But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly To hear the dewy echoes calling From To Cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine the emerald-colour'd water falling Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, world of action 8 The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek : All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow, Lotos-dust is blown. མི་བཅང་ཆ་མ་ད We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in womb-like the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world : Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Till they perish and they suffer-some, 'tis whisper'd-down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore LXXXII I My Rosalind, my Rosalind, My frolic falcon, with bright eyes, Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight, My Rosalind, my Rosalind, My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither, II The quick lark's closest-carolled strains, Life shoots and glances thro' your veins, To pierce me through with pointed light; Like sunshine on a dancing rill, And your words are seeming-bitter, the acting I Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter From excess of swift delight. bitter III Come down, come home, my Rosalind, And your cheek, whose brilliant hue bad adj. Is so sparkling-fresh to view, Some red heathflower in the dew, And keep you fast, my Rosalind, Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, And clip your wings, and make you love: And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night, From North to South; We'll bind you fast in silken cords, And kiss away the bitter words From off your rosy mouth. as paraded fat end of t * (1833) IV My Rosalind, my Rosalind,1 Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind, In the ear, from far and near, And keen delight, that never falls Away from freshness, self-upbornetton With such gladness as, whenever 1 Perhaps the following lines may be allowed to stand as a separate poem; originally they made part of the text, where they were manifestly superfluous. (Author's note.) The fresh-flushing springtime calls LXXXIII A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade, Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still. And, for a while, the knowledge of his art Held me above the subject, as strong gales Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land Those far-renowned brides of ancient song Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars, And clattering flints batter'd with clanging hoofs: 122 And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall; And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated blasts Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land I started once, or seem'd to start in pain, Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak, And once my arm was lifted to hew down All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought At last methought that I had wander'd far In an old wood: fresh-wash'd in coolest dew, Enormous elmtree-boles did stoop and lean Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green, |