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Passion and pain, the outcry of despair,
The pang of the unattainable desire,
And youth's delight in .pleasures that expire, And sweet high dreamings of the good and fair Clashing in swift soul-storm, through which no prayer
Uplifted stays the destined death-stroke dire.
Then through a mighty sorrowing, as through fire,
And song of birds assuaged, takes heart again,
And Love makes life triumphant and divine.
With empty sail this tired bark O sacred night when angel hands
Drifts out upon the sea of rest, Are pressed upon the tired brow, While all the shore behind grows dark, And when the soul on shining sands
And silence reigns from east to west. Descends with angels from the prow.
At last awakes the hidden breeze To sleep I give myself away,
That bears me to the land of dreams, My heart forgets its vague unrest, Where music sighs among the trees, And all the clamor of the day,
And murmurs in the winding streams. And drifts toward the quiet west.
ARTHUR W. H. Eaton,
I sat me down to watch upon a bank
Was naught around but images of rest : With ivy canopied, and interwove
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns beWith flaunting honeysuckle, and began,
tween ; Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy,
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest, To meditate my rural minstrelsy,
From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleasant Till fancy had her fill, but ere a close,
green, The wonted roar was up amidst the woods, Where never yet was creeping creature seen. And filled the air with barbarous dissonance; Meantime, unnumbered glittering streamlets At which I ceased, and listened them awhile,
played, Till an unusual stop of sudden silence
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; Gave respite to the drowsy frighted steeds,
That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, That draw the litter of close-curtained sleep; Though restless still themselves, a lulling murAt last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
mur made. Rose like a stream of rich distilled perfumes, And stole upon the air, that even Silence
Joined to the prattle of the purling rills Was took ere she was ware, and wished she might
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, Deny her nature, and be never more,
And fiocks loud beating from the distant hills, Still to be so displaced. I was all ear,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale : And took in strains that might create a soul
And, now and then, sweet Philomel would wail, Under the ribs of death : but 0, ere long
Or stockdoves plain amid the forest deep, Too well I did perceive it was the voice
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; Of my most honored Lady, your dear sister.
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;
Full in the passage of the vale, above,
And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood ;
And where this valley winded out, below,
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely
heard, to flow.
A pleasing land of drowsyhed it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, And, certes, there is for it reason great ; For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and
Forever Alushing round a summer sky:
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly wail,
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And curse thy star, and early drudge and late ; Withouten that would come a heavier bale,
And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh ; Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale.
But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest
| Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease, A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. Close-hid his castle mid en bowering trees, It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground; That half shut out the beams of Phæbus bright, And there a season atween June and May, And made a kind of checkered day and night; Half prankt with spring, with summer half Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, em browned,
Beneath a spacions palm, the wicked wight A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, Was placed ; and to his lute, of cruel fate No living wight could work, ne cared even for And labor harsh, complained, lamenting man's play.
Thither continual pilgrims crowded still,
"With me, you need not rise at early dawn, From all the roads of earth that pass there by : / To pass the joyless day in various stounds ; For, as they chanced to breathe on neighbor Or, louting low, on upstart fortune fawn, ing hill,
And sell fair honor for some paltry pounds; The freshness of this valley smote their eye, Or through the city take your dirty rounds, And drew them ever and anon more nigh; To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visit pay, Till clustering round the enchanter false they Now flattering base, now giving secret wounds; hung,
Or prowl in courts of law for human prey, Ymolten with his siren melody;
In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad highway. While o'er the enfeebling lute his hand he flung,
“No cocks, with ine, to rustic labor call, And to the trembling chords these tempting From village on to village sounding clear ; verses sung :
To tardy swain no shrill-voiced matrons squall; “Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold !
No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your ear ; See all, but man, with unearned pleasure gay :
No hammers thump; no horrid blacksmith
sear, See her bright robes the butterfly unfold,
Ne noisy tradesman your sweet slumbers start, Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May !
With sounds that are a misery to hear :
But all is calm, as would delight the heart From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray,
Of Sybarite of old, all nature, and all art.
“Here taught but candor reigns, indulgent
ease, “Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, Good-natured lounging, sauntering up and The swarining songsters of the careless grove, down : Ten thousand throats ! that, from the flower They who are pleased themselves must always
please ; Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, On others' ways they never squint a frown, Such grateful kindly raptures them emove : Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in town: They neither plough por sow; ne, fit for flail, Thus, from the source of tender Indolence, E'er to the barn the nodden sheaves they With milky blood the heart is overflown, drove :
Is soothed and sweetened by the social sense ; Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, For interest, envy, pride, and strife are banished Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the hence. vale.
