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AUTHOR OF ‘POLITICAL JUSTICE’

O form’d t’ illume a sunless world forlorn,

As o’er the chill and dusky brow of Night,

In Finland’s wintry skies the Mimic Morn

Electric pours a stream of rosy light,

Pleas’d I have mark’d OPPRESSION, terror-pale, 5

Since, thro’ the windings of her dark machine,

Thy steady eye has shot its glances keen —

And bade th’ All-lovely ‘scenes at distance hail’.

Nor will I not thy holy guidance bless,

And hymn thee, GODWIN! with an ardent lay; 10

For that thy voice, in Passion’s stormy day,

When wild I roam’d the bleak Heath of Distress,

Bade the bright form of Justice meet my way —

And told me that her name was HAPPINESS.

January 10, 1795.

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY

OF BALIOL COLLEGE, OXFORD, AUTHOR OF THE ‘RETROSPECT’, AND OTHER POEMS

SOUTHEY! thy melodies steal o’er mine ear

Like far-off joyance, or the murmuring

Of wild bees in the sunny showers of Spring —

Sounds of such mingled import as may cheer

The lonely breast, yet rouse a mindful tear: 5

Wak’d by the Song doth Hope-born FANCY fling

Rich showers of dewy fragrance from her wing,

Till sickly PASSION’S drooping Myrtles sear

Blossom anew! But O! more thrill’d, I prize

Thy sadder strains, that bid in MEMORY’S Dream 10

The faded forms of past Delight arise;

Then soft, on Love’s pale cheek, the tearful gleam

Of Pleasure smiles — as faint yet beauteous lies

The imag’d Rainbow on a willowy stream.

January 14, 1795.

TO RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, ESQ.

It was some Spirit, SHERIDAN! that breath’d

O’er thy young mind such wildly-various power!

My soul hath mark’d thee in her shaping hour,

Thy temples with Hymettian flow’rets wreath’d:

And sweet thy voice, as when o’er LAURA’S bier 5

Sad Music trembled thro’ Vauclusa’s glade;

Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade

That wafts soft dreams to SLUMBER’S listening ear.

Now patriot Rage and Indignation high

Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance 10

Meanings of Scorn and Wit’s quaint revelry!

Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance

The Apostate by the brainless rout ador’d,

As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael’s sword.

January 29, 1795.

TO LORD STANHOPE

ON READING HIS LATE PROTEST IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS

‘MORNING CHRONICLE,’ JAN. 31, 1795

STANHOPE! I hail, with ardent Hymn, thy name!

Thou shalt be bless’d and lov’d, when in the dust

Thy corse shall moulder — Patriot pure and just!

And o’er thy tomb the grateful hand of FAME

Shall grave:—’Here sleeps the Friend of Humankind!’ 5

For thou, untainted by CORRUPTION’S bowl,

Or foul AMBITION, with undaunted soul

Hast spoke the language of a Free-born mind

Pleading the cause of Nature! Still pursue

Thy path of Honour! — To thy Country true, 10

Still watch th’ expiring flame of Liberty!

O Patriot! still pursue thy virtuous way,

As holds his course the splendid Orb of Day,

Or thro’ the stormy or the tranquil sky!

ONE OF THE PEOPLE.

TO EARL STANHOPE

Not, STANHOPE! with the Patriot’s doubtful name

I mock thy worth — Friend of the Human Race!

Since scorning Faction’s low and partial aim

Aloof thou wendest in thy stately pace,

Thyself redeeming from that leprous stain, 5

Nobility: and aye unterrify’d

Pourest thine Abdiel warnings on the train

That sit complotting with rebellious pride

‘Gainst Her who from the Almighty’s bosom leapt

With whirlwind arm, fierce Minister of Love! 10

Wherefore, ere Virtue o’er thy tomb hath wept,

Angels shall lead thee to the Throne above:

And thou from forth its clouds shalt hear the voice,

Champion of Freedom and her God! rejoice!

LINES TO A FRIEND IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY LETTER

Away, those cloudy looks, that labouring sigh,

The peevish offspring of a sickly hour!

Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune’s power,

When the blind Gamester throws a luckless die.

Yon setting Sun flashes a mournful gleam 5

Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train:

Tomorrow shall the many-colour’d main

In brightness roll beneath his orient beam!

Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time

Flies o’er his mystic lyre: in shadowy dance 10

The alternate groups of Joy and Grief advance

Responsive to his varying strains sublime!

Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate;

The swain, who, lull’d by Seine’s mild murmurs, led

His weary oxen to their nightly shed, 15

To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State.

Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile

Survey the sanguinary Despot’s might,

And haply hurl the Pageant from his height

Unwept to wander in some savage isle. 20

There shiv’ring sad beneath the tempest’s frown

Round his tir’d limbs to wrap the purple vest;

And mix’d with nails and beads, an equal jest!

Barter for food, the jewels of his crown.

TO AN INFANT

Ah! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life!

I did but snatch away the unclasp’d knife:

Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye,

And to quick laughter change this peevish cry!

Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe, 5

Tutor’d by Pain each source of pain to know!

Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire

Awake thy eager grasp and young desire;

Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight,

And rouse the stormy sense of shrill Affright! 10

Untaught, yet wise! mid all thy brief alarms

Thou closely clingest to thy Mother’s arms,

Nestling thy little face in that fond breast

Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest!

Man’s breathing Miniature! thou mak’st me sigh — 15

A Babe art thou — and such a Thing am I!

To anger rapid and as soon appeas’d,

For trifles mourning and by trifles pleas’d,

Break Friendship’s mirror with a tetchy blow,

Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure’s altar glow! 20

O thou that rearest with celestial aim

The future Seraph in my mortal frame,

Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet

As on I totter with unpractis’d feet,

Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee, 25

Meek nurse of souls through their long Infancy!

TO THE REV. W. J. HORT: WHILE TEACHING A YOUNG LADY SOME SONG-TUNES ON HIS FLUTE

I

Hush! ye clamorous Cares! be mute!

Again, dear Harmonist! again

Thro’ the hollow of thy flute

Breathe that passion-warbled strain:

Till Memory each form shall bring 5

The loveliest of her shadowy throng;

And Hope, that soars on skylark wing,

Carol wild her gladdest song!

II

O skill’d with magic spell to roll

The thrilling tones, that concentrate the soul! 10

Breathe thro’ thy flute those tender notes again,

While near thee sits the chaste-eyed Maiden mild;

And bid her raise the Poet’s kindred strain

In soft impassion’d voice, correctly wild.

III

In Freedom’s UNDIVIDED dell, 15

Where Toil and Health with mellow’d Love shall dwell,

Far from folly, far from men,

In the rude romantic glen,

Up the cliff, and thro’ the glade,

Wandering with the dear-lov’d maid, 20

I shall listen to the lay,

And ponder on thee far away

Still, as she bids those thrilling notes aspire

(‘Making my fond attuned heart her lyre’),

Thy honour’d form, my Friend! shall reappear, 25

And I will thank thee with a raptur’d tear.

PITY

Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled

To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy grey hairs

Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares

To clothe thy shrivell’d limbs and palsied head.

My Father! throw away this tatter’d vest 5

That mocks thy shivering! take my garment — use

A young man’s arm! I’ll melt these frozen dews

That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.

My Sara too shall tend thee, like a child:

And thou shalt talk, in our fireside’s recess, 10

Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness —

He did not so, the Galilaean mild,

Who met the Lazars turn’d from rich men’s doors

And call’d them Friends, and heal’d their noisome sores!

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel!

How many Bards in city garret pent,

While at their window they with downward eye

Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell’d mud,

And listen to the drowsy cry of Watchmen 5

(Those hoarse unfeather’d Nightingales of Time!),

How many wretched Bards address thy name,

And hers, the full-orb’d Queen that shines above.

But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,

Within whose mild moon-mellow’d foliage hid 10

Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.

O! I have listened, till my working soul,

Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies,

Absorb’d hath ceas’d to listen! Therefore oft,

I hymn thy name: and with a proud delight 15

Oft will I tell thee, Minstrel of the Moon!

‘Most musical, most melancholy’ Bird!

That all thy soft diversities of tone,

Tho’ sweeter far than the delicious airs

That vibrate from a white-arm’d Lady’s harp, 20

What time the languishment of lonely love

Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow,

Are not so sweet as is the voice of her,

My Sara — best beloved of human kind!

When breathing the pure soul of tenderness, 25

She thrills me with the Husband’s promis’d name!

LINES

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB,

SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY 1795

With many a pause and oft reverted eye

I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet songsters near

Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:

Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.

Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock 5

That on green plots o’er precipices browze:

From the deep fissures of the naked rock

The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs

(Mid which the Maythorn blends its blossoms white)

Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, 10

I rest: — and now have gain’d the topmost site.

Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets

My gaze! Proud towers, and Cots more dear to me,

Elm-shadow’d Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea!

Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear: 15

Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!

