Impassion'd thought, quick as the lightning's glance, And warm as summer suns: and every flower Of Poësy, which by the laurell'd spring Of Aganippe, or that Roman stream
Tiber, or Tuscan Arno, breath'd of old,
Its fragrance sweet; and every flower, which since Hath drunk the dew beside the banks of Thames, Met in his genial breast and blossom'd there. Happy old man! for therefore didst thou seek Ecstatic vision by the haunted stream Or grove of fairy: then thy nightly ear (As from the wild notes of some hairy harp) Thrill'd with strange music; if the tragic plaints And sounding lyre of those Athenians old, Rich-minded poets, fathers of the stage, Rous'd thee enraptur'd; or the pastoral reed Of Mantuan Tityrus charm'd; or Dante fierce, Or more majestic Homer swell'd thy soul, Or Milton's muse of fire.
Happy old man! Yet not in vain to thee Was Fancy's wand committed: not in vain Did Science fill thee with her sacred lore:-- But if of fair and lovely aught
Of good and virtuous in her hallow'd walls, [years, Through the long space of thrice twelve glorious Thy Venta nurtur'd; if transplanted thence To the fair banks of Isis and of Cam,
It brighter shone; and haply thence again, Thence haply spread its influence through the land, That be thy praise. Be it thy praise, that thou Didst bathe the youthful lip in the fresh spring, 'The pure well-head of Poesy,' didst point, Like thine own lov'd Longinus, to the steep Parnassian crag, and led'st thyself the way;—
Be it thy praise, that thou didst clear the path Which leads to Virtue's fane; not her of stern And stoic aspect dark, till Virtue wears
The gloom of Vice; but such as warms the heart To acts of love, and peace, and gentleness, And tenderest charity; such as around Thy earthly passage shed her cheerful light, And such as Wykeham best might love to view. So thine allotted station didst thou fill, And now art passed to thy peaceful grave, In age and honours ripe. Then not for thee Pour we the tear of sorrow, not with strains Like those despondent, which the Doric bard Wept for his Bion, do we tend on thee: For other hopes are ours, and other views, Brighter and happier scenes! No earthly chains Shall in this dreary prison-house confine Spirits of light; nor shall the heaven-born mind Oblivious linger in the silent cave
Of endless hopeless sleep. But as the Sun, Who drove his fierce and fiery-tressed steeds Glorious along the vault of Heaven, at length Sinks in the bosom of the western wave; Anon from forth the chambers of the east To run his giant course; so didst thou set, So mayst thou rise in glory!
O PARENT of each lovely Muse! Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse; O'er all my artless songs preside, My footsteps to thy temple guide; To offer at thy turf-built shrine, In golden cups no costly wine; No murder'd fatling of the flock, But flowers and honey from the rock. O nymph! with loosely-flowing hair, With buskin❜d leg, and bosom bare; Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd; Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand; Of power to bid fresh gardens blow Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow ; Whose rapid wings thy flight convey, Through air, and over earth and sea: While the vast, various landscape lies Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes; O lover of the desert, hail! Say, in what deep and pathless vale, Or on what hoary mountain's side, Midst falls of water, you reside; Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green and grassy dales between ;
Midst forests dark of aged oak',
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke ; Where never human art appear'd,
Nor e'en one straw-rooft cot was rear'd; Where Nature seems to sit alone, Majestic on a craggy throne.
Tell me the path, sweet wanderer, tell, To thy unknown sequester'd cell;
Where woodbines cluster round the door, Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor; And on whose top a hawthorn blows, Amid whose thickly-woven boughs Some nightingale still builds her nest, Each evening warbling thee to rest. Then lay me by the haunted stream, Wrap'd in some wild, poetic dream; In converse while methinks I rove With Spenser through a fairy grove; Till suddenly awak'd, I hear Strange whisper'd music in my ear2; And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd, By the sweetly-soothing sound! Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead, Sometimes through the yellow mead, Where Joy, and white-rob'd Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive court, Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, And lightly trip with nimble feet.
Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads : Where Echo walks steep hills among, List'ning to the shepherd's song:
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