Poems 1817 | Page 2

softer than ring-dove's cooings.
How silent comes
the water round that bend;
Not the minutest whisper does it send
To
the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass
Slowly across the chequer'd
shadows pass.
Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach
To
where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach
A natural sermon o'er their
pebbly beds;
Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,

Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams,
To taste the luxury of
sunny beams
Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle
With
their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
Their silver bellies on the
pebbly sand.
If you but scantily hold out the hand,
That very instant
not one will remain;
But turn your eye, and they are there again.

The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,
And cool
themselves among the em'rald tresses;
The while they cool
themselves, they freshness give,
And moisture, that the bowery green
may live:
So keeping up an interchange of favours,
Like good men
in the truth of their behaviours
Sometimes goldfinches one by one
will drop
From low hung branches; little space they stop;
But sip,
and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
Then off at once, as in a wanton

freak:
Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,
Pausing
upon their yellow flutterings.
Were I in such a place, I sure should
pray
That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away,
Than
the soft rustle of a maiden's gown
Fanning away the dandelion's
down;
Than the light music of her nimble toes
Patting against the
sorrel as she goes.
How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught

Playing in all her innocence of thought.
O let me lead her gently
o'er the brook,
Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;
O
let me for one moment touch her wrist;
Let me one moment to her
breathing list;
And as she leaves me may she often turn
Her fair
eyes looking through her locks auburne.
What next? A tuft of evening
primroses,
O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
O'er which
it well might take a pleasant sleep,
But that 'tis ever startled by the
leap
Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting
Of diverse moths,
that aye their rest are quitting;
Or by the moon lifting her silver rim

Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
Coming into the blue with
all her light.
O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight
Of this fair world,
and all its gentle livers;
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,

Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
Closer of lovely
eyes to lovely dreams,
Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
Of
upcast eye, and tender pondering!
Thee must I praise above all other
glories
That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
For what has made
the sage or poet write
But the fair paradise of Nature's light?
In the
calm grandeur of a sober line,
We see the waving of the mountain
pine;
And when a tale is beautifully staid,

We feel the safety of a
hawthorn glade:
When it is moving on luxurious wings,
The soul is
lost in pleasant smotherings:
Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,

And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;
O'er head we
see the jasmine and sweet briar,
And bloomy grapes laughing from
green attire;
While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles
Charms
us at once away from all our troubles:
So that we feel uplifted from
the world,
Walking upon the white clouds wreath'd and curl'd.
So
felt he, who first told, how Psyche went
On the smooth wind to

realms of wonderment;
What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full
lips
First touch'd; what amorous, and fondling nips
They gave each
other's cheeks; with all their sighs,
And how they kist each other's
tremulous eyes:
The silver lamp,--the ravishment,--the wonder--

The darkness,--loneliness,--the fearful thunder;
Their woes gone by,
and both to heaven upflown,
To bow for gratitude before Jove's
throne.
So did he feel, who pull'd the boughs aside,
That we might
look into a forest wide,
To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades

Coming with softest rustle through the trees;
And garlands woven of
flowers wild, and sweet,
Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:

Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled
Arcadian Pan, with such a
fearful dread.
Poor nymph,--poor Pan,--how he did weep to find,

Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream; a
half heard strain,
Full of sweet desolation--balmy pain.
What first inspired a bard of old to sing
Narcissus pining o'er the
untainted spring?
In some delicious ramble, he had found
A little
space, with boughs all woven round;
And in the midst of all, a clearer
pool
Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool,
The blue sky here, and
there, serenely peeping
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.

And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,
A meek and forlorn
flower, with naught of pride,
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery
clearness,
To woo its own sad image into nearness:
Deaf to light
Zephyrus it would not move;
But still would seem to droop, to pine,
to love.
So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot,
Some fainter
gleamings o'er his fancy shot;
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale

Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale.
Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew
That sweetest of
all songs,