COMPLAINT. How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits REPROOF. FOR shame, dear Friend! renounce this canting strain! Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain ?——— The good great man ?—three treasures, love and light, 1809. PSYCHE. THE butterfly the ancient Grecians made But of the soul, escaped the slavish trade And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed. AN ODE TO THE RAIN. COMPOSED BEFORE DAYLIGHT, ON THE MORNING APPOINTED FOR THE DEPARTURE OF A VERY WORTHY, BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE RAIN MIGHT DETAIN. I KNOW it is dark; and though I have lain, I have not once opened the lids of my eyes, You're but a doleful sound at best: O Rain! you will but take your flight, But only now, for this one day, O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound, The clash hard by, and the murmur all round! You know, if you know aught, that we, Both night and day, but ill agree: O Rain! you will but take your flight, Though you should come again to-morrow, And bring with you both pain and sorrow; Though stomach should sicken and knees should swell— But only now for this one day, go, Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say You're a good creature in your way; Nay, I could write a book myself, Would fit a parson's lower shelf, Showing how very good you are.— What then? sometimes it must be fair! And if sometimes, why not to-day? Do go, dear Rain! do go away! Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy, Impatiently to be alone. We three, you mark! and not one more! The strong wish makes my spirit sore. We have so much to talk about, And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain! Be you as dull as e'er you could, Nor should you go away, dear Rain! But only now, for this one day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away. 1809. A DAY DREAM. My eyes make pictures, when they are shut: I see a fountain large and fair, A willow and a ruined hut, And thee, and me, and Mary there. Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow! A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed, And that and summer well agree: And lo! where Mary leans her head, Two dear names carved upon the tree! And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow: 'Twas day! But now few, large, and bright The stars are round the crescent moon! And now it is a dark warm night, The balmiest of the month of June! A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain. O ever-ever be thou blest! For dearly, Asra, love I thee! This brooding warmth across my breast, The shadows dance upon the wall, By the still dancing fire-flames made; And now they slumber, moveless all! And now they melt to one deep shade! But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee! I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee! Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play "Tis Mary's hand upon my brow! But let me check this tender lay Which none may hear but she and thou! Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women! 1814-16. |