WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, Festively she puts forth in trim array ;
Is she for tropic șuns, or polar snows?
What boots the inquiry? - Neither friend nor foe She cares for; let her travel where she may, She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark? And, almost as it was when ships were rare,
(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there Crossing the waters,) doubt, and something dark, Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!
WITH Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed; Some lying fast at anchor in the road, Some veering up and down, one knew not why. A goodly Vessel did I then espy
Come like a giant from a haven broad; And lustily along the bay she strode, Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. This Ship was naught to me, nor I to her, Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look; This Ship to all the rest did I prefer:
When will she turn, and whither? She will brook No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir: On went she, and due north her journey took.
THE world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found, Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play, On "coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay; How quickly from that aery hold unbound, Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye;
Convinced that there, there only, she can lay
Secure foundations. As the year runs round, Apart she toils within the chosen ring; While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye Is gently closing with the flowers of Spring; Where even the motion of an Angel's wing Would interrupt the intense tranquillity Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.
"WEAK is the will of Man, his judgment blind; Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays; Heavy is woe; and joy, for human-kind,
A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!" Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days Who wants the glorious faculty assigned To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, And color life's dark cloud with orient rays. Imagination is that sacred power, Imagination lofty and refined:
'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT.
CALVERT! it must not be unheard by them may respect my name, that I to thee
Owed many years of early liberty.
This care was thine when sickness did condemn Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem,- That I, if frugal and severe, might stray Where'er I liked; and finally array My temples with the Muse's diadem.
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth ; If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays Of higher mood, which now I meditate; It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived Youth! To think how much of this will be thy praise
SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honors; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow: a glowworm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains, alas! too few.
How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbors, and ground-flowers in
And wild-rose tiptoe upon hawthorn stocks, Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks
At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,
When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and
The crowd beneath her. Verily I think
Such place to me is sometimes like a dream Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link, Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink, And leap at once from the delicious stream.
HIGH is our calling, Friend! Creative Art, (Whether the instrument of words she use, Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,)
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