The bees were frighten'd, for they knew
Within their prudent breasts that few
Had so much skill as they;
And she who gave the olive might
Be angry, if they show'd that light
As pure and bright
Could shine on mortals
So not a syllable said they of wax,
But cover'd it with honey, lest a tax
Be laid upon it by the Powers above.
Another goddess, no less mighty
Than Pallas, men call Aphroditè,
The queen of love.
Honey she likes and all things sweet,
And, when she came among the swarms,
They said, "O thou whence love hath all its charms! Grant him who saved us what we now entreat.
"Tis one whom we
Are used to see
Among our thyme and ivy-flowers
Throughout the matin and the vesper hours,
Fonder of silence than of talk;
Yet him we heard one morning say:
'Gardener! do not sweep away
The citron blossoms from the gravel-walk:
It might disturb or wound my bees;
So lay aside that besom, if you please.'
He for whose weal we supplicate is one
Thou haply may'st remember, Alciphron.
We know that Pallas has lookt down
Sometimes on him without a frown,
Yet must confess we're less afraid
Of you than that Hymettian maid.
Give him, O goddess, we implore,
Not honey (we can that) but more.
We are poor bees, and can not tell
If there be aught he loves as well;
But we do think we heard him say
There is, and something in your way.
Our stories tell us, when your pretty child
Who drives (they say) so many mortals wild,
Vext one of our great-aunts until she stung;
Away he flew, and wrung,
Stamping, his five loose fingers at the smart,
You chided him, and took our part.
May the cross Year, fresh-wakened, blow sharp dust Into their eyes who say thou art unjust."
You love me; but if I confess
That I in turn love you no less,
I know that you will glance aside
With real or affected pride;
And, be it true or be it feign'd,
My bosom would alike be pain'd,
So that I will not tell you now
Whether I love; and as for vow
You may demand it ten times over,
And never win from wary lover.
Mind if we men would be as blest
For ever as when first carest,
We must excite a little fear,
And sometimes almost domineer.
One morning in the spring I sate
Kicking my heels upon a gate,
The birds were singing all around,
And cowslips sunn'd the sheeny ground,
And next to me above the post
A certain shrub its branches tost,
Seeming to whisper in my ear,
"Have you no song for her so dear?"
Now never in my life could I
Write at command; I know not why,
I tried to write; I tried in vain ;
The little birds, to mock my pain,
Sang cheerily; and every note
Seem'd rushing from a clearer throat.
I was half mad to think that they
So easily should win the day.
The slender shrub I thought held down
Its head to whisper "What a clown!"
Stung by its touch and its reproof,
And saying, "Keep your thorns aloof,"
Unconsciously I spoke the name,
And verses in full chorus came.
TO LADY CALDWELL.
Sophy! before the fond adieu
We long but shrink to say,
And while the home prepared for you
Looks dark at your delay,
Before the graces you disclose
By fresh ones are o'ershaded,
And duties rise more grave than those,
To last when those are faded,
It will not weary you, I know,
To hear again the voice
First heard where Arno's waters flow
And Flora's realms rejoice.
Of beauty not a word have I
(As thousands have) to say,
Of vermeil lip or azure eye
Or cheek of blushful May.
The gentle temper blessing all,
The smile at Envy's leer,
Are yours; and yours at Pity's call
The heart-assuaging tear.
Many can fondle and caress.
No other have I known
Proud of a sister's loveliness,
Unconscious of her own.
To write as your sweet mother does
Is all you wish to do.
Play, sing, and smile for others, Rose!
Let others write for you.
Or mount again your Dartmoor grey,
And I will walk beside,
Until we reach that quiet bay
Which only hears the tide.
Then wave at me your pencil, then
At distance bid me stand,
Before the cavern'd cliff, again
The creature of your hand.
And bid me then go past the nook,
To sketch me less in size;
There are but few content to look
So little in your eyes.
Delight us with the gifts you have,
And wish for none beyond:
To some be gay, to some be grave,
To one (blest youth!) be fond.
Pleasures there are how close to Pain,
And better unpossest!
Let poetry's too throbbing vein
Lie quiet in your breast.
From leaves unopen'd yet, those eyes she lifts, Which never youthful eyes could safely view. "A book or flower, such are the only gifts
I like to take, nor like them least from you." A voice so sweet it needs no music's aid
Spake it, and ceast: we, offering both, reply: These tell the dull old tale that bloom must fade, This the bright truth that genius can not die.
Bethink we what can mean
The holly's changeless green,
Unyielding leaves, and seeds blood-red:
These, while the smoke below
Curls slowly upward, show
Faith how her gentle Master bled.
Those drop not at the touch
Of busy over-much,
They shrink not at the blazing grate;
And the same green remains,
As when autumnal rains
Nurst them with milky warmth of late.
The stedfast bough scarce bends,
But hang it over friends
And suddenly what thoughts there spring!
Harsh voices all grow dumb,
While myriad pleasures come
Beneath Love's ever-widening wing.
In age the memory, as the eye itself,
Sees near things indistinctly, far things well,
And often that which happen'd years ago
Seems sprung from yesterday, while yesterday's
Fair birth lies half-forgotten and deform'd.
Never may storm thy peaceful bosom vex,
Thou lovely Exe!
O'er whose pure stream that music yesternight
Pour'd fresh delight,
And left a vision for the eye of Morn
Showing too well how Love once led the Hours
In Youth's green bowers;
Vision too blest for even Hope to see,
Were Hope with me;
Vision my fate at once forbids to stay
FOR THE ALBUM OF THE DUCHESS DE GUICHE.
Children! while childhood lasts, one day
Alone be less your gush of play.
As you ascend that cloven steep
Whence Lerici o'erlooks the deep,
And watch the hawk and plover soar,
And bow-winged curlew quit the shore,
Think not, as graver heads might do,
The same with equal ease could you;
So light your spirits and your forms,
So fearless is your race of storms.
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