XXII. ODE TO LYCORIS. MAY, 1817. 1. AN age hath been when Earth was proud Of lustre too intense To be sustained; and Mortals bowed Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed, Enough for one soft vernal day, If I, a Bard of ebbing time, And nurtured in a fickle clime, 2. In youth we love the darksome lawn Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn, Sad fancies do we then affect, Thee, thee my life's celestial sign!) Pleased with the harvest hope that runs Before the path of milder suns, Pleased while the sylvan world displays Its ripeness to the feeding gaze; Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell Of the resplendent miracle. 3. But something whispers to my heart That, as we downward tend, Lycoris! life requires an art A skill - to balance and supply; - And, ere the flowing fount be dry, Or drink, with no fastidious lip. Whose home is in the breast! May pensive Autumn ne'er present A claim to her disparagement! Inspire us in our own decay; Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal, Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the Soul! XXIII. TO THE SAME. ENOUGH of climbing toil! - Ambition treads Mount tow'rd the empire of the fickle clouds, Unacceptable feelings of contempt, With wonder mixed-that Man could e'er be tied, In anxious bondage, to such nice array And formal fellowship of petty things! -Oh! 'tis the heart that magnifies this life, - The umbrageous woods are left-how far beneath! But lo! where darkness seems to guard the mouth Of yon wild cave, whose jagged brows are fringed With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still And sultry air, depending motionless. Yet cool the space within, and not uncheered Mingling with night, such twilight to compose Long as the heat shall rage, let that dim cave Audible tears, from some invisible source That deepens upon fancy - more and more Drawn tow'rd the centre whence those sighs creep forth To awe the lightness of humanity. Or, shutting up thyself within thyself, |