LYRE! though such power do in thy magic live As might from India's farthest plain Recal the not unwilling Maid,
Assist me to detain
The lovely Fugitive:
Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed
By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid. Here let me gaze enrapt upon that eye, The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort Of contemplation, the calm port By reason fenced from winds that sigh Among the restless sails of vanity.
But if no wish be hers that we should part, A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart.
Where all things are so fair,
Enough by her dear side to breathe the air Of this Elysian weather;
And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy Shade upon the sunshine lying
Faint and somewhat pensively; And downward Image gaily vying
With its upright living tree
Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue sky As soft almost and deep as her cerulean eye.
Nor less the joy with many a glance Cast up the Stream or down at her beseeching, To mark its eddying foam-balls prettily distrest By ever-changing shape and want of rest;
Or watch, with mutual teaching,
The current as it plays
In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps Adown a rocky maze;
Or note (translucent summer's happiest chance !) In the slope-channel floored with pebbles bright, Stones of all hues, gem emulous of gem, So vivid that they take from keenest sight The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them.
SHE had a tall man's height or more; Her face from summer's noontide heat
No bonnet shaded, but she wore
A mantle, to her very feet Descending with a graceful flow,
And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow.
SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING,
COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER.
WHERE are they now, those wanton Boys? For whose free range the dædal earth Was filled with animated toys, And implements of frolic mirth; With tools for ready wit to guide; And ornaments of seemlier pride,
More fresh, more bright, than princes wear; For what one moment flung aside, Another could repair;
What good or evil have they seen Since I their pastime witnessed here, Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer? I ask-but all is dark between !
They met me in a genial hour, When universal nature breathed
As with the breath of one sweet flower,- A time to overrule the power
Of discontent, and check the birth
Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, The most familiar bane of life Since parting Innocence bequeathed Mortality to Earth!
Soft clouds, the whitest of the year,
Sailed through the sky-the brooks ran clear; The lambs from rock to rock were bounding; With songs the budded groves resounding; And to my heart are still endeared
The thoughts with which it then was cheered; The faith which saw that gladsome pair Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. Or, if such faith must needs deceive- Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, Associates in that eager chase; Ye, who within the blameless mind Your favourite seat of empire find— Kind Spirits! may we not believe That they, so happy and so fair
Through your sweet influence, and the care Of pitying Heaven, at least were free From touch of deadly injury? Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, For mercy and immortal bloom!
YET are they here the same unbroken knot Of human Beings, in the self-same spot! Men, women, children, yea the frame Of the whole spectacle the same! Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light, Now deep and red, the colouring of night; That on their Gipsy-faces falls,
Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. -Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are gone, while I
Have been a traveller under open sky,
Much witnessing of change and cheer, Yet as I left I find them here!
The weary Sun betook himself to rest ;- Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west, Outshining like a visible God
The glorious path in which he trod. And now, ascending, after one dark hour And one night's diminution of her power, Behold the mighty Moon! this way She looks as if at them-but they Regard not her:-oh better wrong and strife (By nature transient) than this torpid life; Life which the very stars reprove
As on their silent tasks they move! Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or earth! In scorn I speak not;-they are what their birth And breeding suffer them to be; Wild outcasts of society!
WHEN Ruth was left half desolate, Her Father took another Mate; And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted child, at her own will Went wandering over dale and hill, In thoughtless freedom, bold.
And she had made a pipe of straw, And music from that pipe could draw Like sounds of winds and floods; Had built a bower upon the green, As if she from her birth had been An infant of the woods.
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