To Charles Cowden Clarke

       Table of Contents

      Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,

       And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;

       He slants his neck beneath the waters bright

       So silently, it seems a beam of light

       Come from the galaxy: anon he sports, —

       With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,

       Or ruffles all the surface of the lake

       In striving from its crystal face to take

       Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure

       In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.

       But not a moment can he there insure them,

       Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;

       For down they rush as though they would be free,

       And drop like hours into eternity.

       Just like that bird am I in loss of time,

       Whene’er I venture on the stream of rhyme;

       With shatter’d boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent,

       I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;

       Still scooping up the water with my fingers,

       In which a trembling diamond never lingers.

      By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see

       Why I have never penn’d a line to thee:

       Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,

       And little fit to please a classic ear;

       Because my wine was of too poor a savour

       For one whose palate gladdens in the flavour

       Of sparkling Helicon: — small good it were

       To take him to a desert rude, and bare.

       Who had on Baiae’s shore reclin’d at ease,

       While Tasso’s page was floating in a breeze

       That gave soft music from Armida’s bowers,

       Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:

       Small good to one who had by Mulla’s stream

       Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;

       Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,

       And lovely Una in a leafy nook,

       And Archimago leaning o’er his book:

       Who had of all that’s sweet tasted, and seen,

       From silv’ry ripple, up to beauty’s queen;

       From the sequester’d haunts of gay Titania,

       To the blue dwelling of divine Urania:

       One, who, of late, had ta’en sweet forest walks

       With him who elegantly chats, and talks —

       The wrong’d Libert as, — who has told you stories

       Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo’s glories;

       Of troops chivalrous prancing; through a city,

       And tearful ladies made for love, and pity:

       With many else which I have never known.

       Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown

       Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still

       For you to try my dull, unlearned quill.

       Nor should I now, but that I’ve known you long;

       That you first taught me all the sweets of song:

       The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine;

       What swell’d with pathos, and what right divine:

       Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,

       And float along like birds o’er summer seas;

       Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness;

       Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve’s fair slenderness.

       Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly

       Up to its climax and then dying proudly?

       Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,

       Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?

       Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,

       The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?

       Shew’d me that epic was of all the king,

       Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn’s ring?

       You too upheld the veil from Clio’s beauty,

       And pointed out the patriot’s stern duty;

       The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;

       The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell

       Upon a tyrant’s head. Ah! had I never seen,

       Or known your kindness, what might I have been?

       What my enjoyments in my youthful years,

       Bereft of all that now my life endears?

       And can I e’er these benefits forget?

       And can I e’er repay the friendly debt?

       No, doubly no; — yet should these rhymings please,

       I shall roll on the grass with twofold ease:

       For I have long time been my fancy feeding

       With hopes that you would one day think the reading

       Of my rough verses not an hour misspent;

       Should it e’er