibs and crackers on a gala night.
Joys are like oil: if thrown upon the tide
Of flowing life, they mix not, nor subside.
Griefs are like waters on the river thrown:
They mix entirely, and become its own. 50
Of all the good that grew of early date,
I can but parts and incidents relate:
A guest arriving, or a borrow’d day
From school, or schoolboy triumph at some play:
And these from Pain may be deduced; for these
Removed some ill—and hence their power to please.
But it was Misery stung me in the day
Death of an infant sister made a prey;
For then first met and moved my early fears,
A father’s terrors, and a mother’s tears. 60
Though greater anguish I have since endured—
Some heal’d in part, some never to be cured:
Yet was there something in that first-born ill,
So new, so strange, that memory feels it still!
_That_ my first grief: but, oh! in after-years
Were other deaths, that call’d for other tears.
No! that I cannot, that I dare not, paint— }
That patient sufferer, that enduring saint, }
Holy and lovely—but all words are faint. }
But here I dwell not—let me, while I can, 70
Go to the Child, and lose the suffering Man!
Sweet was the morning’s breath, the inland tide, }
And our boat gliding, where alone could glide }
Small craft—and they oft touch’d on either side. }
It was my first-born joy. I heard them say,
“Let the child go; he will enjoy the day.”
For children ever feel delighted when
They take their portion, and enjoy with men.
Give him the pastime that the old partake,
And he will quickly top and taw forsake. 80
The linnet chirp’d upon the furze as well,
To my young sense, as sings the nightingale.
Without was paradise—because within
Was a keen relish, without taint of sin.
A town appear’d—and, where an infant went,
Could they determine, on themselves intent?
I lost my way, and my companions me,
And all, their comforts and tranquillity.
Mid-day it was, and, as the sun declined,
The good, found early, I no more could find 90
The men drank much, to whet the appetite; }
And, growing heavy, drank to make them light; }
Then drank to relish joy, then further to excite. }
Their cheerfulness did but a moment last;
Something fell short, or something overpast.
The lads play’d idly with the helm and oar, }
And nervous women would be set on shore, }
Till “civil dudgeon” grew, and peace would smile no more. }
Now on the colder water faintly shone
The sloping light—the cheerful day was gone; 100
Frown’d every cloud, and from the gather’d frown
The thunder burst, and rain came pattering down.
My torpid senses now my fears obey’d,
When the fierce lightning on the eye-balls play’d.
Now, all the freshness of the morning fled,
My spirits burden’d, and my heart was dead;
The female servants show’d a child their fear,
And men, full wearied, wanted strength to cheer;
And when, at length, the dreaded storm went past,
And there was peace and quietness at last, 110
’Twas not the morning’s quiet—it was not
Pleasure revived, but Misery forgot;
It was not Joy that now commenced her reign,
But mere relief from wretchedness and Pain.
So many a day, in life’s advance, I knew;
So they commenced, and so they ended too.
All Promise they—all Joy as they began!
But Joy grew less, and vanish’d as they ran!
Errors and evils came in many a form—
The mind’s delusion, and the passions’ storm. 120
The promised joy, that like this morning rose,
Broke on my view, then clouded at its close;
E’en Love himself, that promiser of bliss,
Made his best days of pleasure end like this:
He mix’d his bitters in the cup of joy
Nor gave a bliss uninjured by alloy.

THE MAGNET.

Why force the backward heart on love,
That of itself the flame might feel?
When you the Magnet’s power would prove,
Say, would you strike it on the Steel?

From common flints you may by force
Excite some transient sparks of fire;
And so, in natures rude and coarse,
Compulsion may provoke desire.

But when, approaching by degrees,
The Magnet to the Steel draws nigh, 10
At once they feel, each other seize,
And rest in mutual sympathy.

So must the Lover find his way
To move the heart he hopes to win—
Must not in distant forms delay—
Must not in rude assaults begin.

For such attractive power has Love,
We justly each extreme may fear:
’Tis lost when we too distant prove,
And when we rashly press too near. 20

STORM AND CALM.

(From the Album of the Duchess of Rutland.)

