'Tis vain! in such a brassy age But what is that I hear? a sound Like sleepy counsel pleading: O Lord! 't is in my neighbor's ground, The modern Muses reading. They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening through there, And Methods of transplanting trees, Are neither green nor sappy; And I must work thro' months of toil, And years of cultivation, Upon my proper patch of soil To grow my own plantation. ST. AGNES. DEEP on the convent-roof the snows The shadows of the convent-towers Make Thou my spirit pure and clear Or this first snowdrop of the year As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, So in mine earthly house I am, Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, He lifts me to the golden doors; To make me pure of sin. One sabbath deep and wide- SIR GALAHAD. My good blade carves the casques of men My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging, lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, To save from shame and thrall: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer When down the stormy crescent goes, I hear a voice, but none are there : The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings. And solemn chants resound between, Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: When on my goodly charger borne The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, spins from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armor that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on the prize is near." So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail. To make me write my random rhymes, I pledge her, and she comes and dips In full and kindly blossom. I pledge her silent at the board; Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, Thro' many an hour of summer suns My college friendships glimmer. Or that eternal want of pence, Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, I will not cramp my heart, nor take All parties work together. Let there be thistles, there are grapes; Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, This earth is rich in man and maid; Comes out, a perfect round. Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest That ever came from pipe. For since I came to live and learn, Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, For I am of a numerous house, With many kinsmen gay, Where long and largely we carouse, As who shall say me nay: Each month, a birthday coming on, We drink defying trouble, Or sometimes two would meet in one, And then we drank it double; Whether the vintage, yet unkept, Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) The gloom of ten Decembers. The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is! She lit the spark within my throat, To make my blood run quicker, Used all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor. And hence this halo lives about The waiter's hands, that reach To each his perfect pint of stout, His proper chop to each. He looks not like the common breed That with the napkin dally; I think he came like Ganymede, From some delightful valley. The Cock was of a larger egg Than modern poultry drop, Stept forward on a firmer leg, And cramm'd a plumper crop; Upon an ampler dunghill trod, Crow'd lustier late and early, Sipt wine from silver, praising God, And raked in golden barley. A private life was all his joy, Till in a court he saw A something-pottle-bodied boy, Flew over roof and casement: But he, by farmstead, thorpe, and spire, And follow'd with acclaims, A sign to many a staring shire, Came crowing over Thames. Right down by smoky Paul's they bore Till, where the street grows straiter, One fix'd forever at the door, And one became head-waiter. But whither would my fancy go? How out of place she makes The violet of a legend blow Among the chops and steaks! |