MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path be there or none
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse.
With Thought and Love companions of our way,
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,
The mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
WHERE lies the land to which yon ship must go?
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
As vigorous as a lark at break of day.
Is she for tropic suns or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry? Neither friend nor foe
She cares for; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
And, almost as it was when ships were rare
(From time to time, like pilgrims here and there
Crossing the waters), doubt, and something dark,
Of the old sea some reverential fear
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark!
HER only pilot the soft breeze, the boat
Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied;
With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side.
And the glad Muse at liberty to note
All that to each is precious, as we float
Gently along; regardless who shall chide
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide,
Happy Associates breathing air remote
From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse,
Why have I crowded this small bark with you
And others of your kind, ideal crew!
While here sits One, whose brightness owes its hues To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above,
No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love?
A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky,
By turns have all been thought of, yet I lie
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth.
So do not let me wear to-night away.
Without thee, what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
"I WATCH, AND LONG HAVE WATCHED."
I WATCH, and long have watched, with calm regret Yon slowly sinking star-immortal sire
(So might he seem) of all the glittering quire!
Blue ether still surrounds him—yet and yet;
But now the horizon's rocky parapet
Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire,
He burns--transmuted to a dusky fire-
Then pays submissively the appointed debt.
To the flying moments, and is seen no more.
Angels and gods! We struggle with our fate,
While health, power, glory, from their height decline,
Depressed; and then extinguished; and our state
In this, how different, lost Star, from thine,
That no to-morrow shall our beams restore!
FROM low to high doth dissolution climb,
And sink from high to low, along a scale
Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;
A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.
Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whitened hill and plain
And is no more; drop like the tower sublime
Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain
Some casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time.
INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.
TAX not the royal saint with vain expense,
With ill-matched aims the architect who planned,
Albeit labouring for a scanty band
Of white-robed scholars only, this immense
And glorious work of fine intelligence!
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely calculated less or more.
So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering, and wandering on as loth to die;
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality.
WHAT awful perspective! while from our sight With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide Their portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed. In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light.
Martyr or King, or sainted Eremite,
Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen,
Inbue your prison bars with solemn sheen,
Shine on, until ye fade with coming night!
But from the arms of silence--list O! list
The music bursteth into second life;
The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed
By sound or ghost of sound, in mazy strife;
Heart-thrilling strains, that cast before the eye
Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy!
THEY dreamt not of a perishable home
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here;
Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam:
Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam
Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the wreath
Of awe-struck wisdom droops: or let my path
Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome
Hath typified by reach of daring art
Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest,
The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread
As now, when She hath also seen her breast
Filled with mementoes, satiate with its part
Of grateful England's overflowing Dead.
I THOUGHT of thee, my partner and my guide,
For backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide;
Still glides the stream, and shall not cease to glide;
The form remains, the function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
We men, who in our morn of youth defied
The elements, must vanish. Be it so!
Enough, if something from our hands have power To live and act and serve the future hour;
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