A heart as sensitive to joy and fear? * And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife, Some few, to nobler being wrought, Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought. † Yet these delight to celebrate The sordid vices and the abject pains, The doom of ignorance and penury! + Beneath the shaft of Tell! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! IV. You were a mother! That most holy name, I may not vilely prostitute to those Than the poor caterpillar owes * Its gaudy parent fly. You were a mother! at your bosom fed The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye, Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read, Without the mother's bitter groans: By touch, or taste, by looks or tones, O'er the growing sense to roll, The mother of your infant's soul ! The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides All trembling gazes on the eye of God, A moment turn'd his awful face away; And as he view'd you, from his aspect sweet New influences in your being rose, Blest intuitions and communions fleet With living Nature, in her joys and woes! O beautiful! O Nature's child! 'Twas thence you hail'd the Platform wild, Beneath the shaft of Tell ! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! *Than the poor reptile owes-1799. † O Lady! thence you joy'd to see-ib. TRANQUILLITY:* AN ODE. Vix ea nostra voco. WHAT statesmen scheme and soldiers` work, Whether the Pontiff or the Turk Disturb not me ! Some tears I shed (Live Discord's green combustibles, And future fuel of the funeral pyre) Now hide, and soon, alas! will feed the low-burnt fire.] Tranquillity thou better name For oh dear child of thoughtful Truth, * Printed in the Morning Post, Dec. 4, 1801. Reprinted without the first two stanzas in the first number of The Friend, 1809. To thee I gave my early youth, And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore, Ere yet the tempest * rose and scared me with its roar. Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, On him but seldom, Power divine, Thy spirit rests! Satiety And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope And dire Remembrance interlope, To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. But me thy gentle hand will lead † At morning through the accustom'd mead; Will build me up a mossy seat; And when the gust of Autumn crowds, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, The feeling heart, the searching soul, To thee I dedicate the whole ! And while within myself I trace The greatness of some future race, The present works of present man A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile! *The storm-wind-1801. † The Power divine will lead-il. She best the thought will lift-il. DEJECTION: AN ODE.* WRITTEN APRIL 4, 1802. Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! BALLAD OF SIR PATRICK SPENCE. I. WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! The coming-on of rain and squally blast. * Printed in The Morning Post, Oct. 4, 1802. The poem in its original form is addressed to "Edmund," not, as in the later version, to a "lady." |