LINES IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER

O Peace, that on a lilied bank dost love

To rest thine head beneath an Olive-Tree,

I would that from the pinions of thy Dove

One quill withouten pain ypluck’d might be!

For O! I wish my Sara’s frowns to flee, 5

And fain to her some soothing song would write,

Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,

Who vow’d to meet her ere the morning light,

But broke my plighted word — ah! false and recreant wight!

Last night as I my weary head did pillow 10

With thoughts of my dissever’d Fair engross’d,

Chill Fancy droop’d wreathing herself with willow,

As though my breast entomb’d a pining ghost.

‘From some blest couch, young Rapture’s bridal boast,

Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way; 15

But leave me with the matin hour, at most!

As night-clos’d floweret to the orient ray,

My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey.’

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,

Contriv’d a too successful wile, I ween: 20

And whisper’d to himself, with malice fraught —

‘Too long our Slave the Damsel’s smiles hath seen:

Tomorrow shall he ken her alter’d mien!’

He spake, and ambush’d lay, till on my bed

The morning shot her dewy glances keen, 25

When as I ‘gan to lift my drowsy head —

‘Now, Bard! I’ll work thee woe!’ the laughing Elfin said.

Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing

Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;

When twang’d an arrow from Love’s mystic string, 30

With pathless wound it pierc’d him to the heart.

Was there some magic in the Elfin’s dart?

Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance?

For straight so fair a Form did upwards start

(No fairer deck’d the bowers of old Romance) 35

That Sleep enamour’d grew, nor mov’d from his sweet trance!

My Sara came, with gentlest look divine;

Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam:

I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!

Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme — 40

Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,

He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did ‘bide,

That I the living Image of my Dream

Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh’d —

‘O! how shall I behold my Love at eventide!’ 45

THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN

(Composed during Illness, and in Absence.)

Dim Hour! that sleep’st on pillowing clouds afar,

O rise and yoke the Turtles to thy car!

Bend o’er the traces, blame each lingering Dove,

And give me to the bosom of my Love!

My gentle Love, caressing and carest, 5

With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest!

Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes,

Lull with fond woe, and medicine me with sighs!

While finely-flushing float her kisses meek,

Like melted rubies, o’er my pallid cheek. 10

Chill’d by the night, the drooping Rose of May

Mourns the long absence of the lovely Day;

Young Day returning at her promis’d hour

Weeps o’er the sorrows of her favourite Flower;

Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs, 15

And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes.

New life and joy th’ expanding flow’ret feels:

His pitying Mistress mourns, and mourning heals!

LINES: WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER, SEPTEMBER 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM BRISTOL

Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better

Receiv’d from absent friend by way of Letter.

For what so sweet can labour’d lays impart

As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart? — ANON.

Nor travels my meandering eye

The starry wilderness on high;

Nor now with curious sight

I mark the glowworm, as I pass,

Move with ‘green radiance’ through the grass, 5

An emerald of light.

O ever present to my view!

My wafted spirit is with you,

And soothes your boding fears:

I see you all oppressed with gloom 10

Sit lonely in that cheerless room —

Ah me! You are in tears!

Belovéd Woman! did you fly

Chill’d Friendship’s dark disliking eye,

Or Mirth’s untimely din? 15

With cruel weight these trifles press

A temper sore with tenderness,

When aches the void within.

But why with sable wand unblessed

Should Fancy rouse within my breast 20

Dim-visag’d shapes of Dread?

Untenanting its beauteous clay

My Sara’s soul has wing’d its way,

And hovers round my head!

I felt it prompt the tender Dream, 25

When slowly sank the day’s last gleam;

You rous’d each gentler sense,

As sighing o’er the Blossom’s bloom

Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume

With viewless influence. 30

And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans

Through yon reft house! O’er rolling stones

In bold ambitious sweep

The onward-surging tides supply

The silence of the cloudless sky 35

With mimic thunders deep.

Dark reddening from the channell’d Isle

(Where stands one solitary pile

Unslated by the blast)

The Watchfire, like a sullen star 40

Twinkles to many a dozing Tar

Rude cradled on the mast.

Even there — beneath that lighthouse tower —

In the tumultuous evil hour

Ere Peace with Sara came, 45

Time was, I should have thought it sweet

To count the echoings of my feet,

And watch the storm-vex’d flame.

And there in black soul-jaundic’d fit

A sad gloom-pamper’d Man to sit, 50

And listen to the roar:

When mountain surges bellowing deep

With an uncouth monster-leap

Plung’d foaming on the shore.

