Me rather all that bowery loneliness, Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, Hendecasyllabics O you chorus of indolent reviewers, They should speak to me not without a welcome, Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble, Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me O blatant Magazines, regard me rather- CLIII SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD HE ceased, and sea-like roar'd the Trojan host, And these all night sat on the bridge of war APPENDIX I NO MORE Он sad No More! Oh sweet No More! By a mossed brookbank on a stone And both my eyes gushed out with tears. Surely all pleasant things had gone before, Low-buried fathom-deep beneath with thee, No More! (The Gem, 1831) II THE SEA-FAIRIES SLOW Sail'd the weary mariners and saw, Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea. Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no more. Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore? Day and night to the billow the fountain calls; Down shower the gambolling waterfalls From wandering over the lea : Out of the live-green heart of the dells They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells O hither, come hither and furl your sails, Come hither to me and to me: Hither, come hither and frolic and play; For here are the blissful downs and dales, And the spangle dances in bight and bay, And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand; Hither, come hither and see; And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, And sweet shall your welcome be: O hither, come hither, and be our lords For merry brides are we: We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words: With pleasure and love and jubilee : O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords Who can light on as happy a shore All the world o'er, all the world o'er? Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner, fly no (1853) more. II AS WHEN A MAN The first four verses of "A Dream of Fair Women." 1833 I As when a man, that sails in a balloon, Downlooking sees the solid shining ground 2 And takes his flags and waves them to the mob, That shout below, all faces turned to where Glows rubylike the far-up crimson globe, Filled with a finer air: 3 So, lifted high, the Poet at his will Lets the great world flit from him, seeing all, Higher thro' secret splendours mounting still, Self-poised, nor fears to fall, 4 Hearing apart the echoes of his fame. While I spoke thus, the seedsman, Memory, Sowed my deep-furrowed thought with many a name, Whose glory will not die. IV TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH You did late review my lays, You did mingle blame and praise, When I learnt from whom it came, I forgave you all the blame, Musty Christopher; I could not forgive the praise, (1833) V THE NEW TIMON AND THE POETS We know him, out of Shakspeare's art, So died the Old: here comes the New. A Lion, you, that made a noise, And shook a mane en papillotes. |