Were I in such a place, I sure should pray That nought less sweet might call my thoughts away Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown Fanning away the dandelion's down; Than the light music of her nimble toes Patting against the sorrel as she goes.
How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught Playing in all her innocence of thought.
O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look ; O let me for one moment touch her wrist; Let me one moment to her breathing list; And as she leaves me may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburn. What next? A tuft of evening primroses, O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes; O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that 'tis ever startled by the leap Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting Of divers moths, that aye their rest are quitting; Or by the moon lifting her silver rim Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim Coming into the blue with all her light. O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight
Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers; Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
Mingler with leaves, and dew, and tumbling streams, Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, Lover of loneliness, and wandering, Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! Thee must I praise above all other glories That smile us on to tell delightful stories. For what has made the sage or poet write But the fair paradise of Nature's light?
In the calm grandeur of a sober line We see the waving of the mountain pine; And when a tale is beautifully staid, We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade: When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings : Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases; O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweetbriar, And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire ; While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles Charms us at once away from all our troubles: So that we feel uplifted from the world, Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and curled. So felt he, who first told how Pysche went On the smooth wind to worlds of wonderment; What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips First touched; what amorous and fondling nips They gave each other's cheeks; with all their sighs, And how they kissed each other's tremulous eyes: The silver lamp-the ravishment-the wonder- The darkness-the loneliness-the fearful thunder; Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. So did he feel, who pulled the boughs aside, That we might look into a forest wide, To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades, Coming with softest rustle through the trees; And garlands woven of flowers, wild and sweet, Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet: Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. Poor nymph-poor Pan-how he did weep to find Naught but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream! a half heard strain, Full of sweet desolation-balmy pain.
What first inspired a bard of old to sing Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring! In some delicious ramble, he had found A little space, with boughs all woven round : And in the midst of all, a clearer pool Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool The blue sky, here and there serenely peeping Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride, Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness, To woo its own sad image into nearness : Deaf to light Zephyrus, it would not move; But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot, Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot; Nor was it long ere he had told the tale Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale.
Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,
That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,
Coming ever to bless
The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing
Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing From out the middle air, from flowery nests, And from the pillowy silkiness that rests Full in the speculation of the stars. Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars; Into some wondrous region he had gone, To search for thee, divine Endymion !
He was a Poet, sure a lover too,
Who stood on Latmos' top, what time there blew Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;
And brought in faintness, solemn, sweet, and slow, A hymn from Dian's temple! while upswelling, The incense went to her own starry dwelling. But though her face was clear as infant's eyes, Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice, The Poet wept at her so piteous fate, Wept that such beauty should be desolate : So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.
Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen! As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. O for three words of honey, that I might Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!
Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels, And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes, Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. The evening weather was so bright and clear, That men of health were of unusual cheer; Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call, Or young Apollo on the pedestal;
And lovely women were as fair and warm As Venus looking sideways in alarm. The breezes were ethereal and pure, And crept through half-closed lattices to cure The languid sick; it cooled their fevered sleep, And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.
Soon they awoke clear-eyed: nor burnt with thirsting, Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting: And springing up, they met the wond'ring sight Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight; Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare, And on their placid foreheads part the hair. Young men and maidens at each other gazed With hands held back, and motionless, amazed To see the brightness in each other's eyes; And so they stood, filled with a sweet surprise, Until their tongues were loosed in poesy. Therefore no lover did of anguish die :
But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, Made silken ties, that never may be broken. Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses
That followed thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses: Was there a Poet born ?-but now no more- My wand'ring spirit must no further soar.
HADST thou
O what wonders had been told
Of thy lively countenance,
And thy humid eyes, that dance In the midst of their own brightness; In the very fane of lightness. Over which thine eyebrows, leaning, Picture out each lovely meaning: In a dainty bend they lie, Like to streaks across the sky,
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