Then by the lightning’s blaze to mark 55

Some toiling tempest-shatter’d bark;

Her vain distress-guns hear;

And when a second sheet of light

Flash’d o’er the blackness of the night —

To see no vessel there! 60

But Fancy now more gaily sings;

Or if awhile she droop her wings,

As skylarks ‘mid the corn,

On summer fields she grounds her breast:

The oblivious poppy o’er her nest 65

Nods, till returning morn.

O mark those smiling tears, that swell

The open’d rose! From heaven they fell,

And with the sunbeam blend.

Blest visitations from above, 70

Such are the tender woes of Love

Fostering the heart they bend!

When stormy Midnight howling round

Beats on our roof with clattering sound,

To me your arms you’ll stretch: 75

Great God! you’ll say — To us so kind,

O shelter from this loud bleak wind

The houseless, friendless wretch!

The tears that tremble down your cheek,

Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek 80

In Pity’s dew divine;

And from your heart the sighs that steal

Shall make your rising bosom feel

The answering swell of mine!

How oft, my Love! with shapings sweet 85

I paint the moment, we shall meet!

With eager speed I dart —

I seize you in the vacant air,

And fancy, with a husband’s care

I press you to my heart! 90

‘Tis said, in Summer’s evening hour

Flashes the golden-colour’d flower

A fair electric flame:

And so shall flash my love-charg’d eye

When all the heart’s big ecstasy 95

Shoots rapid through the frame!

THE EOLIAN HARP

COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined

Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is

To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o’ergrown

With white-flower’d Jasmin, and the broad-leav’d Myrtle,

(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!) 5

And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light.

Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve

Serenely brilliant (such should Wisdom be)

Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents

Snatch’d from yon beanfield! and the world so hush’d! 10

The stilly murmur of the distant Sea

Tells us of silence.

And that simplest Lute,

Placed lengthways in the clasping casement, hark!

How by the desultory breeze caress’d,

Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, 15

It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs

Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings

Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes

Over delicious surges sink and rise,

Such a soft floating witchery of sound 20

As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve

Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,

Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,

Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,

Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untam’d wing! 25

O! the one Life within us and abroad,

Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,

A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,

Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where —

Methinks, it should have been impossible 30

Not to love all things in a world so fill’d;

Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air

Is Music slumbering on her instrument.

And thus, my Love! as on the midway slope

Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, 35

Whilst through my half-closed eyelids I behold

The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main,

And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;

Full many a thought uncall’d and undetain’d,

And many idle flitting phantasies, 40

Traverse my indolent and passive brain,

As wild and various as the random gales

That swell and flutter on this subject Lute!

And what if all of animated nature

Be but organic Harps diversely fram’d, 45

That tremble into thought, as o’er them sweeps

Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,

At once the Soul of each, and God of all?

But thy more serious eye a mild reproof

Darts, O belovéd Woman! nor such thoughts 50

Dim and unhallow’d dost thou not reject,

And biddest me walk humbly with my God.

Meek Daughter in the family of Christ!

Well hast thou said and holily disprais’d

These shapings of the unregenerate mind; 55

Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break

On vain Philosophy’s aye-babbling spring.

For never guiltless may I speak of him,

The Incomprehensible! save when with awe

I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels; 60

Who with his saving mercies healéd me,

A sinful and most miserable man,

Wilder’d and dark, and gave me to possess

Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honour’d Maid!

TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS

JOSEPH COTTLE PUBLISHED ANONYMOUSLY AT BRISTOL IN SEPTEMBER 1795

Unboastful Bard! whose verse concise yet clear

Tunes to smooth melody unconquer’d sense,

May your fame fadeless live, as ‘never-sere’

The Ivy wreathes yon Oak, whose broad defence

Embowers me from Noon’s sultry influence! 5

For, like that nameless Rivulet stealing by,

Your modest verse to musing Quiet dear

Is rich with tints heaven-borrow’d: the charm’d eye

Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften’d sky.

Circling the base of the Poetic mount 10

A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow

Its coal-black waters from Oblivion’s fount:

The vapour-poison’d Birds, that fly too low,

Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.

Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet 15

Beneath the Mountain’s lofty-frowning brow,

Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,

A mead of mildest charm delays th’ unlabouring feet.

Not there the cloud-climb’d rock, sublime and vast,

That like some giant king, o’er-glooms the hill; 20

Nor there the Pine-grove to the midnight blast

Makes solemn music! But th’ unceasing rill

To the soft Wren or Lark’s descending trill

Murmurs sweet undersong ‘mid jasmin bowers.

In this same pleasant meadow, at your will 25

I ween, you wander’d — there collecting flowers

Of sober tint, and herbs of med’cinable powers!