Upon a living staff, with borrowed sight. - O my own Dora, my beloved child! Should that day come-but hark! the birds salute The cheerful dawn, brightening for me the east ; For me, thy natural leader, once again Impatient to conduct thee, not as erst A tottering infant, with compliant stoop From flower to flower supported; but to curb Thy nymph-like step swift-bounding o'er the lawn, Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge Of foaming torrents. - From thy orisons Come forth; and, while the morning air is yet Of some smooth ridge, whose brink precipitous For pastime plunge — into the "abrupt abyss," And yet more gladly thee would I conduct Through woods and spacious forests,—to behold There, how the Original of human art, Heaven-prompted Nature, measures and erects Her temples, fearless for the stately work, Though waves, to every breeze, its high-arched roof, And storms the pillars rock. But we such schools In the still summer noon, while beams of light, Now also shall the page of classic lore, 1816. XXV. ODE TO LYCORIS. MAY, 1817. I. AN age hath been when Earth was proud To be sustained; and Mortals bowed Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed, And smooths her liquid breast, — to show II. In youth we love the darksome lawn And Autumn to the Spring. Thee, thee my life's celestial sign!) Pleased with the harvest hope that runs Pleased while the sylvan world displays Its ripeness to the feeding gaze; Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell Of the resplendent miracle. III. But something whispers to my heart That, as we downward tend, Lycoris! life requires an art To which our souls must bend; Then welcome, above all, the Guest Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea, Seem to recall the Deity Of youth into the breast: May pensive Autumn ne'er present A claim to her disparagement! Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal, XXVI. TO THE SAME. ·ENOUGH of climbing toil!— Ambition treads Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough, Or slippery even to peril! and each step, As we for most uncertain recompense Mount toward the empire of the fickle clouds, Each weary step, dwarfing the world below, 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! |