May it please your Lordship to withdraw yourself
Unto this neighbouring grove, there shall you hear
How the sweet treble of the chirping birds,
And the soft stirring of the moved leaves,
Running delightful descant to the sound
Of the base murmuring of the bubbling brook,
Become a concert of good instruments:
While twenty babbling echoes round about
Out of the stony concave of their mouths
Restore the vanish'd music of each close,
And fill your ears full with redoubled pleasure.
THE golden morn of youth is gone, and man
Reaches his noon of life without a plan :
As snow falls softly on the mountain height,
Time passes by: 'tis noon-day now-'tis night:
Though whispers oft the still small voice within,
To waste, or misapply thy time, is sin.
Yet it is pleasant here to gaze away
In sweet forgetfulness of cares the day,
The long long summer's day; while flowers exhale
Their fragrance borne along the western gale,
That o'er our Avon's bosom gently breathes,
Till in the sun her "crisped smiles" she wreathes;
Or glory in that sun, till thought elate
Would o'er the horizon round its orb dilate;
Or trace resemblance to that monarch proud
Of Alps, Mont Blanc, in some high-towering cloud;
Or wander lonely through the solemn grove
With every feeling hush'd, save that of love,
Love of a Being who is evermore
All that a grateful spirit must adore!
As clouds along the stream in varied hues
Their lovely shadows rapidly diffuse;
So o'er life's current changeful Fancy glides,
In shapes swift-flitting o'er the restless tides.
All the fine plans thy subtle mind hath spun
Melt into air, like mists before the sun;
Yet why regret? substantial systems wrought
By heads of statesmen crumble into nought.
The wings of time though oft-repeated shocks
Beat down opinions strong as granite rocks;
Senates have sanction'd schemes they now deride;
Oh what a lesson this to human pride!
Bacon has said then take it in my rhyme-
The slaves of custom are the sport of time;
How, as they strive to check his onward course,
He whirls them round with a resistless force!
While knowledge, strong as is the ocean's tide,
Scatters opposing errors far and wide;
Sweeping away the veil that time has thrown
O'er old opinions all must soon disown.
Though knowledge be progressive, mystery shrouds
The glowing sons of fancy in her clouds,
So brilliant, they divert aspiring youth
From following sober lights hung out by truth.
But ah! from them involved within the mass,
Too soon away the brilliant colours pass.
Mystical poetry with wondrous art
Entwines itself around the enthusiast's heart.
Alastor gathers images remote
From human use, as stimulants to thought:
With projects wild his brain distemper'd teems,
His world appears impalpable as dreams :
Vague phantoms take the place of living forms,
And torturing doubt a noble mind deforms.
How can a soul which matter clogs discern
Abstraction's shadowy tribe? their nature learn?
Awhile they rush before our mental sight
Enlarged, then far recede, and all is night!
We shape our projects from a chaos wild
Of dreams that ought not to delude a child;
Then, as our air-built phantasies deceive
Hopes that are nursed in spite of reason-grieve.
In one brief day, thoughts rapidly succeed
Each other, varying as we act or read :
As mutable as Claudia's love, that veers
From heirs for wealth plebeian famed to peers;
Or those opinions that in proper season
Conviction brings against our staggering reason;
Conviction, as self-interest rules the hour,
Has opportunely a resistless power.
What are the secret links uniting thought
With thought? Here metaphysics teach us nought;
The mind, but lately pleased with idle things,
Is teeming now with vast imaginings;
(Not that of Quintus, which, except the news
That clubs can give, no subject can amuse.)
The voice, but lately bland, in fearful tone,
Now bids the oppressor tremble on his throne;
And hearts indignant with responsive beat
Throb, and impatient crowds their shouts repeat.
Thus a great actor shows upon the stage
Alternate fits of tenderness and
Who a few minutes since among his guests
Threw rapidly his laughter-moving jests.
Imagination is to mortals given
That they may sometimes catch a glimpse of heaven,
But not to be an erring guide--at strife
With all the sober principles of life;
To cheat us, as a Prospero with his wand
Creates and then dissolves a fairy band.
Yet what are all the pleasures as we pass
Through life, that cheer our pilgrimage, alas!
Beauty attracts us with her smiles, and Love
Is a most busy god, where idlers move,
Thronging those gardens gay of which the flowers
Transcend the choicest that adorn our bowers;
There glow in summer's lighter garb array'd
The loveliest forms that ever nature made;
The roseate bloom of youth is on their cheeks:
In their sweet looks mind eloquently speaks.
(Yet taste laments that Tullia's shape is gone;
Among her fair compeers she brightly shone.)
Eyes that with tears were filled but yesternight
For a lost Almack's, sparkle with delight.
Come, thou enchantress, Music, with thy strains
Alternate wake delight, or calm our pains!
Thou canst attune the heart to every change
Of feeling as thy fancy loves to range:
Thou art, mysterious Harmony, by Heaven
To
man a solace for his sorrows given.
The Hermit dreams of music in his cell,
Of voices heard in Heaven the choral swell:
The Pilgrim hears the vesper bell at close
Of day, and nears the city of repose,
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