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 such as these are ever harbingers

      To trains of peaceful images: the stirs

      Of a swan’s neck unseen among the rushes:

      A linnet starting all about the bushes:

      A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,

      Nestling a rose, convuls’d as though it smarted

      With over pleasure – many, many more,

      Might I indulge at large in all my store

      Of luxuries: yet I must not forget

      Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:

      For what there may be worthy in these rhymes

      I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes

      Of friendly voices had just given place

      To as sweet a silence, when I ‘gan retrace

      The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.

      It was a poet’s house who keeps the keys

      Of pleasure’s temple. Round about were hung

      The glorious features of the bards who sung

      In other ages – cold and sacred busts

      Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts

      To clear Futurity his darling fame!

      Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim

      At swelling apples with a frisky leap

      And reaching fingers, ‘mid a luscious heap

      Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane

      Of liny marble, and thereto a train

      Of nymphs approaching fairly o’er the sward:

      One, loveliest, holding her white band toward

      The dazzling sunrise: two sisters sweet

      Bending their graceful figures till they meet

      Over the trippings of a little child:

      And some are hearing, eagerly,