XXV.

ODE TO LYCORIS.

MAY, 1817.

I.

AN age hath been when Earth was proud
Of lustre too intense

To be sustained; and Mortals bowed
The front in self-defence.

Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed,
Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed
While on the wing the Urchin played,
Could fearlessly approach the shade?
Enough for one soft vernal day,
If I, a bard of ebbing time,
And nurtured in a fickle clime,
May haunt this hornèd bay ;
Whose amorous water multiplies
The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes;
And smooths her liquid breast, to show

These swan-like specks of mountain snow, White as the pair that slid along the plains Of heaven, when Venus held the reins!

II.

In youth we love the darksome lawn
Brushed by the owlet's wing;
Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn,

And Autumn to the Spring.
Sad fancies do we then affect,
In luxury of disrespect
To our own prodigal excess
Of too familiar happiness.
Lycoris (if such name befit

Thee, thee my life's celestial sign!)
When Nature marks the year's decline,
Be ours to welcome it;

Pleased with the harvest hope that runs

Before the path of milder suns;

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;
A skill-to balance and supply;
And, ere the flowing fount be dry,
As soon it must, a sense to sip,
Or drink, with no fastidious lip.

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 !
While blossoms and the budding spray
Inspire us in our own decay;

Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal,
Be hopeful Spring the favorite of the Soul!

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,
Induces, for its old, familiar sights,

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!

Oh! 't is the heart that magnifies this life,
Making a truth and beauty of her own;
And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing shades,
And gurgling rills assist her in the work
More efficaciously than realms outspread,
As in a map, before the adventurer's gaze,
Ocean and Earth contending for regard.

The umbrageous woods are left

neath!

- how far be

But lo! where darkness seems to guard the mouth Of yon wild cave, whose jagged brows are fringed With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still

And sultry air depending motionless.

Yet cool the space within, and not uncheered
(As whoso enters shall erelong perceive)
By stealthy influx of the timid day

Mingling with night, such twilight to compose
As Numa loved; when, in the Egerian grot,
From the sage Nymph appearing at his wish,
He gained whate'er a regal mind might ask,
Or need, of counsel breathed through lips divine.

Long as the heat shall rage, let that dim cave Protect us, there deciphering as we may Diluvian records; or the signs of Earth Interpreting; or counting for old Time His minutes, by reiterated drops, Audible tears, from some invisible source

That deepens upon fancy, more and more

Drawn toward the centre whence those sighs creep

forth

To awe the lightness of humanity.

Or, shutting up thyself within thyself,
There let me see thee sink into a mood
Of gentler thought, protracted till thine eye
Be calm as water when the winds are gone,
And no one can tell whither. Dearest Friend!

We too have known such happy hours together,
That, were power granted to replace them (fetched
From out the pensive shadows where they lie)
In the first warmth of their original sunshine,
Loth should I be to use it: passing sweet
Are the domains of tender memory!

XXVII.

SEPTEMBER, 1819.

THE sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields
Are hung, as if with golden shields,
Bright trophies of the sun!

Like a fair sister of the sky,

Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,

The mountains looking on.

And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove,
Albeit uninspired by love,

By love untaught to ring,

May well afford to mortal ear

An impulse more profoundly dear
Than music of the Spring.

For that from turbulence and heat
Proceeds, from some uneasy seat
In nature's struggling frame,

1817.