438 TO WORDSWORTH 1837. THOSE who have laid the harp aside But Memory is not a Muse, O Wordsworth! though 'tis said They all descend from her, and use To haunt her fountain-head: That other men should work for ine In the rich mines of Poesie, Pleases me better than the toil Of smoothing under hardened hand, With attic emery and oil, The shining point for Wisdom's wand, Like those thou temperest 'mid the rills Descending from thy native hills. Without his governance, in vain, Manhood is strong, and Youth is bold. If oftentimes the o'er-piled strain, Clogs in the furnace and grows cold That is because the heat beneath Pants in its cavern poorly fed. Nor Muse nor Grace can raise the dead; Unturn'd then let the mass remain, A marsh, where only flat leaves lie, He who would build his fame up high, Before he try if loam or sand We both have run o'er half the space I wish them every joy above When 'mid their light thy light appears. 1833. TO JOSEPH ABLETT LORD of the Celtic dells. Of Arthur, or Pendragon, or perchance Or, in dark region far across the main, Warriors untold to Saxon ear, i Amid thy scenes with thee! how wide Inconstant Fortune, panting Hope ; "Take what hath been for years delay'd, And fear not that the leaves will fall One hour the earlier from thy coronal." Ablett! thou knowest with what even hand I waved away the offer'd seat Among the clambering, clattering, stilt ed great, The rulers of our land; Nor crowds nor kings can lift me up, Thou knowest how, and why, are dear to me My citron groves of Fiesole, My chirping Affrico, my beechwood nook, My Naiads, with feet only in the brook, Which runs away and giggles in their faces, Yet there they sit, nor sigh for other places. 'Tis not Pelasgian wall, By him made sacred whom alone "Twere not profane to call The bard divine, nor (thrown Far under me) Valdarno, nor the crest Of Vallombrosa in the crimson east. Here can I sit or roam at will: Few trouble me, few wish me ill, Few come across me, few too near; Here all my wishes make their stand; Here ask I no one's voice or hand; Scornful of favor, ignorant of fear. Yon vine upon the maple bough Flouts at the hearty wheat below; Away her venal wines the wise man sends, While those of lower stem he brings From inmost treasure vault, and sings Their worth and age among his chosen friends. Behold our Earth, most nigh the sun Her zone least opens to the genial heat, But farther, off her veins more freely run: 'Tis thus with those who whirl about the great; [mote The nearest shrink and shiver, we reMay open-breasted blow the pastoral oat. 1834. 1837.1 1 This poem had been printed in an earlier form, containing lines to Coleridge, in Leigh Hunt's London Journal, December 3, 1834. Sea Colvin's Life of Landor. note to p. 142. Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses To close in thy soft clime my quiet day And rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade. Hope! Hope! few ever cherished thee so little; Few are the heads thou hast so rarely Can lift no aspiration-reasoning The smiles of nature shed a potent charm, And light us to our chamber at the grave. 1835. 1846. TO A BRIDE FEBRUARY 17, 1846 1 A STILL, Serene, soft day; enough of sun To wreathe the cottage smoke like pinetree snow, Whiter than those white flowers the bride-maids wore; Upon the silent boughs the lissom air Rested; and, only when it went, they moved, Nor more than under linnet springing off. Such was the wedding morn: the joy. ous Year Leapt over March and April up to May. All earth below and watchful of thy course! Well hast thou chosen, after long demur To aspirations from more realms than Adding as true ones, not untold before, That incense must have fire for its as cent, Else 'tis inert and can not reach the idol. Youth is the sole equivalent of youth. Enjoy it while it lasts; and last it will; Love can prolong it in despite of Years. 1846. LYRICS "Do you remember me? or are you proud?" Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, Ianthe said, and looked into my eyes. "A yes, a yes, to both: for Memory Where you but once have been must ever be, And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise." No, my own love of other years! Much rests with you that yet endears, Could those bright years o'er me revolve So gay, o'er you so fair, The pearl of life we would dissolve And each the cup might share. I, that the myrtle and the bay ONE year ago my path was green, There is a love that is to last I took a leaflet from her braid YES; I write verses now and then, But blunt and flaccid is my pen, No longer talked of by young men As rather clever : |