Puslapio vaizdai
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"WEAK is the will of man, his judgment blind;
Remembrance persecutes, and hope betrays;
Heavy is woe; and joy, for human kind,
A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!'
Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days
Who wants the glorious faculty assign'd
To elevate the more than reasoning mind,
And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
Imagination is that sacred power,
Imagination lofty and refined:

'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower
Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

HAIL Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour!
Not dull art thou as undiscerning Night;
But studious only to remove from sight
Day's mutable distinctions. Ancient power!
Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower
To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest
Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest
On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower
Look'd ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen
The selfsame vision which we now behold,

At thy meek bidding, shadowy power, brought forth;
These mighty barriers, and the gulf between;
The floods, the stars; a spectacle as old
As the beginning of the heavens and earth!

THE shepherd, looking eastward, softly said,

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Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art bright!"
Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether spread,
And penetrated all with tender light,

She cast away, and show'd her fulgent head
Uncover'd; dazzling the beholder's sight
As if to vindicate her beauty's right,
Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged.
Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown aside,
Went, floating from her, dark'ning as it went;
And a huge mass, to bury or to hide,
Approach'd this glory of the firmament;
Who meekly yields, and is obscured; content
With one calm triumph of a modest pride.

How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!
An old place, full of many a lovely brood,

Tall trees, green arbours, and ground flowers in flocks;
And wild rose tiptoe upon hawthorn stocks,

Like to a bonny lass, who plays her pranks

At wakes and fairs with wandering mountebanks,When she stands cresting the clown's head, and mocks The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,

Such place to me is sometimes like a dream

Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,
And leap at once from the delicious stream.

WHERE lies the land to which yon ship must go!
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
As vigorous as a lark at break of day:
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?

What boots the inquiry? Neither friend nor foo
She cares for; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
And, almost as it was when ships were rare,

(From time to time, like pilgrims, here and there
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,
Of the old sea some reverential fear,

Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark!

EVEN as a dragon's eye that feels the stress
Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp
Sullenly glaring through sepulchral damp,
So burns yon taper 'mid its black recess
Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless:
The lake below reflects it not; the sky,
Muffled in clouds, affords no company,
To mitigate and cheer its loneliness.
Yet round the body of that joyless thing,
Which sends so far its melancholy light,
Perhaps are seated in domestic ring
A gay society with faces bright,

Conversing, reading, laughing; or they sing,
While hearts and voices in the song unite.

MARK the concentred hazels that inclose
Yon old grey stone, protected from the ray
Of noontide suns: and even the beams that play
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows,
Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows
Upon that roof-amid embowering gloom,
The very image framing of a tomb,

In which some ancient chieftain finds repose
Among the lonely mountains. Live, ye trees!
And thou, grey stone, the pensive likeness keep
Of a dark chamber where the mighty sleep:
For more than fancy to the influence bends
When solitary Nature condescends

To mimic Time's torlorn humanities.

COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMILTON HILLS, YORKSHIRE.

DARK, and more dark, the shades of evening fell;
The wish'd-for point was reach'd-but late the hour;
And little could we see of all that power
Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell.
The western sky did recompense us well
With Grecian temple, minaret, and bower;
And, in one part, a minster with its tower
Substantially express'd-a place for bell
Or clock to toll from! Many a glorious pile
Did we behold, fair sights that might repay
All disappointment! and, as such, the eye
Delighted in them: but we felt, the while,
We should forget them they are of the sky,
And from our earthly memory fade away.

"they are of the sky,

And from our earthly memory fade away."
THESE words were utter'd in a pensive mood,
Mine eyes yet lingering on that solemn sight;
A contrast and reproach to gross delight,
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily woo'd!
But now upon this thought I cannot brood;
It is unstable, and deserts me quite :
Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,
Disparaging man's gifts, and proper food.
The grove, the sky-built temple, and the dome,
Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,
Find in the heart of man no natural home:
The immortal mind craves objects that endure:
These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.

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DEGENERATE Douglas! oh, th' unworthy lord!
Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,
And love of havoc (for with such disease
Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word
To level with the dust a noble horde,

A brotherhood of venerable trees,

Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,
Beggar'd and outraged! Many hearts deplored
The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain
The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze
On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

TO THE POET JOHN dyer.

BARD of the fleece, whose skilful genius made
That work a living landscape, fair and bright;
Nor hallow'd less with musical delight

Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood stray'd,
Those southern tracts of Cambria, "deep em bay'd,

By green hills fenced, by ocean's murmur lull'd;"
Though hasty fame hath many a chaplet cull'd
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,

Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few, shall love thy modest lay
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aërial waste;

Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill.

TO SLEEP.

O GENTLE Sleep! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.

This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
A fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above,
Now on the water vex'd with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience-no;
Hence I am cross and peevish as a child :
And pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
O gentle creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled!

TO SLEEP.

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I've thought of all by turns; and still I lie
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:

Without thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier betwixt day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

TO SLEEP.

FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
The very sweetest words that fancy frames
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear bosom child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; balm that tames
All anguish; saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone-
I, surely not a man ungently made-

Call thee worst tyrant by which flesh is cross'd?
Perverse, self-will'd to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee pray'd,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most!

WITH ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it show'd;
Some lying fast at anchor in the road,

Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
A goodly vessel did I then espy

Come like a giant from a haven broad;
And lustily along the bay she strode,
"Her tackling rich, and of apparel high."

This ship was naught to me, nor I to her,
Yet I pursued her with a lover's look;
This ship to all the rest did I prefer:

When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir:
On went she,-and due north her journey took.

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