Poems 1817 | Page 3

that ever new,

That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,

Coming ever to bless
The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing

Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing
From out the
middle air, from flowery nests,
And from the pillowy silkiness that

rests
Full in the speculation of the stars.
Ah! surely he had burst our
mortal bars;
Into some wond'rous region he had gone,
To search for
thee, divine Endymion!
He was a Poet, sure a lover too,
Who stood on Latmus' top, what time
there blew
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;
And brought in
faintness solemn, sweet, and slow
A hymn from Dian's temple; while
upswelling,
The incense went to her own starry dwelling.
But
though her face was clear as infant's eyes,
Though she stood smiling
o'er the sacrifice,
The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,
Wept that
such beauty should be desolate:
So in fine wrath some golden sounds
he won,
And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.
Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen
Of all the brightness
that mine eyes have seen!
As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,

So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.
O for three words of
honey, that I might
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!
Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,
Phoebus awhile
delayed his mighty wheels,
And turned to smile upon thy bashful
eyes,
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.
The evening
weather was so bright, and clear,
That men of health were of unusual
cheer;
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call,
Or young Apollo
on the pedestal:
And lovely women were as fair and warm,
As
Venus looking sideways in alarm.
The breezes were ethereal, and
pure,
And crept through half closed lattices to cure
The languid sick;
it cool'd their fever'd sleep,
And soothed them into slumbers full and
deep.
Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting,
Nor
with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:
And springing up, they
met the wond'ring sight
Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with
delight;

Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,
And
on their placid foreheads part the hair.
Young men, and maidens at
each other gaz'd
With hands held back, and motionless, amaz'd
To
see the brightness in each others' eyes;
And so they stood, fill'd with a

sweet surprise,
Until their tongues were loos'd in poesy.
Therefore
no lover did of anguish die:
But the soft numbers, in that moment
spoken,
Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
Cynthia! I
cannot tell the greater blisses,
That follow'd thine, and thy dear
shepherd's kisses:
Was there a Poet born?--but now no more,
My
wand'ring spirit must no further soar.--
SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A POEM.
Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
For large white plumes are dancing
in mine eye.
Not like the formal crest of latter days:
But bending in
a thousand graceful ways;
So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand,

Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand,
Could charm them into
such an attitude.
We must think rather, that in playful mood,
Some
mountain breeze had turned its chief delight,
To show this wonder of
its gentle might.
Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
For while I muse,
the lance points slantingly
Athwart the morning air: some lady sweet,

Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,
From the worn top of
some old battlement
Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent:
And
from her own pure self no joy dissembling,
Wraps round her ample
robe with happy trembling.
Sometimes, when the good Knight his
rest would take,
It is reflected, clearly, in a lake,
With the young
ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests,
And th' half seen mossiness of
linnets' nests.
Ah! shall I ever tell its cruelty,
When the fire flashes
from a warrior's eye,
And his tremendous hand is grasping it,
And
his dark brow for very wrath is knit?
Or when his spirit, with more
calm intent,
Leaps to the honors of a tournament,
And makes the
gazers round about the ring
Stare at the grandeur of the balancing?

No, no! this is far off:--then how shall I

Revive the dying tones of
minstrelsy,
Which linger yet about lone gothic arches,
In dark green
ivy, and among wild larches?
How sing the splendour of the revelries,

When buts of wine are drunk off to the lees?
And that bright lance,
against the fretted wall,
Beneath the shade of stately banneral,
Is

slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield?
Where ye may see a
spur in bloody field.
Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces

Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces;
Or stand in courtly
talk by fives and sevens:
Like those fair stars that twinkle in the
heavens.
Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry:
Or wherefore comes that
knight so proudly by?
Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight,

Rein in the swelling of his ample might?
Spenser! thy brows are arched, open, kind,
And come like a clear
sun-rise to my mind;
And always does my heart with pleasure dance,

When I think on thy noble countenance:
Where never yet was
ought more earthly seen
Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green.

Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully
Call on thy gentle spirit to
hover nigh
My daring steps: or if thy tender care,
Thus