In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high He who stood visible to Mirza's eve, The visionary Arches are not there, Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, IX. UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE, Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart. PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape; Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day; Which stopped that band of travellers on their way, Ere they were lost within the shady wood; And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood Forever anchored in her sheltering bay. Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noontide, Even, Do serve with all their changeful pageantry; Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given To one brief moment caught from fleeting time The appropriate calm of blest eternity. X. "WHY, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar? "Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far From its own country, and forgive the strings." A simple answer! but even so forth springs, From the Castalian fountain of the heart, The Poetry of Life, and all that Art Divine of words quickening insensate things. From the submissive necks of guiltless men Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils: Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils Of mortal sympathy: what wonder then That the poor Harp distempered music yields To its sad Lord, far from his native fields? XI. AERIAL ROCK-whose solitary brow From this low threshold daily meets my sight; When I step forth to hail the morning light; Or quit the stars with a lingering farewell— how Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow? Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die. Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims Takest away, and into souls dost creep, Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell; And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing. Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew. tree bough, And dimly-gleaming Nest, a hollow crown Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down, alone, I surely not a man ungently made, Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost? Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown, Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed, Still last to come where thou art wanted most! Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow: For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous TO THE POET, JOHN DYER. BARD of the Fleece, whose skilful genius That work a living landscape fair and bright; Those southern tracts of Cambria, "deep With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lull'd;" Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade Of cold neglect she leaves thy head un graced, Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still, ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEM. See Milton's Sonnet, beginning, "A Book was writ of iate called Tetrachordon."" A Book came forth of late, called PETER BELL; Not negligent the style ;-the matter?good As aught that song records of Robin Hood; Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell; But some (who brook those hackneyed themes full well, Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their blood) Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood, On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen, Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice, Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men To thee appear not an unmeaning voice, Lift up that gray-haired forehead, and rejoice, In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen. XX. TO S. H. EXCUSE is needless when with love sincere Of occupation, not by fashion led, Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust o'erspread ; My nerves from no such murmur shrink,tho' near, Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear, When twilight shades darken the mountain's head. Even She who toils to spin our vital thread Torn from the Poor! yet shall kind Heaven protect Its own; though Rulers, with undue respect, gay, These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace? Angels of love, look down upon the place; Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day! Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display Even for such promise:-serious is her face, Modest her mien; and she whose thoughts keep pace With gentleness, in that becoming way No disproportion in her soul, no strife; From frailty, for that insight may the Wife XXIV. Who such divinity to thee imparts With beauty, which is varying every hour; But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, That breathies on earth the air of paradise. XXV. FROM THE SAME. II. No mortal object did these eyes behold When first they met the placid light of thine, And my Soul felt her destiny divine, And hope of endless peace in me grew bold; Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold; Beyond the visible world she soars to seek The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest Ideal Form, the universal mould. 'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, That kills the soul: love betters what is best, Even here below, but more in heaven above. XXVI. FROM THE SAME. ΤΟ THE SUPREME THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed If Thou the spirit give by which I pray : FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. That of its native self can nothing feed: Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud, "Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan." Those steps I clomb; the mists before me Smooth way: and I beheld the face of one Pleasing remembrance of a thought fore- A lovely Beauty in a summer grave! XXIX. NOVEMBER, 1836. II. EVEN So for me a Vision sanctified Thy countenance-the still rapture of thy mien When thou, dear Sister! wert become No trace of pain or languor could abide Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, She cares for; let her travel where she may Crossing the waters) doubt, and something The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes had Of the old Sea some reverential fear, seen Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark! |