September 1819


          THE sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields
          Are hung, as if with golden shields,
          Bright trophies of the sun!
          Like a fair sister of the sky,
          Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,
          The mountains looking on.

          And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove,
          Albeit uninspired by love,
          By love untaught to ring,
          May well afford to mortal ear                               10
          An impulse more profoundly dear
          Than music of the Spring.

          For 'that' from turbulence and heat
          Proceeds, from some uneasy seat
          In nature's struggling frame,
          Some region of impatient life:
          And jealousy, and quivering strife,
          Therein a portion claim.

          This, this is holy;--while I hear
          These vespers of another year,                              20
          This hymn of thanks and praise,
          My spirit seems to mount above
          The anxieties of human love,
          And earth's precarious days.

          But list!--though winter storms be nigh,
          Unchecked is that soft harmony:
          There lives Who can provide
          For all his creatures; and in Him,
          Even like the radiant Seraphim,
          These choristers confide.                                   30

Upon The Same Occasion


          DEPARTING summer hath assumed
          An aspect tenderly illumed,
          The gentlest look of spring;
          That calls from yonder leafy shade
          Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
          A timely carolling.

          No faint and hesitating trill,
          Such tribute as to winter chill
          The lonely redbreast pays!
          Clear, loud, and lively is the din,                         10
          From social warblers gathering in
          Their harvest of sweet lays.

          Nor doth the example fail to cheer
          Me, conscious that my leaf is sere,
          And yellow on the bough:--
          Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!
          Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed
          Around a younger brow!

          Yet will I temperately rejoice;
          Wide is the range, and free the choice                      20
          Of undiscordant themes;
          Which, haply, kindred souls may prize
          Not less than vernal ecstasies,
          And passion's feverish dreams.

          For deathless powers to verse belong,
          And they like Demi-gods are strong
          On whom the Muses smile;
          But some their function have disclaimed,
          Best pleased with what is aptliest framed
          To enervate and defile.                                     30

          Not such the initiatory strains
          Committed to the silent plains
          In Britain's earliest dawn:
          Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale,
          While all-too-daringly the veil
          Of nature was withdrawn!

          Nor such the spirit-stirring note
          When the live chords Alcaeus smote,
          Inflamed by sense of wrong;
          Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre                          40
          Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire
          Of fierce vindictive song.

          And not unhallowed was the page
          By winged Love inscribed, to assuage
          The pangs of vain pursuit;
          Love listening while the Lesbian Maid
          With finest touch of passion swayed
          Her own Aeolian lute.

          O ye, who patiently explore
          The wreck of Herculanean lore,                              50
          What rapture! could ye seize
          Some Theban fragment, or unroll
          One precious, tender-hearted, scroll
          Of pure Simonides.

          That were, indeed, a genuine birth
          Of poesy; a bursting forth
          Of genius from the dust:
          What Horace gloried to behold,
          What Maro loved, shall we enfold?
          Can haughty Time be just!                                   60
                                                              1819.

"There Is A Little Unpretending Rill"


          THERE a little unpretending Rill
          Of limpid water, humbler far than aught
          That ever among Men or Naiads sought
          Notice or name!--It quivers down the hill,
          Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will;
          Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought
          Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought
          Of private recollection sweet and still!
          Months perish with their moons; year treads on year!
          But, faithful Emma! thou with me canst say                  10
          That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear,
          And flies their memory fast almost as they;
          The immortal Spirit of one happy day
          Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.
                                                              1820.

Composed OnThe Banks Of A Rocky Stream


          DOGMATIC Teachers, of the snow-white fur!
          Ye wrangling Schoolmen, of the scarlet hood!
          Who, with a keenness not to be withstood,
          Press the point home, or falter and demur,
          Checked in your course by many a teasing burr;
          These natural council-seats your acrid blood
          Might cool;--and, as the Genius of the flood
          Stoops willingly to animate and spur
          Each lighter function slumbering in the brain,
          Yon eddying balls of foam, these arrowy gleams              10
          That o'er the pavement of the surging streams
          Welter and flash, a synod might detain
          With subtle speculations, haply vain,
          But surely less so than your far-fetched themes!
                                                              1820.

On The Death Of His Majesty (George The Third)


          WARD of the LAW!--dread Shadow of a King!
          Whose realm had dwindled to one stately room;
          Whose universe was gloom immersed in gloom,
          Darkness as thick as life o'er life could fling,
          Save haply for some feeble glimmering
          Of Faith and Hope--if thou, by nature's doom,
          Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb,
          Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling,
          When thankfulness were best?--Fresh-flowing tears,
          Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh,             10
          Yield to such after-thought the sole reply
          Which justly it can claim. The Nation hears
          In this deep knell, silent for threescore years,
          An unexampled voice of awful memory!
                                                              1820.

"The Stars Are Mansions Built By Nature's Hand"


          THE stars are mansions built by Nature's hand,
          And, haply, there the spirits of the blest
          Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest;
          Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand,
          A habitation marvellously planned,
          For life to occupy in love and rest;
          All that we see--is dome, or vault, or nest,
          Or fortress, reared at Nature's sage command.
          Glad thought for every season! but the Spring
          Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart,              10
          'Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring;
          And while the youthful year's prolific art--
          Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower--was fashioning
          Abodes where self-disturbance hath no part.
                                                              1820.

To The Lady Mary Lowther


          LADY! I rifled a Parnassian Cave
          (But seldom trod) of mildly-gleaming ore;
          And culled, from sundry beds, a lucid store
          Of genuine crystals, pure as those that pave
          The azure brooks, where Dian joys to lave
          Her spotless limbs; and ventured to explore
          Dim shades--for reliques, upon Lethe's shore,
          Cast up at random by the sullen wave.
          To female hands the treasures were resigned;
          And lo this Work!--a grotto bright and clear                10
          From stain or taint; in which thy blameless mind
          May feed on thoughts though pensive not austere;
          Or, if thy deeper spirit be inclined
          To holy musing, it may enter her.
                                                              1820.

On The Detraction Which Followed The Publication Of A Certain Poem


          A BOOK came forth of late, called PETER BELL;
          Not negligent the style;--the matter?--good
          As aught that song records of Robin Hood;
          Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell;
          But some (who brook those hackneyed themes full well,
          Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their blood)
          Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood,
          On Bard and Hero clamorously fell.
          Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen,
          Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice,            10
          Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men
          To thee appear not an unmeaning voice,
          Lift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice
          In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen!
                                                              1820.

Oxford, May 30, 1820


          YE sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth!
          In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers
          Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours
          The air of liberty, the light of truth;
          Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth:
          Yet, O ye spires of Oxford! domes and towers!
          Gardens and groves! your presence overpowers
          The soberness of reason; till, in sooth,
          Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange,
          I slight my own beloved Cam, to range                       10
          Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet;
          Pace the long avenue, or glide adown
          The stream-like windings of that glorious street--
          An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown!

Oxford, May 30, 1820


          SHAME on this faithless heart! that could allow
          Such transport, though but for a moment's space;
          Not while--to aid the spirit of the place--
          The crescent moon clove with its glittering prow
          The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough;
          But in plain daylight:--She, too, at my side,
          Who, with her heart's experience satisfied,
          Maintains inviolate its slightest vow!
          Sweet Fancy! other gifts must I receive;
          Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim;                     10
          Take from 'her' brow the withering flowers of eve,
          And to that brow life's morning wreath restore;
          Let 'her' be comprehended in the frame
          Of these illusions, or they please no more.