---

Скачать книгу

---

playmate. He knows well

       The evening-star; and once, when he awoke

       In most distressful mood (some inward pain

       Had made up that strange thing, an infant’s dream. — )

       I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,

       And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once,

       Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,

       While his fair eyes, that swam with undropped tears,

       Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam! Well! —

       It is a father’s tale: But if that Heaven

       Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up

       Familiar with these songs, that with the night

       He may associate joy. — Once more, farewell,

       Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.

Dejection: An Ode

       Table of Contents

      Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,

       With the old Moon in her arms;

       And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!

       We shall have a deadly storm.

       BALLAD OF SIR PATRICK SPENCE.

      I

      Well ! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made

       The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,

       This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence

       Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade

       Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,

       Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes

       Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,

       Which better far were mute.

       For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!

       And overspread with phantom light,

       (With swimming phantom light o’erspread

       But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)

       I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling

       The coming-on of rain and squally blast.

       And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling,

       And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast !

       Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,

       And sent my soul abroad,

       Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,

       Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live !

      II

      A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,

       A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,

       Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,

       In word, or sigh, or tear —

       O Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood,

       To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo’d,

       All this long eve, so balmy and serene,

       Have I been gazing on the western sky,

       And its peculiar tint of yellow green :

       And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye !

       And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,

       That give away their motion to the stars ;

       Those stars, that glide behind them or between,

       Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen :

       Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew

       In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ;

       I see them all so excellently fair,

       I see, not feel how beautiful they are !

      III

      My genial spirits fail ;

       And what can these avail

       To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ?

       It were a vain endeavour,

       Though I should gaze for ever

       On that green light that lingers in the west :

       I may not hope from outward forms to win

       The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

      IV

      O Lady ! we receive but what we give,

       And in our life alone does nature live :

       Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud !

       And would we aught behold, of higher worth,

       Than that inanimate cold world allowed

       To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,

       Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth,

       A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

       Enveloping the Earth —

       And from the soul itself must there be sent

       A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,

       Of all sweet sounds the life and element !

      V

      O pure of heart ! thou need’st not ask of me

       What this strong music in the soul may be !

       What, and wherein it doth exist,

       This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,

       This beautiful and beauty-making power.

       Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne’er was given,

       Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,

       Life, and Life’s effluence, cloud at once and shower,

       Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power,

       Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower

       A new Earth and new Heaven,

       Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud —

       Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud —

       We in ourselves rejoice !

       And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,

       All melodies the echoes of that voice,

       All colours a suffusion from that light.

      VI

      There was a time when, though my path was rough,

       This joy within me dallied with distress,

       And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

       Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :

       For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,

       And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.

       But now afflictions bow me down to earth :

       Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth ;

       But oh ! each visitation

       Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,

       My shaping spirit of Imagination.

       For not to think of what I needs must feel,

       But to be still and patient, all I can ;

       And haply by abstruse research to steal

       From my own nature all the natural man —

       This was my sole resource, my only plan

---

Скачать книгу