At sea when threatening tempests rise,
When angry winds the waves deform,
The seaman lifts to Heaven his eyes,
And deprecates the dreaded storm:
“Ye furious powers, no more contend;
Ye winds and seas, your conflict end;
And on the mild subsiding deep,
Let Fear repose and Terror sleep!”

At length the waves are hush’d in peace,
O’er flying clouds the sun prevails; 10
The weary winds their efforts cease,
And fill no more the flagging sails;
Fix’d to the deep the vessel rides
Obedient to the changing tides;
No helm she feels, no course she keeps,
But on the liquid marble sleeps.

Sick of a Calm the sailor lies,
And views the still, reflecting seas;
Or, whistling to the burning skies,
He hopes to wake the slumbering breeze. 20
The silent noon, the solemn night,
The same dull round of thoughts excite;
Till, tired of the revolving train,
He wishes for the Storm again.

Thus, when I felt the force of Love,
When all the passion fill’d my breast—
When, trembling, with the storm I strove,
And pray’d, but vainly pray’d, for rest:
’Twas tempest all, a dreadful strife
For ease, for joy, for more than life: 30
’Twas every hour to groan and sigh
In grief, in fear, in jealousy.

I suffer’d much, but found at length
Composure in my wounded heart;
The mind attain’d its former strength,
And bade the lingering hopes depart;
Then Beauty smiled, and I was gay,
I view’d her as the cheerful day;
And, if she frown’d, the clouded sky
Had greater terrors for mine eye. 40

I slept, I waked, and, morn and eve,
The noon, the night appear’d the same;
No thought arose the soul to grieve,
To me no thought of pleasure came;
Doom’d the dull comforts to receive
Of wearied passions still and tame.—
“Alas!” I cried, when years had flown—
“Must no awakening joy be known?
Must never Hope’s inspiring breeze
Sweep off this dull and torpid ease— 50
Must never Love’s all-cheering ray
Upon the frozen fancy play—
Unless they seize the passive soul,
And with resistless power control?
Then let me all their force sustain,
And bring me back the Storm again!”

SATIRE.

I love not the satiric Muse:
No man on earth would I abuse;
Nor with empoison’d verses grieve
The most offending son of Eve.
Leave him to law, if he have done
What injures any other son!
It hardens man to see his name
Exposed to public mirth or shame;
And rouses, as it spoils his rest,
The baser passions of his breast. 10

Attack a book—attack a song—
You will not do essential wrong;
You may their blemishes expose,
And yet not be the writer’s foes.
But, when the man you thus attack,
And him expose with critic art,
You put a creature to the rack—
You wring, you agonise, his heart.
No farther honest Satire can
In all her enmity proceed, 20
Than, passing by the wicked Man,
To execrate the wicked Deed.

If so much virtue yet remain
That he would feel the sting and pain,
That virtue is a reason why
The Muse her sting should not apply.
If no such Virtue yet survive,
What is your angry Satire worth,
But to arouse the sleeping hive,
And send the raging Passions forth, 30
In bold, vindictive, angry flight,
To sting wherever they alight?

[THE NEW SAMARITAN.]

A weary Traveller walk’d his way,
With grief and want and pain opprest.
His looks were sad, his locks were grey;
He sought for food, he sigh’d for rest.

A wealthy grazier pass’d—“Attend,”
The sufferer cried—“some aid allow!”—
“Thou art not of my parish, Friend;
Nor am I in mine office now.”

He dropt, and more impatient pray’d—
A mild adviser heard the word: 10
“Be patient, Friend!” he kindly said,
“And wait the leisure of the Lord.”

Another comes!—“Turn, stranger, turn!”
“Not so!” replied a voice: “I mean
“The candle of the Lord to burn
With mine own flock on Save-all Green;

“To war with Satan, thrust for thrust;
To gain my lamb he led astray;
The Spirit drives me: on I must—
Yea, woe is me, if I delay!” 20

But WOMAN came! by Heaven design’d
To ease the heart that throbs with pain—
She gave relief—abundant—kind—
And bade him go in peace again.

BELVOIR CASTLE.

(Written at the request of the Duchess Dowager of Rutland, and inscribed
in her Album, 1812.)