“ What, what is virtue, but repose of mind, “Outcast of nature, man! the wretched thrall
A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm ; Of bitter dropping sweat, of sweltry pain,
Above the reach of wild ambition's wind, Of cares that eat away the heart with gall,
Above those passions that this world deform, And of the vices, an inhuman train,
And torture man, a proud malignant worm? That all proceed from savage thirst of gain :
But here, instead, soft gales of passion play, For when hard-hearted interest first began
And gently stir the heart, thereby to form To poison earth, Astræa left the plain ;
A quicker sense of joy ; as breezes stray Guile, violence, and murder seized on man,
Across the enlivened skies, and make them still And, for soft milky streams, with blood the
more gay. rivers ran.
“ Come, ye who still the cumbrous load of life “The best of men have ever loved repose :
Imbittered more from peevish day to day. And hurls your labors to the valley deep, E'en those whom fame has lent her fairest ray, Forever vain : come, and withouten fee,
The most renowned of worthy wights of yore, I in oblivion will your sorrow's steep,
From a base world at last have stolen away : Your cares, your toils ; will steep you in a sea So Scipio, to the soft Cumæan shore Of full delight : 0, come, ye weary wights, to me! Retiring, tasted joy he vever knew before.
“But if a little exercise you choose,
Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound ! Some zest for ease, 't is not forbidden here : Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways, Amid the groves you may indulge the Muse, And all the widely silent places round, Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal year; Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays Or softly stealing, with your watery gear, What never yet was sung in mortal lays. Along the brooks, the crimson-spotted fry I But how shall I attempt such arduous string? You may delude: the whilst, amused, you hear | 1 who have spent my nights and nightly days Now the hoarse stream, and now the zephyr's. In this soul-deadening place loose-loitering : sigh,
Ah! how shall I for this uprear my moulted wing? Attuned to the birds, and woodland melody.
Come on, my Muse, nor stoop to low despair, “O grievous folly! to heap up estate,
Thou imp of Jove, touched by celestial fire ! Losing the days you see beneath the sun;
Thou yet shalt sing of war, and actions fair, When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting fate,
Which the bold sons of Britain will inspire : And gives the untasted portion you have won !
Of ancient bards thou yet shalt sweep the lyre ; With ruthless toil, and many a wretch undone,
Thou yet shalt tread in tragic pall the stage, To those who mock you, gone to Pluto's reign, Paint love's enchanting woes, the hero's ire, There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows The sage's calm, the patriot's noble rage, dun :
Dashing corruption down through every worthBut sure it is of vanities most vain,
less age. To toil for what you here untoiling may obtain."
The doors, that knew no shrill alarming bell He ceased. But still their trembling ears re
Ne cursed knocker plied by villain's hand,
Self-opened into halls, where who can tell tained The deep vibrations of his witching song;
What elegance and grandeur wide expand ;
The pride of Turkey and of Persia land ? That, by a kind of magic power, constrained
Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread, To enter in, pell-mell, the listening throug. I
And couches stretched around in seemly band ; Heaps poured on heaps, and yet they slipt
And endless pillows rise to prop the head ; along, In silent ease ; as when beneath the beam
So that each spacious room was one full-swelling Of summer moons, the distant woods among,
Or by some flood all silvered with the gleam, ! And everywhere huge covered tables stood, The soft-embodied fays through airy portal With wines high-flavored and rich viands stream :
Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food By the smooth demon so it ordered was, On the green bosom of this earth are found, And here his baneful bounty first began : And all old ocean 'genders in his round : Though some there were who would not fur Some hand unseen these silently displayed, ther pass,
Even undemanded by a sign or sound ; And his alluring baits suspected han.
You need but wish, and instantly obeyed, The wise distrust the too fair-spoken man. Fair ranged the dishes rose, and thick the glasses Yet through the gate they cast a wishful eye: |
played. Not to move on, perdie, is all they can : For do their very best they cannot fly,
Here freedom reigned, without the least alloy ; But often each way look, and often sorely sigh. Nor gossip's tale, nor ancient maiden's gall,
Nor saintly spleen durst murmur at our joy, When this the watchful wicked wizard saw, And with envenomed tongue our pleasures pall. With sudden spring he leaped upon them for why? there was but one great rule for all ; straight ;
To wit, that each should work his own desire, And soon as touched by his unhallowed paw, And eat, drink, study, sleep, as it may fall, They found themselves within the cursed gate: Or melt the time in love, or wake the lyre, Full hard to be repassed, like that of fate. And carol what, unbid, the Muses might inNot stronger were of old the giant crew,
spire. Who sought to pull high Jove from regal state ;
Though feeble wretch he seemed, of sallow hue: The rooms with costly tapestry were hung, Certes, who bides his grasp, will that encounter Where was inwoven many a gentle tale ; rue.
Such as of old the rural poets sung, i Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale :