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Throne or the massive ore, from which
Sole star of all that place and time,
THE GOOD HAROUN ALRASCHID.
ODE TO MEMORY.
Whilome thou camest with the morning
And with the evening cloud, Showering thy gleaned wealth into my
open breast (Those peerless flowers which in the
Never grow sere, When rooted in the garden of the mind, Because they are the earliest of the year).
Nor was the night thy shroud. In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Thou leddest by the hand thine infant
Hope. The eddying of her garments caught from
thee The light of thy great presence; and the
cope Of the half-attain’d futurity,
Tho' deep not fathomless, Was cloven with the million stars which
tremble O’er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. Small thought was there of life's distress ; For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could
Thou who stealest fire,
Visit my low desire !
Come not as thou camest of late, Flinging the gloom of yesternight On the white day; but robed in soften'd
Of orient state. Whilome thou camest with the morning
mist, Even as a maid, whose stately brow The dew-impearled winds of dawn have
When, she, as thou, Stays on her floating locks the lovely
freight Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots Of orient green, giving safe pledge of
fruits, Which in wintertide shall star The black earth with brilliance rare.
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and
beautiful : Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres, Listening the lordly music flowing from
The illimitable years.
Come forth, I charge thee, arise,
eyes ! Thou comest not with shows of flaunting
Unto mine inner eye,
Divinest Memory! Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines
A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : Come from the woods that belt the gray
hill-side, The seven elms, the poplars four That stand beside my father's door, And chiefly from the brook that loves To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, Drawing into his narrow earthen urn,
In every elbow and turn, The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland.
O! hither lead thy feet! Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled
Upon the ridged wolds, When the first matin-song hath waken'd
loud Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung
And foremost in thy various gallery
Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls
For the discovery
Or boldest since, but lightly weighs With thee unto the love thou bearest The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, Ever retiring thou dost gaze On the prime labour of thine early
days : No matter what the sketch might be ; Whether the high field on the bushless
Pike, Or even a sand-built ridge Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Overblown with murmurs harsh, Or even a lowly cottage whence we see Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enor
mous marsh, Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity, The trenched waters run from sky to
sky; Or a garden bower'd close With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, Or opening upon level plots Of crowned lilies, standing near Purple-spiked lavender : Whither in after life retired From brawling storms, From weary wind, With youthful fancy re-inspired,
We may hold converse with all forms Of the many-sided mind, And those whom passion hath not blinded, Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded.
Large dowries doth the raptured eye
And like a bride of old
With music and sweet showers
Of festal flowers, Unto the dwelling she must sway. Well hast thou done, great artist Me
mory, In setting round thy first experiment With royal frame-work of wrought
gold; Needs must thou dearly love thy first
My friend, with you to live alone, Were how much better than to own A crown, a sceptre, and a throne !