When native Britons British lands possess’d—
Their glory freedom, and their blessing rest—
A powerful chief this lofty Seat survey’d,
And here his mansion’s strong foundation laid.
In his own ground the massy stone he sought,
From his own woods the rugged timbers brought,
Rudeness and greatness in his work combined—
An humble taste with an aspiring mind.
His herds the vale, his flocks the hills, o’erspread;
Warriors and vassals at his table fed; 10
Sons, kindred, servants, waited on his will,
And hail’d his mansion on the mighty hill.
In a new age a Saxon Lord appear’d,
And on the lofty base his dwelling rear’d.
Then first the grand but threatening form was known,
And to the subject-vale a Castle shown,
Where strength alone appear’d—the gloomy wall
Enclosed the dark recess, the frowning hall;
In chilling rooms the sudden fagot gleam’d;
On the rude board the common banquet steam’d. 20
Astonish’d peasants fear’d the dreadful skill
That placed such wonders on their favourite hill;
The soldier praised it as he march’d around,
And the dark building o’er the valley frown’d.
A Norman Baron, in succeeding times,
Here, while the minstrel sang heroic rhymes,
In feudal pomp appear’d. It was his praise
A loftier dome with happier skill to raise;
His halls, still gloomy, yet with grandeur rose;
Here friends were feasted—here confined were foes. 30
In distant chambers, with her female train,
Dwelt the fair partner of his awful reign.
Curb’d by no laws, his vassal-tribe he sway’d—
The Lord commanded, and the slave obey’d.
No soft’ning arts in those fierce times were found,
But rival Barons spread their terrors round;
Each, in the fortress of his power, secure,
Of foes was fearless, and of soldiers sure;
And here the chieftain, for his prowess praised,
Long held the Castle that his might had raised. 40
Came gentler times—the Barons ceased to strive
With kingly power, yet felt their pomp survive;
Impell’d by softening arts, by honour charm’d,
Fair ladies studied and brave heroes arm’d.
The Lord of Belvoir then his Castle view’d,
Strong without form, and dignified but rude;
The dark long passage, and the chambers small,
Recess and secret hold, he banish’d all;
Took the rude gloom and terror from the place,
And bade it shine with majesty and grace. 50
Then arras first o’er rugged walls appear’d;
Bright lamps at eve the vast apartment cheer’d;
In each superior room were polish’d floors,
Tall ponderous beds, and vast cathedral doors.
All was improved within, and then below
Fruits of the hardier climes were taught to grow;
The silver flagon on the table stood,
And to the vassal left the horn and wood.
Dress’d in his liveries, of his honours vain,
Came at the Baron’s call a menial train— 60
Proud of their arms, his strength and their delight;
Loud in the feast, and fearless in the fight.
Then every eye the stately fabric drew
To every part; for all were fair to view.
The powerful chief the far-famed work descried,
And heard the public voice that waked his pride.
Pleased he began—“About, above, below,
What more can wealth command, or science show?
Here taste and grandeur join with massy strength;
Slow comes perfection, but it comes at length. 70
Still must I grieve: these halls and towers sublime,
Like vulgar domes, must feel the force of time;
And, when decay’d, can future days repair
What I in these have made so strong and fair?
My future heirs shall want of power deplore,
When Time destroys what Time cannot restore.”
Sad in his glory, serious in his pride,
At once the chief exulted and he sigh’d;
Dreaming he sigh’d, and still, in sleep profound,
His thoughts were fix’d within the favourite bound: 80
When lo! another Castle rose in view,
That in an instant all his pride o’erthrew.
In that he saw what massy strength bestows,
And what from grace and lighter beauty flows—
Yet all harmonious; what was light and free,
Robb’d not the weightier parts of dignity;
Nor what was ponderous hid the work of grace,
But all were just, and all in proper place.
Terrace on terrace rose, and there was seen
Adorn’d with flowery knolls the sloping green, 90
Bounded by balmy shrubs from climes unknown,
And all the nobler trees that grace our own.
Above, he saw a giant-tower ascend,
That seem’d the neighbouring beauty to defend
Of some light graceful dome—“And this,” he cried,
“Awakes my pleasure, though it wounds my pride.”
He saw apartments where appear’d to rise
What seem’d as men, and fix’d on him their eyes—
Pictures that spoke; and there were mirrors tall,
Doubling each wonder by reflecting all. 100
He saw the genial board, the massy plate,
Grace unaffected, unencumber’d state;
And something reach’d him of the social arts,
That soften manners, and that conquer hearts.
Wrapt in amazement, as he gazed he saw
A form of heav’nly kind, and bow’d in awe:
The spirit view’d him with benignant grace,
And styled himself the Genius of the Place.
“Gaze, and be glad!” he cried, “for this, indeed,
Is the fair Seat that shall to thine succeed, 110
When these famed kingdoms shall as sisters be,
And one great sovereign rule the powerful three.
Then yon rich Vale, far stretching to the west,
Beyond thy bound, shall be by _one_ possess’d;
Then shall true grace and dignity accord—
With splendour, ease—the Castle with its Lord.”
The Baron waked—“It was,” he cried, “a view
Lively as truth, and I will think it true.
Some gentle spirit to my mind has brought
Forms of fair works to be hereafter wrought; 120
But yet of mine a part will then remain,
Nor will that Lord its humbler worth disdain;
Mix’d with his mightier pile shall mine be found,
By him protected, and with his renown’d;
He who its full destruction could command, }
A part shall save from the destroying hand, }
And say, ‘It long has stood—still honour’d let it stand!’” }

