Hath quaff'd its fill of Nature's loveli ness, Yet still beside the fountain's marge will stay But ancient Skiddaw green and high 40 Heard and understood my sigh; And now, in tones less stern and rude, As if he wish'd to end the feud, And fain would thirst again, again to Spake he, the proud response renewing (His voice was like a monarch woo quaff; Then when the tear, slow travelling on ing): Nay, but thou dost not know her might, In her divinest melody, 50 Now to the "haunted beach" can fly, Beside the threshold scourged with waves, Now where the maniac wildly raves, "Pale moon, thou spectre of the sky!" No wind that hurries o'er my height Can travel with so swift a flight. I too, methinks, might merit The presence of her spirit! To me too might belong 60 The honour of her song and witching melody, Which most resembles me, Soft, various, and sublime, Thus spake the mighty Mount, and I Made answer, with a deep - drawn sigh: 69 Thou ancient Skiddaw, by this tear, I would, I would that she were here!' November 1800. THE MAD MONK I HEARD a voice from Etna's side; A chesnut spread its umbrage wide: And thus the music flow'd along, In melody most like to old Sicilian song: On the sixth of January, Brother Bard, ho! ho! believe it, On that stone tomb to you I'll show I swear by our Knight and his forefathers' souls, That in size and shape they are just like the holes In the large house of privity On those two places clear of snow Fashion's pining sons and daughters, That seek the crowd they seem to fly, Trembling they approach thy waters; And what cares Nature, if they die? Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, A thousand recollections bland, Thoughts sublime, and stately measures, Revisit on thy echoing strand : Dreams (the Soul herself forsaking), Tearful raptures, boyish mirth; Silent adorations, making A blessed shadow of this Earth! O ye hopes, that stir within me, ODE TO TRANQUILLITY To thee I gave my early youth, And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore, Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me. with its roar. Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, On him but seldom, Power divine, And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. But me thy gentle hand will lead And in the sultry summer's heat Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon. The feeling heart, the searching soul, The present works of present man— A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile! DEJECTION: AN ODE WRITTEN APRIL 4, 1802 1801. Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. I WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling The coming-on of rain and squally blast. And oh that even now the gust were swelling, And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse The passion and the life, whose fountains give, are within. To other thoughts by yonder throstle A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud woo'd, All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Have I been gazing on the western sky, And its peculiar tint of yellow green: And still I gaze-and with how blank. an eye! Enveloping the Earth And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, 30 Of all sweet sounds the life and element' |