Of witch, and demon, and large coffin worm, Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform; The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold. January, 1819. 1820. THE EVE OF SAINT MARK A FRAGMENT UPON a Sabbath-day it fell; The bells had ceas'd, the prayers begun, Perplex'd her with a thousand things.- Azure saints and silver rays, Bertha was a maiden fair, Dwelling in th' old Minster-square ; From her fire-side she could see, Sidelong, its rich antiquity, Far as the Bishop's garden-wall; All was gloom, and silent all, All was silent, all was gloom, hair And slant look, full against the glare. On ceiling-beam and old oak chair, Untir'd she read the legend page, Written in smallest crow-quill size Was parcel'd out from time to time: Als writeth he of swevens, Men han before they wake in bliss, Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound In crimped shroude farre under grounde: Gif that the modre (God her blesse !) And kissen devout the holy croce. Somdel of Saintè Cicilie, And chiefly what he auctorethe At length her constant eyelids come January and September, 1819. 1848. ODE ON INDOLENCE "They toil not, neither do they spin." ONE morn before me were three figures seen, With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced; And one behind the other stepp'd serene, In placid sandals, and in white robes graced; They pass, like figures on a marble urn, When shifted round to see the other side: They came again; as when the urn once more Is shifted round, the first seen shades return; And they were strange to me, as may betide With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore. How is it. Shadows! that I knew ye not? How came ye muffled in so hush a mask? Was it a silent deep-disguised plot To steal away, and leave without a task My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour: The blissful cloud of summer-indolence BARDS of Passion and of Mirth, Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns; Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; ODE TO PSYCHE O GODDESS! hear these tuneless ram bers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung Even into thine own soft-conched ear; Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, [side Saw two fair creatures, couched side by In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; Their arms embracéd, and their pinions too; Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming ; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. O brightest! though too late for antique Vows, Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, When holy were the haunted forest boughs, Holy the air, the water, and the fire; Yet even in these days so far retir'd From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Fluttering among the faint Olympians, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmar in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: [light And there shall be for thee all soft de That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in ! April, 1819. 1820. Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new ; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, |