ODE TO MEMORY. I. THOU who stealest fire, From the fountains of the past, To glorify the present; oh, haste, Visit my Strengthen me, enlighten me! I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. II. Come not as thou camest of late, Flinging the gloom of yesternight On the white day; but robed in softened light Of orient state. Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, Even as a maid, whose stately brow The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kissed, When she, as thou, Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, The black earth with brilliance rare. III. Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast, (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind Never grow sere, When rooted in the garden of the mind, Because they are the earliest of the year.) In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Though deep, not fathomless, Was cloven with the million stars that tremble Small thought was there of life's distress; For sure she deemed no mist of earth could dull Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful: O strengthen me, enlighten me! Thou dewy dawn of memory. IV. Come forth, I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines Unto mine inner eye, Divinest memory! Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried: Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, The seven elms, the poplars four, Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, The filtered tribute of the rough woodland. Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, Upon the ridged wolds, When the first matin-song hath wakened loud. Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. V. Large dowries doth the raptured eye To the young spirit present When first she is wed; And like a bride of old In triumph led, With music and sweet showers Of festal flowers, Unto the dwelling she must sway. Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, In setting round thy first experiment With royal frame-work of wrought gold; Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls For the discovery And newness of thine art so pleased thee, With thee unto the love thou bearest On the prime labor of thine early days: No matter what the sketch might be ; Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Overblown with murmurs harsh, Or even a lowly cottage whence we see Stretched wide and wild the waste enormous marsh, Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity, The trenched waters run from sky to sky; Or a garden bowered close With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, |