From source still deeper, and of higher worth, When but a single Mind resolves to crouch no more. Dread Minister of wrath! IV Who to their destined punishment dost urge The Pharaohs of the earth, the men of hardened heart! Thou strew'st temptation o'er the path With trampling horses and refulgent cars- Or cast, for lingering death, on unknown strands ; Or caught amid a whirl of desert sands An Army now, and now a living hill That a brief while heaves with convulsive throes— Or, to forget their madness and their woes, V Back flows the willing current of my Song: Nor let thy genuine impulse fail to beat Still may a veteran Few have pride In thoughts whose sternness makes them sweet ; That to their object cleave like sleet And withered leaves, from earth's cold breast VI But, if such homage thou disdain She, who incites the frolic lambs Vouchsafes her lessons, bounteous Nymph Doth hurry to the lawn ; She, who inspires that strain of joyance holy Which the sweet Bird, misnamed the melancholy, Pours forth in shady groves, shall plead for me; And vernal mornings opening bright With views of undefined delight, And cheerful songs, and suns that shine VII But thou, O Goddess! in thy favourite Isle The wide earth's store-house fenced about And Love, when worthiest of his name, XCV TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE: SIX YEARS OLD O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought; The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; May rather seem To brood on air than on an earthly stream; Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery; O blessed vision! happy child ! Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years. I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality; And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest But when she sate within the touch of thee. O too industrious folly! O vain and causeless melancholy! Nature will either end thee quite ; Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. Or the injuries of to-morrow? Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, Or to be trailed along the soiling earth; A gem that glitters while it lives, And no forewarning gives; But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife XCVI THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, 1797 |