---

Скачать книгу

---

In many places; — some has been upstirr’d

       From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,

       By a swan’s ebon bill; from a thick brake,

       Nested and quiet in a valley mild,

       Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild

       About the earth: happy are ye and glad.

      These things are doubtless: yet in truth we’ve had

       Strange thunders from the potency of song;

       Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,

       From majesty: but in clear truth the themes

       Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes

       Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower

       Of light is poesy; ’tis the supreme of power;

       ’Tis might half slumb’ring on its own right arm.

       The very archings of her eyelids charm

       A thousand willing agents to obey,

       And still she governs with the mildest sway:

       But strength alone though of the Muses born

       Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,

       Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres

       Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,

       And thorns of life; forgetting the great end

       Of poesy, that it should be a friend

       To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.

      Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than

       E’er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds

       Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds

       A silent space with ever sprouting green.

       All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,

       Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,

       Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.

       Then let us clear away the choaking thorns

       From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,

       Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,

       Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown

       With simple flowers: let there nothing be

       More boisterous than a lover’s bended knee;

       Nought more ungentle than the placid look

       Of one who leans upon a closed book;

       Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes

       Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes!

       As she was wont, th’ imagination

       Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone,

       And they shall be accounted poet kings

       Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.

       O may these joys be ripe before I die.

      Will not some say that I presumptuously

       Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace

       ‘Twere better far to hide my foolish face?

       That whining boyhood should with reverence bow

       Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!

       If I do hide myself, it sure shall be

       In the very fane, the light of Poesy:

       If I do fall, at least I will be laid

       Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;

       And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;

       And there shall be a kind memorial graven.

       But oft’ Despondence! miserable bane!

       They should not know thee, who athirst to gain

       A noble end, are thirsty every hour.

       What though I am not wealthy in the dower

       Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know

       The shiftings of the mighty winds, that blow

       Hither and thither all the changing thoughts

       Of man: though no great minist’ring reason sorts

       Out the dark mysteries of human souls

       To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls

       A vast idea before me, and I glean

       Therefrom my liberty; thence too I’ve seen

       The end and aim of Poesy. ’Tis clear

       As any thing most true; as that the year

       Is made of the four seasons — manifest

       As a large cross, some old cathedral’s crest,

       Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I

       Be but the essence of deformity,

       A coward, did my very eyelids wink

       At speaking out what I have dared to think.

       Ah! rather let me like a madman run

       Over some precipice; let the hot sun

       Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down

       Convuls’d and headlong! Stay! an inward frown

       Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.

       An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,

       Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!

       How many days! what desperate turmoil!

       Ere I can have explored its widenesses.

       Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,

       I could unsay those — no, impossible!

       Impossible!

      For sweet relief I’ll dwell

       On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay

       Begun in gentleness die so away.

       E’en now all tumult from my bosom fades:

       I turn full hearted to the friendly aids

       That smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,

       And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.

       The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet

       Into the brain ere one can think upon it;

       The silence when some rhymes are coming out;

       And when they’re come, the very pleasant rout:

       The message certain to be done tomorrow.

       ’Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow

       Some precious book from out its snug retreat,

       To cluster round it when we next shall meet.

       Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs

       Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;

       Many delights of that glad day recalling,

       When first my senses caught their tender falling.

       And with these airs come forms of elegance

       Stooping their shoulders o’er a horse’s prance,

       Careless, and grand — fingers soft and round

       Parting luxuriant curls; — and the swift bound

       Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye

       Made Ariadne’s cheek look blushingly.

       Thus I remember all the pleasant flow

       Of words at opening a portfolio.

      Things

---

Скачать книгу