WRITTEN AT MALVERN, JUNE 1799.
Ye springs of Malvern, fresh and bright,
Wherein the Spirits of health delight
To dip incessantly their wings,
Rise and sustain the pallid maid
Who steps so slow and seeks your aid;
Bless, and in turn be blest, ye springs!
If I might ask the Powers above
One gift, that gift should be her love.
Hush! thou unworthy creature, hush!
Wouldst thou not rather see her, then,
Without her love, in health again?
I pause; I bow my head, and blush.
Sharp crocus wakes the froward Year;
In their old haunts birds re-appear;
From yonder elm, yet black with rain,
The cushat looks deep down for grain
Thrown on the gravel-walk: here comes
The redbreast to the sill for crumbs.
Fly off! fly off! I can not wait
To welcome ye, as she of late.
The earliest of my friends is gone,
Alas! almost my only one!
The few as dear, long wafted o'er,
Await me on a sunnier shore.
APOLOGY FOR GEBIR.
Sixty the years since Fidler bore
My grouse-bag up the Bala moor;
Above the lake, along the lea
Where gleams the darkly yellow Dee;
Thro' crags, o'er cliffs, I carried there
My verses with paternal care,
But left them, and went home again,
To wing the birds upon the plain.
With heavier luggage half forgot,
For many months they followed not.
When over Tawey's sands they came,
Brighter flew up my winter flame;
And each old cricket sang alert
With joy that they had come unhurt.
Gebir! men shook their heads in doubt
If we were sane: few made us out,
Beside one stranger; in his heart
We after held no niggard part.
The songs of every age he knew,
But only sang the pure and true.
Poet he was, yet was his smile
Without a tinge of gall or guile.
Such lived, 'tis said, in ages past;
Who knows if Southey was the last?
Dapper, who may perhaps have seen
My name in some late magazine,
Among a dozen or a score
Which interest wise people more,
Wonders if I can be the same
To whom poor Southey augured fame;
Erring as usual in his choice
Of one who mocks the public voice,
And fancies two or three are worth
Far more than all the rest on earth.
Dapper, in tones benign and clear,
Tells those who treasure all they hear,
"Landor would have done better far,
Had he observed the northern star;
Or Bloomfield might have shown the way
To one who always goes astray;
He might have tried his pen upon
The living, not the dead and gone.
Are turban'd youths and muffled belles
Extinct along the Dardanelles ?
Is there no scimitar, no axe?
Daggers and bow-strings, mutes and sacks?
Are they all swept away for ever
From that sky-blue resplendent river?
Do heroes of old time surpass
Cardigan, Somerset, Dundas?
Do the Sigman mounds inclose
More corses than Death swept from those?"
No, no but let me ask in turn,
Whether, whene'er Corinthian urn,
With ivied Faun upon the rim
Invites, I may not gaze on him?
I love all beauty: I can go
At times from Gainsboro' to Watteau;
Even after Milton's thorough-bass
I bear the rhymes of Hudibras,
And find more solid wisdom there
Than pads professor's easy chair:
But never sit I quiet long
Where broidered cassock floats round Young;
Whose pungent essences perfume
And quirk and quibble trim the tomb;
Who thinks the holy bread too plain,
And in the chalice pours champagne.
I love old places and their climes,
Nor quit the syrinx for the chimes.
Manners have changed; but hearts are yet
The same, and will be while they beat.
Ye blame not those who wander o'er
Our earth's remotest wildest shore,
Nor scoff at seeking what is hid
Within one-chambered pyramid;
Let me then, with my coat untorn
By your acacia's crooked thorn,
Follow from Gades to the coast
Of Egypt men thro' ages lost.
Firm was my step on rocky steeps;
Others slipt down loose sandhill heaps.
I knew where hidden fountains lay;
Hoarse was their thirsty camels' bray;
And presently fresh droves had past
The beasts expiring on the waste,
DEATH OF THE DAY,
My pictures blacken in their frames
As night comes on,
And youthful maids and wrinkled dames
Are now all one.
Death of the day! a sterner Death
Did worse before;
The fairest form, the sweetest breath,
Away he bore.
TO OUR HOUSE-DOG "CAPTAIN."
Captain! we often heretofore
Have box'd behind the coach-house door,
When thy strong paws were rear'd against
My ribs and bosom, badly fenced:
None other dared to try thy strength,
And hurl thee side-long at full length,
But we well knew each other's mind,
And paid our little debts in kind.
I often braved with boyish fist
The vanquisht bull's antagonist,
And saw unsheath'd thy tiny teeth
And the dark cell that oped beneath.
Thou wert like others of the strong,
But only more averse from wrong;
Reserved, and proud perhaps, but just,
And strict and constant to thy trust,
Somewhat inclement to the poor,
Suspecting each for evil-doer,
But hearing reason when I spoke,
And letting go the ragged cloak.
Thee dael I; but I never dar'd
To drive the pauper from the yard.
CHILDREN PLAYING IN A CHURCH-YARD.
Children, keep up that harmless play;
Your kindred angels plainly say,
By God's authority, ye may.
Be prompt His holy word to hear,
It teaches you to banish fear;
The lesson lies on all sides near.
Ten summers hence the spriteliest lad
In Nature's face will look more sad,
And ask where are those smiles she had.
Ere many days the last will close
Play on, play on; for then (who knows?)
Ye who play here may here repose.
Friends! hear the words my wandering thoughts would say,
And cast them into shape some other day.
Southey, my friend of forty years, is gone,
And, shattered by the fall, I stand alone.
REFLECTION FROM SEA AND SKY.
When I gaze upon the sky
And the sea below, I cry,
Thus be poetry and love,
Deep beneath and bright above.
GORE-HOUSE LEFT FOR PARIS.
Under the lilacs we shall meet no more,
Nor Alfred's welcome hail me at the door,
Nor the brave guardian of the hall contend
In harsher voice to greet his trusty friend,
Nor on the banks of Arno or of Seine
Sure is my hope to bend my steps again;
But be it surer, Margarite, that Power
May still remember many a festive hour,
More festive when we saw the captive free,
And clasp afresh the hand held forth by thee.
'Tis pleasant to behold
The little leaves unfold
Day after day, still pouting at the Sun,
Until at last they dare
Lay their pure bosoms bare:
Of all these flowers I know the sweetest one.
TWICE TEN YEARS.
I was not young when first I met
That graceful mien, that placid brow:
Ah! twice ten years have past, and yet
Near these I am not older now.
Happy how many have been made
Who gazed upon your sunny smile!
I sate as happy in the shade
To hear the voice that could beguile.
My sorrow for whate'er I left
In bright Ausonia, land of song, And felt my breast not quite bereft
Of those home joys cast down so long.
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