So play'd of late to every passing thought With finest change (might I but half as well So write !) the pale magician of the bow, Who brought from Italy the tales, made true, Of Grecian lyres; and on his sphery hand, Loading the air with dumb expectancy, Suspended, ere it fell, a nation's breath.
He smote, and clinging to the serious chords With godlike ravishment, drew forth a breath, So deep, so strong, so fervid thick with love, Blissful, yet laden as with twenty prayers, That Juno yearn'd with no diviner soul To the first burthen of the lips of Jove.
The exceeding mystery of the loveliness
Sadden'd delight; and with his mournful look,
Dreary and gaunt, hanging his pallid face
"Twixt his dark flowing locks, he almost seem'd,
To feeble or to melancholy eyes,
One that had parted with his soul for pride,
And in the sable secret liv'd forlorn.
But true and earnest, all too happily
That skill dwelt in him, serious with its joy;
For noble now he smote the exulting strings,
And bade them march before his stately will
And now he lov'd them like a cheek, and laid
Endearment on them, and took pity sweet;
And now he was all mirth, or all for sense
And reason, carving out his thoughts like prose
After his poetry; or else he laid
His own soul prostrate at the feet of love,
And with a full and trembling fervour deep,
In kneeling and close-creeping urgency,
Implor'd some mistress with hot tears; which past,
And after patience had brought right of peace,
He drew, as if from thoughts finer than hope,
Comfort around him in ear-soothing strains
And elegant composure; or he turn'd
To heaven instead of earth, and rais'd a pray'r
So earnest vehement, yet so lowly sad,
Mighty with want and all poor human tears,
That never saint, wrestling with earthly love,
And in mid-age unable to get free,
Tore down from heav'n such pity. Or behold,
In his despair, (for such, from what he spoke
Of grief before it, or of love, 'twould seem,)
Jump would he into some strange wail uncouth
Of witches' dance, ghastly with whinings thin
And palsied nods-mirth wicked, sad, and weak.
And then with show of skill mechanical,
Marvellous as witchcraft, he would overthrow
That vision with a show'r of notes like hail,
Or sudden mixtures of all difficult things
Never yet heard; flashing the sharp tones now,
In downward leaps like swords; now rising fine
Into some utmost tip of minute sound,
From whence he stepp'd into a higher and higher
On viewless points, till laugh took leave of him:
Or he would fly as if from all the world
To be alone and happy, and you should hear
His instrument become a tree far off,
A nest of birds and sunbeams, sparkling both,
A cottage-bow'r or he would condescend,
In playful wisdom which knows no contempt,
To bring to laughing memory, plain as sight,
A farm-yard with its inmates, ox and lamb,
The whistle and the whip, with feeding hens
In household fidget muttering evermore,
And, rising as in scorn, crown'd Chanticleer,
Ordaining silence with his sovereign crow.
Then from one chord of his amazing sheli
Would he fetch out the voice of quires, and weight
Of the built organ; or some two-fold strain
Moving before him in sweet-going yoke,
Ride like an Eastern conqueror, round whose state
Some light Morisco leaps with his guitar;
And ever and anon o'er these he 'd throw
Jets of small notes like pearl, or like the pelt
Of lovers' sweetmeats on Italian lutes
From windows on a feast-day, or the leaps
Of pebbled water, sprinkled in the sun,
One chord effecting all :-and when the ear
Felt there was nothing present but himself
And silence, and the wonder drew deep sighs,
Then would his bow lie down again in tears,
And speak to some one in a pray'r of love,
Endless, and never from his heart to go:
Or he would talk as of some secret bliss,
And at the close of all the wonderment
(Which himself shar'd) near and more near would
Into the inmost ear, and whisper there
Breathings so soft, so low, so full of life,
Touch'd beyond sense, and only to be borne
By pauses which made each less bearable,
That out of pure necessity for relief
From that heap'd joy, and bliss that laugh'd for pain,
The thunder of th' uprolling house came down,
And bow'd the breathing sorcerer into smiles.
SOME few of us, children and grown, possess
A cottage, far remov'd. 'Tis in a glade,
Where the sun harbours; and one side of it
Listens to bees, another to a brook.
Lovers, that have just parted for the night,
Dream of such spots, when they have said their
pray'rs,-
Or some tir'd parent, holding by the hand
A child, and walking tow'rds the setting sun.
No news comes here; no scandal; no routine Of morning visit; not a postman's knock,— That double thrust of the long staff of care. We are as distant from the world, in spirit If not in place, as though in Crusoe's isle, And please ourselves with being ignorant Ev'n of the country some five miles beyond. Our wood's our world, with some few hills and dales, And many an alley green, with poppies edg'd And flowery brakes, where sails the long blue fly, Whom we pronounce a fairy; and 'twould go Hard with us to be certain he's not one, Such willing children are we of the possible. Hence all our walks have names; some of the Fairies, And some of Nymphs, (where the brook makes a bath In a green chamber, and the turf's half violets,) And some of Grim Old Men that live alone, And may not be seen safely. Pan has one Down in a beech-dell; and Apollo another, Where sunset in the trees makes strawy fires.
You might suppose the place pick'd out of books.
The nightingales, in the cold blooms, are there
Fullest of heart, hushing our open'd windows;
The cuckoo ripest in the warmed thicks.
Autumn, the princely season, purple-rob'd
And liberal-handed, brings no gloom to us,
But, rich in its own self, gives us rich hope
Of winter-time; and when the winter comes,
We burn old wood, and read old books that wall
Our biggest room, and take our heartiest walks
On the good, hard, glad ground; or when it rains
And the rich dells are mire, make much and long
Of a small bin we have of good old wine;
And talk of, perhaps entertain, some friend,
Whom, old or young, we gift with the same grace
Of ancient epithet; for love is time
With us; youth old as love, and age as young;
And stars, affections, hopes, roll all alike
Immortal rounds, in heaven when not on earth.
Therefore the very youngest of us all
Do we call old," old Vincent," or
"old Jule,"
Or "old Jacintha ; " and they count us young,
And at a very playfellow time of life,
As in good truth we are: witness the nuts
We seek, to pelt with, in thy trampled leaves,
November; and the merry Christmas ring,
Hot-fac'd and loud with too much fire and food,-
The rare excess, loving the generous gods.
"Old Mary," and "old Percy," and "old Henry,"
Also there are, with more beyond their teens ;
But these are reverend youngsters, married now,
And ride no longer to our cottage nest
On that unbridled horse, their father's knee.
Custom itself is an old friend with us;
Though change we make a friend, too, if it come
To better custom: nay, to bury him,
Provided soul be gone, and it be done
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