Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? three treasures, LOVE, and LIGHT, And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infant's breath: And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL DEATH! 1802. September 23, 1802. THE PAINS OF SLEEP ERE on my bed my limbs I lay, In humble trust mine eyelids close, No wish conceived, no thought exprest, But yester-night I pray'd aloud Up-starting from the fiendish crowd me: A lurid light, a trampling throng, And whom I scorned, those only strong! Deeds to be hid which were not hid, For all seem'd guilt, remorse or woe, So two nights passed: the night's dismay Saddened and stunned the coming day. Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me Distemper's worst calmity. The third night, when my own loud scream Had waked me from the fiendish dream. O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, The tumult rose and ceased: for Peace is nigh Where wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. Amid the howl of more than wintry storms, The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours Already on the wing. Eve following eve, Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home Is sweetest! moments for their own sake hailed And more desired, more precious, for thy song, In silence listening, like a devout child, My soul lay passive, by thy various strain Driven as in surges now beneath the stars, With momentary stars of my own birth, Fair constellated foam, still darting off Into the darkness; now a tranquil sea, Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon. And when-0 Friend! my comforter and guide! Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength! Thy long sustained Song finally closed, And thy deep voice had ceased-yet thou thyself Wert still before my eyes, and round us both That happy vision of beloved facesScarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close I sate, my being blended in one thought (Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve ?) Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. January, 1807. 1817. VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying, When I was young?-Ah, woeful When ! This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, When Youth and I lived in't together. O! the joys, that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, This drooping gait, this altered size: That only serves to make us grieve 1823-April, 1832. 1828-June, 1832. WORK WITHOUT HOPE ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair The bees are stirring-birds are on the wing And Winter slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. Yet well I ken the banks where ama ranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll: And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live. February, 1827. 1828. THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO Of late, in one of those most weary hours, When life seems emptied of all genial powers, A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known May bless his happy lot, I sate alone; And, from the numbing spell to win relief, [grief. Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or I but half saw that quiet hand of thine An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm, Gazed by an idle eye with silent might The picture stole upon my inward sight. A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest, As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast. And one by one (I know not whence) were brought All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost; Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above, Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love; Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan is man! Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea worn caves Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves: Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids, That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades; Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast; Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest, Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array, To high-church pacing on the great saint's day. And many a verse which to myself I sang, That woke the tear yet stole away the pang. Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd. And last, a matron now, of sober mien, Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen, Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd Even in my dawn of thought-Philosophy; Though then unconscious of herself, pardie, She bore no other name than Poesy: And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee, That had but newly left a mother's knee, Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and stone, |