TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT
To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,-to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmanent.
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,- -an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by: E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER
MUCH have I travel'd in the realms of gold And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;* Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: -Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific-and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise- Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high-piléd books, in charact'ry Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour! That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love—then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
IN a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them, Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.
ST. AGNES' EVE-Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meager, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat❜ries, He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this agéd man and poor; But no already had his deathbell rung; The joys of all his life were said and sung; His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to grieve.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide, From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting fairly
The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away,
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, As she had heard old dames full many times declare.
They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honey'd middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright; As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: The music, yearning like a God in pain, She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by-she heeded not at all: in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain, But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.
She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort, Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
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