DEJECTION. AN ODE 'Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! We shall have a deadly storm.' Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 1. Well! if the Bard was weather-wise, who made For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! II. A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Have I been gazing on the western sky, And its peculiar tint of yellow green: And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye! I see, not feel how beautiful they are! My genial spirits fail; III. And what can these avail, To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west : The passion and the life, whose fountains are within IV. O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live: And from the soul itself must there be sent V. O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, Jey, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud- And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All colours a suffusion from that light. VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine But now afflictions bow me down to earth: Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth, But oh! each visitation Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, For not to think of what I needs must feel, From my own nature all the natural man→→ VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, Reality's dark dream! I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest without, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, 'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting woundsAt once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold' But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans and tremulous shudderings-all is overIt tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! A tale of less affright, And tempered with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay 'Tis of a little child Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost her way: And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear VIII. Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, Joy lift her spirit, Joy attune her voice: O simple spirit, guided from above, SONNET. COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH OF A Son, SEPT. 20, 1796. Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) Did'st scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve |