« VorigeDoorgaan »
And kindle, thou blue ocean! So my Friend
A delight Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad As I myself were there! Nor in this bower, This little lime-tree bower, have I not marked Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze Hung the transparent foliage ! and I watched Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see The shadow of the leaf and stem above Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue Through the late twilight; and though now the
bat Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters, Yet still the solitary humble bee Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure ; No plot so narrow, be but Nature there, No waste so vacant, but may well employ Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart Awake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes "Tis well to be bereft of promised good, That we may lift the Soul, and contemplate With lively joy the joys we cannot share.
My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last rook
TO A FRIEND
WHO HAD DECLARED HIS INTENTION OF WRITING
NO MORE POETRY.
DEAR Charles! whilst yet thou wert a babe,
That Genius plunged thee in that wizard fount
* Flew creaking. Some months after I had written this line, it gave me pleasure to find that Bartram had observed the same circumstance of the Savanna Crane. 16 When these birds move their wings in flight, their strokes are slow, moderate, and regular; and even when at a considerable distance, or high above us, we plainly hear the quillfeathers; their shafts and webs upon one another creak as the joints or working of a vessel in a tempestuous sea."
And with those recreant unbaptized heels
Without the meed of one melodious tear ?”
Oh! for shame, return! On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian mount, There stands a lone and melancholy tree. Whose aged branches to the midnight blast Make solemn music: pluck its darkest bough, Ere yet the unwholesome night-dew he exhaled And weeping wreath it round thy Poet's tomb. Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow, Pick the rank henbane and the dusky flowers Of nightshade, or its red and tempting fruit, These with stopped nostril and glove-guarded hand Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine The illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility.
* Pind. Olymp. ii. 1. 150.
† Verbatim from Burns' dedication of his Poem to the Nobility and Gentry of the Caledonian Hunt.
TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION OF A
POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN INDIVIDUAL MIND.
FRIEND of the wise ! and teacher of the good!
heart have I received that lay
Theme hard as high !
Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense Distending wide, and man beloved as man, Where France in all her towns lay vibrating Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud Is visible, or shadow on the main. For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded, Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, Amid a mighty nation jubilant, When from the general heart of human kind Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity!
Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down, So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self, With light unwaning on her eyes, to look
-herself a glory to behold,
The truly great
O great Bard!