"O nove, thou Cottage, from behind that oak! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart: I look, - the sky is empty space; I know not what I trace; But when I cease to look, my "O, what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, That murmur once so dear, when will it cease? Your sound my heart of rest bereaves, It robs my heart of peace. Thou Thrush, that singest loud-and loud and free, Into yon row of willows flit, Upon that alder sit; Or sing another song, or choose another tree. "Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain. bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chained! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustained; If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough O let it then be dumb! Beanything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now. Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers, Thou one fair shrub, O, shed thy flowers, For thus to see thee nodding in the air, To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear." The Man who makes this feverish complaint 1800. XIV. A COMPLAINT. and I am poor; THERE is a change, What happy moments did I count! Now, for that consecrated fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, A comfortless and hidden well. A well of love, it may be deep, I trust it is,—and never dry: Such change, and at the very door Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. LET other bards of angels sing, Bright suns without a spot; Heed not though none should call thee fair : So, Mary, let it be If naught in loveliness compare With what thou art to me. True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved. XVI. YES! thou art fair, yet be not moved That sometimes I in thee have loved My fancy's own creation. Imagination needs must stir; Dear Maid, this truth believe, Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive. Be pleased that Nature made thee fit 1824 XVII. How rich that forehead's calm expanse! How bright that heaven-directed glance! -Waft her to glory, wingèd Powers, Ere sorrow be renewed, And intercourse with mortal hours So looked Cecilia when she drew So looked; not ceasing to pursue But hand and voice alike are still; That rose, and now forgets to rise, Subdued by breathless harmonies Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies, XVIII. WHAT heavenly smiles! O Lady mine, And from the headlong streams. 1824 |