THE WORLD OF DREAMS.

I.

And is thy soul so wrapt in sleep?
Thy senses, thy affections, fled?
No play of fancy thine, to keep
Oblivion from that grave, thy bed?
Then art thou but the breathing dead;
I envy, but I pity too:
The bravest may _my_ terrors dread,
The happiest fain _my_ joys pursue.

II.

Soon as the real World I lose,
Quick Fancy takes her wonted way, 10
Or Baxter’s sprites my soul abuse—
For how it is I cannot say,
Nor, to what powers a passive prey,
I feel such bliss, I fear such pain;
But all is gloom, or all is gay,
Soon as th’ ideal World I gain.

III.

Come, then, I woo thee, sacred Sleep!
Vain troubles of the world, farewell!
Spirits of Ill! your distance keep—
And in your own dominions dwell, 20
Ye, the sad emigrants from hell!
Watch, dear seraphic beings, round,
And these black Enemies repel;
Safe be my soul, my slumbers sound!

IV.

In vain I pray! It is my sin
That thus admits the shadowy throng.
Oh! now they break tumultuous in—
Angels of darkness fierce and strong!
Oh! I am borne of fate along;
My soul, subdued, admits the foe, 30
Perceives and yet endures the wrong,
Resists, and yet prepares to go.

V.

Where am I now? and what to meet?
Where I have been entrapt before:
The wicked city’s vilest street—
I know what I must now explore.
The dark-brow’d throng, more near and more,
With murderous looks are on me thrust;
And lo! they ope the accursed door,
And I must go—I know I must! 40

VI.

That female fiend!—Why is she there?
Alas! I know her.—Oh, begone!
Why is that tainted bosom bare?
Why fix’d on me that eye of stone?
Why have they left us thus alone?
I saw the deed—why then appear?
Thou art not form’d of blood and bone!
Come not, dread being, come not near!

VII.

So! all is quiet, calm, serene;
I walk a noble mansion round— 50
From room to room, from scene to scene,
I breathless pass, in gloom profound;
No human shape, no mortal sound—
I feel an awe, I own a dread,
And still proceed—nor stop nor bound—
And all is silent, all is dead.

VIII.

Now I’m hurried, borne along,
All is business! all alive!
Heavens! how mighty is the throng,
Voices humming like a hive! 60
Through the swelling crowd I strive,
Bustling forth, my way to trace;
Never fated to arrive
At the still-expected place.

IX.

Ah me! how sweet the morning sun
Deigns on yon sleepy town to shine!
How soft those far-off rivers run—
Those trees their leafy heads decline!
Balm-breathing zephyrs, all divine,
Their health-imparting influence give: 70
Now, all that earth allows is mine—
Now, now I dream not, but I live.

X.

My friend, my brother, lost in youth,
I meet in doubtful, glad surprise;
In conscious love, in fearless truth;
What pleasures in the meeting rise!
Ah! brief enjoyment!—Pleasure dies
E’en in its birth, and turns to pain:
He meets me with hard glazèd eyes!
He quits me—spurns me—with disdain! 80

XI.

