Poems 1817 | Page 8

wild, romantic,
That often must have seen a poet
frantic;
Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing,
And
flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing;

Where the dark-leav'd
laburnum's drooping clusters
Reflect athwart the stream their yellow

lustres,
And intertwined the cassia's arms unite,
With its own
drooping buds, but very white.
Where on one side are covert branches
hung,
'Mong which the nightingales have always sung
In leafy quiet;
where to pry, aloof,
Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof,
Would be
to find where violet beds were nestling,
And where the bee with
cowslip bells was wrestling.
There must be too a ruin dark, and
gloomy,
To say "joy not too much in all that's bloomy."
Yet this is vain--O Mathew lend thy aid
To find a place where I may
greet the maid--
Where we may soft humanity put on,
And sit, and
rhyme and think on Chatterton;
And that warm-hearted Shakspeare
sent to meet him
Four laurell'd spirits, heaven-ward to intreat him.

With reverence would we speak of all the sages
Who have left streaks
of light athwart their ages:
And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's
blindness,
And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness
To
those who strove with the bright golden wing
Of genius, to flap away
each sting
Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell
Of
those who in the cause of freedom fell:
Of our own Alfred, of
Helvetian Tell;
Of him whose name to ev'ry heart's a solace,

High-minded and unbending William Wallace.
While to the rugged
north our musing turns
We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns.
Felton! without incitements such as these,
How vain for me the
niggard Muse to tease:
For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace,

And make "a sun-shine in a shady place:"
For thou wast once a
flowret blooming wild,
Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefil'd,

Whence gush the streams of song: in happy hour
Came chaste
Diana from her shady bower,
Just as the sun was from the east
uprising;
And, as for him some gift she was devising,
Beheld thee,
pluck'd thee, cast thee in the stream

To meet her glorious brother's
greeting beam.
I marvel much that thou hast never told
How, from a
flower, into a fish of gold
Apollo chang'd thee; how thou next didst
seem
A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream;
And when thou

first didst in that mirror trace
The placid features of a human face:

That thou hast never told thy travels strange.
And all the wonders of
the mazy range
O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands;
Kissing
thy daily food from Naiad's pearly hands.
November, 1815.
TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.
Full many a dreary hour have I past,
My brain bewilder'd, and my
mind o'ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
No
spherey strains by me could e'er be caught
From the blue dome,
though I to dimness gaze
On the far depth where sheeted lightning
plays;
Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely,
Pry 'mong the
stars, to strive to think divinely:
That I should never hear Apollo's
song,
Though feathery clouds were floating all along
The purple
west, and, two bright streaks between,
The golden lyre itself were
dimly seen:
That the still murmur of the honey bee
Would never
teach a rural song to me:
That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids
slanting
Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,
Or warm my
breast with ardour to unfold
Some tale of love and arms in time of
old.
But there are times, when those that love the bay,
Fly from all
sorrowing far, far away;
A sudden glow comes on them, nought they
see
In water, earth, or air, but poesy.
It has been said, dear George,
and true I hold it,
(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,)
That
when a Poet is in such a trance,
In air he sees white coursers paw, and
prance,
Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,
Who at each
other tilt in playful quarrel,
And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning
call,
Is the swift opening of their wide portal,
When the bright
warder blows his trumpet clear,
Whose tones reach nought on earth
but Poet's ear.

When these enchanted portals open wide,
And
through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,
The Poet's eye can reach

those golden halls,
And view the glory of their festivals:
Their
ladies fair, that in the distance seem
Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's
dream;
Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run
Like the
bright spots that move about the sun;
And, when upheld, the wine
from each bright jar
Pours with the lustre of a falling star.
Yet
further off, are dimly seen their bowers,
Of which, no mortal eye can
reach the flowers;
And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows

'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.
All that's reveal'd from
that far seat of blisses,
Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses.

As gracefully descending, light and thin,
Like silver streaks across a
dolphin's fin,
When he upswimmeth from the coral caves.
And
sports with half his tail above the waves.
These wonders strange be sees, and many more,
Whose head is
pregnant with poetic lore.
Should he upon an evening ramble fare

With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,
Would he naught see but
the dark, silent blue
With all its diamonds