Poems 1817 Part 5

X.

To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,--to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with hearts content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy gra.s.s, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment?

Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,--an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by: E'en like the pa.s.sage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.

XI. _On first looking into Chapman's Homer._

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific--and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

XII. _On leaving some Friends at an early Hour._

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean On heap'd up flowers, in regions clear, and far; Bring me a tablet whiter than a star, Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen The silver strings of heavenly harp atween: And let there glide by many a pearly car, Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar, And half discovered wings, and glances keen.

The while let music wander round my ears.

And as it reaches each delicious ending, Let me write down a line of glorious tone, And full of many wonders of the spheres: For what a height my spirit is contending!

'Tis not content so soon to be alone.

XIII. ADDRESSED TO HAYDON.

Highmindedness, a jealousy for good, A loving-kindness for the great man's fame, Dwells here and there with people of no name, In noisome alley, and in pathless wood: And where we think the truth least understood, Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"

That ought to frighten into hooded shame A money mong'ring, pitiable brood.

How glorious this affection for the cause Of stedfast genius, toiling gallantly!

What when a stout unbending champion awes Envy, and Malice to their native sty?

Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause, Proud to behold him in his country's eye.

XIV. ADDRESSED TO THE SAME.

Great spirits now on earth are sojourning; He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing: He of the rose, the violet, the spring.

The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake: And lo!--whose stedfastness would never take A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering.

And other spirits there are standing apart Upon the forehead of the age to come; These, these will give the world another heart, And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings?------------ Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.

XV. _On the Gra.s.shopper and Cricket._

The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the Gra.s.shopper's--he takes the lead In summer luxury,--he has never done With his delights; for when tired out with fun He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The Gra.s.shopper's among some gra.s.sy hills.

_December 30, 1816._

XVI. TO KOSCIUSKO.

Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling; It comes upon us like the glorious pealing Of the wide spheres--an everlasting tone.

And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown, The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing, And changed to harmonies, for ever stealing Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne.

It tells me too, that on a happy day, When some good spirit walks upon the earth, Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away To where the great G.o.d lives for evermore.

XVII.

Happy is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent: Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment For skies Italian, and an inward groan To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling meant.

Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging: Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, And float with them about the summer waters.

SLEEP AND POETRY

"As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete Was unto me, but why that I ne might Rest I ne wist, for there n'as erthly wight [As I suppose] had more of hertis ese Than I, for I n'ad sicknesse nor disese."

CHAUCER.

What is more gentle than a wind in summer?

What is more soothing than the pretty hummer That stays one moment in an open flower, And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?

What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing In a green island, far from all men's knowing?

More healthful than the leafiness of dales?

More secret than a nest of nightingales?

More serene than Cordelia's countenance?

More full of visions than a high romance?

What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!

Low murmurer of tender lullabies!