I sail the sea, I walk the land;
In all the world am I alone:
Silent I pace the sea-worn sand,
Silent I view the princely throne;
I listen heartless for the tone
Of winds and waters, but in vain;
Creation dies without a groan;
And I without a hope remain!

XII.

Unnumber’d riches I behold;
Glories untasted I survey— 90
My heart is sick, my bosom cold,
Friends! neighbours! kindred! where are they,
In the sad, last, long, endless day:
When I can neither pray nor weep,
Doom’d o’er the sleeping world to stray,
And not to die, and not to sleep?

XIII.

Beside the summer sea I stand,
Where the slow billows swelling shine.
How beautiful this pearly sand,
That waves, and winds, and years refine! 100
Be this delicious quiet mine—
The joy of youth, so sweet before,
When I could thus my frame recline,
And watch th’ entangled weeds ashore!

XIV.

Yet, I remember not that sea,
That other shore on yonder side:
Between them narrow bound must be,
If equal rise th’ opposing tide—
Lo! lo! they rise—and I abide
The peril of the meeting flood: 110
Away, away, my footsteps slide—
I pant upon the clinging mud!

XV.

Oh, let me now possession take
Of this—it cannot be a dream.
Yes! now the soul must be awake—
These pleasures are—they do not seem.
And is it true? Oh joy extreme!
All whom I loved, and thought them dead,
Far down in Lethe’s flowing stream,
And, with them, life’s best pleasures fled: 120

XVI.

Yes, many a tear for them I shed—
Tears that relieve the anxious breast;
And now, by heavenly favour led,
We meet—and One, the fairest, best,
Among them—ever-welcome guest,
Within the room, that seem’d destroy’d—
This room endear’d, and still possess’d,
By this dear party still enjoy’d!

XVII.

Speak to me! speak! that I may know
I am thus happy!—dearest, speak! 130
Those smiles that haunt fond memory show!
Joy makes us doubtful, wavering, weak;
But yet ’tis joy—And all I seek
Is mine! What glorious day is this!
Now let me bear with spirit meek
An hour of pure and perfect bliss.

XVIII.

But do ye look indeed as friends?
Is there no change? Are [ye not] cold?
Oh! I do dread that Fortune lends
Fictitious good!—that I behold, 140
To lose, these treasures, which of old
Were all my glory, all my pride:
May not these arms that form infold?
Is all affection asks denied?

XIX.

Say, what is this?—How are we tried
In this sad world!—I know not these—
All strangers, none to me allied—
Those aspects blood and spirit freeze:
Dear forms, my wandering judgment spare;
And thou, most dear, these fiends disarm, 150
Resume thy wonted looks and air,
And break this melancholy charm!

XX.

And are they vanish’d? Is she lost?
Shall never day that form restore?
Oh! I am all by fears engross’d;
Sad truth has broken in once more,
And I the brief delight deplore.
How durst they such resemblance take?
Heavens! with what grace the mask they wore!
Oh, from what visions I awake! 160

XXI.

Once more, once more upon the shore!
Now back the rolling ocean flows:
The rocky bed now far before
On the receding water grows—
The treasures and the wealth it owes
To human misery—all in view;
Fate all on me at once bestows,
From thousands robb’d and murder’d too.

XXII.

But, lo! whatever I can find
Grows mean and worthless as I view: 170
They promise, but they cheat the mind,
As promises are born to do.
How lovely every form and hue,
Till seized and master’d—Then arise,
For all that admiration drew,
All that our senses can despise!

XXIII.

Within the basis of a tower,
I saw a plant—it graced the spot;
There was within nor wind nor shower,
And this had life that flowers have not. 180
I drew it forth—Ah, luckless lot!
It was the mandrake; and the sound
Of anguish deeply smother’d shot
Into my breast with pang profound.

XXIV.

“I would I were a soaring bird,”
Said Folly, “and I then would fly.”
Some mocking Muse or Fairy heard—
“You can but fall—suppose you try!
And, though you may not mount the sky,
You will not grovel in the mire.” 190
Hail, words of comfort! Now can I
Spurn earth, and to the air aspire.

XXV.

And this, before, might I have done
If I had courage—that is all.
’Tis easier now to soar than run;
Up! up!—we neither tire nor fall.
Children of dust, be yours to crawl
On the vile earth!—while, happier, I
Must listen to an inward call,
That bids me mount, that makes me fly. 200

XXVI.

I tumble from the loftiest tower,
Yet evil have I never found;
Supported by some favouring power,
I come in safety to the ground.
I rest upon the sea, the sound
Of many waters in mine ear;
Yet have no dread of being drown’d,
But see my way, and cease to fear.

XXVII.

Awake, there is no living man
Who may my fixed spirit shake; 210
But, sleeping, there is one who can,
And oft does he the trial make.
Against his might resolves I take,
And him oppose with high disdain;
But quickly all my powers forsake
My mind, and I resume my chain.

XXVIII.

I know not how, but I am brought
Into a large and Gothic hall,
Seated with those I never sought—
Kings, Caliphs, Kaisers—silent all; 220
Pale as the dead; enrobed and tall,
Majestic, frozen, solemn, still;
They wake my fears, my wits appal,
And with both scorn and terror fill.

XXIX.

Now are they seated at a board
In that cold grandeur—I am there.
But what can mummied kings afford?
This is their meagre ghostly fare,
And proves what fleshless things they stare!
Yes! I am seated with the dead: 230
How great, and yet how mean they are!
Yes! I can scorn them while I dread?

XXX.

They’re gone!—and in their room I see
A fairy being, form and dress
Brilliant as light; nor can there be
On earth that heavenly loveliness;
Nor words can that sweet look express,
Or tell what living gems adorn
That wond’rous beauty: who can guess
Where such celestial charms were born? 240

XXXI.

Yet, as I wonder and admire,
The grace is gone, the glory dead;
And now it is but mean attire
Upon a shrivel’d beldame spread;
Laid loathsome on a pauper’s bed,
Where wretchedness and woe are found,
And the faint putrid odour shed
By all that’s foul and base around!

XXXII.

A garden this? oh, lovely breeze!
Oh, flowers that with such freshness bloom!— 250
Flowers shall I call such forms as these,
Or this delicious air perfume?
Oh! this from better worlds must come;
On earth such beauty who can meet?
No! this is not the native home
Of things so pure, so bright, so sweet!

XXXIII.

Where? where?—am I reduced to this—
Thus sunk in poverty extreme?
Can I not these vile things dismiss?
No! they are things that more than seem: 260
This room with that cross-parting beam
Holds yonder squalid tribe and me—
But they were ever thus, nor dream
Of being wealthy, favour’d, free!—

XXXIV.

Shall I a coat and badge receive,
And sit among these crippled men,
And not go forth without the leave
Of him—and ask it humbly then—
Who reigns in this infernal den—
Where all beside in woe repine? 270
Yes, yes, I must: nor tongue nor pen
Can paint such misery as mine!

XXXV.

Wretches! if ye were only poor,
You would my sympathy engage;
Or, were ye vicious, and no more,
I might be fill’d with manly rage;
Or had ye patience, wise and sage
We might such worthy sufferers call;
But ye are birds that suit your cage—
Poor, vile, impatient, worthless all! 280

XXXVI.

How came I hither? Oh, that Hag!
’Tis she the enchanting spell prepares;
By cruel witchcraft she can drag
My struggling being in her snares:
Oh, how triumphantly she glares;
But yet would leave me, could I make
Strong effort to subdue my cares!—
’TIS MADE!—and I to Freedom wake!

[HIS MOTHER’S WEDDING-RING.]

[About 1813–4.]

The ring so worn, as you behold,
So thin, so pale, is yet of gold.
The passion such it was to prove:
Worn with life’s cares, love yet was love.

[PARHAM REVISITED.]

[1814.]

Yes, I behold again the place,
The seat of joy, the source of pain;
It brings in view the form and face
That I must never see again.

The night-bird’s song that sweetly floats
On this soft gloom—this balmy air,
Brings to the mind her sweeter notes
That I again must never hear.

Lo! yonder shines that window’s light,
My guide, my token, heretofore; 10
And now again it shines as bright,
When those dear eyes can shine no more.

Then hurry from this place away!
It gives not now the bliss it gave;
For Death has made its charm his prey,
And joy is buried in her grave.

FLIRTATION.

A Dialogue.

(May, 1816.)