« AnteriorContinuar »
Nor vain had been my hope that I had found
In thee the embodied phantasy, whose gleams Kindled my sleep for years, and pour'd around
My path the brightness of a poet's dreams-
So sweet, that its ideal music seems
Tis o'er—but there are words, which thou hast spoken,
Writ on my heart in fire--and now I know The slumber of my soul at length is broken,
Yes, by the stroke that laid its visions low: Perchance hereafter I may find a token
Worthy to speak to thee of all I owe, But never can repay thee_but e'en now I must fulfil one unforgotten vow.
Have I not sworn that from this alter'd lyre
The strains thou lov'st not shall be heard no more? Have I not sworn my spirit shall aspire
(If yet its weaken'd wing hath power to soar) To nobler darings with a pure desire ?
That when this tale is told—these wanderings o'er, My song shall be attuned, with high endeavour, To loftier music or be mute for ever?
Haply, asleep in Reason's secret cells
A power is hid, which yet may make me strong; Haply, the desart of my soul hath wells
Which yet may pour a deeper stream of song; Haply—but oh! awaken'd conscience tells
That I have trifled with my heart too longDeaden'd each nobler impulse, and profaned The strength which Nature for high toils ordain'd.
Yet, from this hour will I, with earnest thought,
Heap knowledge from neglected mines of lore* ; If, haply, by long process, máy be wrought
To steadfast ends my mind's unfashion'd ore: Nor vain shall be the lessons thou hast taught,
Nor vain that purpose which, for thee, I swore I would pursue in silence. --But 'tis time To end this idle and presumptuous rhyme.
The task, which I began in happier hours,
Lies yet a shapeless fragment—and 'twill be Hard to renew, with worn and drooping powers,
That toil whose fruits will yield no joy to thee. Yet--for the feelings that so late were ours
Thou wilt forgive my foolish phantasy, Dallying with bitter jests, as if to ease The aching of unheal'd remembrances.
Perhaps amidst my laughter, thou wilt hear,
At times, a sadder and more solemn tone, Recalling to thine unforgetful ear
Things which are yet reveal'd to thee alone; And thou, I think, wilt hold those accents dear,
And greet them with a pleasure all thine own; Nor shall these gifts, which I so coldly bring, Seem in thy sight a worthless offering.
* “ And from that hour did I, with earnest thought, Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of lore."
LA BELLE TRY AMOUR.
« Then I made a circuit to a place in which nothing was completed."
Book Of Enoch, chap. xxi. v. i.
Four months are past, since I've put pen to paper ;
Four months of mingled sun, and wind, and rain, Fog, thunder, morning frost, and evening vapour;
These soaking summers spoil one's rhyming vein ; But now I'll mend my pen, and trim my taper,
And sit down steadily to work again; Because the public will be glad, I'm sure, To hear some further news of Tryamour.
We left King Arthur and his lovely bride
the honey-moon was over, The happy pair had now grown sober-eyed,
Yet still, for several months, they lived in clover; She seem'd a guardian-angel at his side,
And he was less a husband than a lover; Soon, from this Virgo, Gemini were born, And then she made King Arthur Capricorn.
I don't know how it happen'd-and, indeed,
Some people think the tale a fabrication
For their own selfish ends, the British nation ;
IV. All the world knows Anne Boleyn was a martyr
So was the late Queen Caroline, I've heard ; So might have been the spotless wife of Arthur,
Had similar impeachments been preferr'd;
She had such able counsel at her word,
- Well ! stories will be told, and fools believe them,
And awkward facts will come perversely out,
With most unpleasant mystery and doubt,
To the supreme decision of the knout-
I'm really vastly sorry to detract
From any Sovereign's character-but now, Having no time to ascertain the fact,
I must request you, gentles, to allow That the fair fame of Guenever was crackd,
And that King Arthur wore upon his brow Some ornaments less seemly than his crownOr else the following story won't go down.
But here, at starting, I must just premise
(Lest any readers should look grave and cold) That 'tis not my intention to disguise
A tale immoral in decorous mould.
And other great philosophers, who hold
You think you've found, in me, a new recruit
You're devilishly mistaken I assure you;
And tell you, in plain terms, I can't endure you;
And thought a canto’s horse-whipping would cure you,
I love thee, when I laugh at thee, sweet Leigh;
A friend's advice, and soon recross the sea.
The heartless bard, the hoary debauchee,
With all thy follies, thou wast still sincere,
And gentle (save in politics) though blind, And very often silly, and, I fear,
Hast done some harm among the Cockney kind;
What, in the name of wonder, could'st thou find,
Thou wast a faithful and a fit Achates,
Once, to a great Æneas, Percy Shelley-
A thing which I deplore--but let me tell ye,
With that same funeral pile he might as well lie,