| |
| I STOOD tip-toe upon a little hill, | |
| The air was cooling, and so very still, | |
| That the sweet buds which with a modest pride | |
| Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, | |
| Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, | 5 |
| Had not yet lost those starry diadems | |
| Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. | |
| The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn, | |
| And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept | |
| On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept | 10 |
| A little noiseless noise among the leaves, | |
| Born of the very sigh that silence heaves: | |
| For not the faintest motion could be seen | |
| Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green. | |
| There was wide wand’ring for the greediest eye, | 15 |
| To peer about upon variety; | |
| Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim, | |
| And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; | |
| To picture out the quaint, and curious bending | |
| Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending; | 20 |
| Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, | |
| Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. | |
| I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free | |
| As though the fanning wings of Mercury | |
| Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted, | 25 |
| And many pleasures to my vision started; | |
| So I straightway began to pluck a posey | |
| Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy. | |
| |
| A bush of May flowers with the bees about them; | |
| Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them; | 30 |
| And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, | |
| And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them | |
| Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets, | |
| That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. | |
| |
| A filbert hedge with wildbriar overtwined, | 35 |
| And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind | |
| Upon their summer thrones; there too should be | |
| The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, | |
| That with a score of light green breth[r]en shoots | |
| From the quaint mossiness of aged roots: | 40 |
| Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters | |
| Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters | |
| The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn | |
| That such fair clusters should be rudely torn | |
| From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly | 45 |
| By infant hands, left on the path to die. | |
| |
| Open afresh your round of starry folds, | |
| Ye ardent marigolds! | |
| Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, | |
| For great Apollo bids | 50 |
| That in these days your praises should be sung | |
| On many harps, which he has lately strung; | |
| And when again your dewiness he kisses, | |
| Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses: | |
| So haply when I rove in some far vale, | 55 |
| His mighty voice may come upon the gale. | |
| |
| Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight: | |
| With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, | |
| And taper fingers catching at all things, | |
| To bind them all about with tiny rings. | 60 |
| |
| Linger awhile upon some bending planks | |
| That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks, | |
| And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings: | |
| They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings. | |
| How silent comes the water round that bend; | 65 |
| Not the minutest whisper does it send | |
| To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grass | |
| Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass. | |
| Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach | |
| To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach | 70 |
| A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds; | |
| Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, | |
| Staying their wavy bodies ’gainst the streams, | |
| To taste the luxury of sunny beams | |
| Temper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestle | 75 |
| With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle | |
| Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. | |
| If you but scantily hold out the hand, | |
| That very instant not one will remain; | |
| But turn your eye, and they are there again. | 80 |
| The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, | |
| And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses; | |
| The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, | |
| And moisture, that the bowery green may live: | |
| So keeping up an interchange of favours, | 85 |
| Like good men in the truth of their behaviours[.] | |
| Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop | |
| From low hung branches; little space they stop; | |
| But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek; | |
| Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: | 90 |
| Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings | |
| Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. | |
| Were I in such a place, I sure should pray | |
| That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away, | |
| Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown | 95 |
| Fanning away the dandelion’s down; | |
| Than the light music of her nimble toes | |
| Patting against the sorrel as she goes. | |
| How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught | |
| Playing in all her innocence of thought. | 100 |
| O let me lead her gently o’er the brook, | |
| Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look; | |
| O let me for one moment touch her wrist; | |
| Let me one moment to her breathing list; | |
| And as she leaves me may she often turn | 105 |
| Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne. | |
| What next? A tuft of evening primroses, | |
| O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes; | |
| O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, | |
| But that ’tis ever startled by the leap | 110 |
| Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting | |
| Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting; | |
| Or by the moon lifting her silver rim | |
| Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim | |
| Coming into the blue with all her light. | 115 |
| O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight | |
| Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers; | |
| Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, | |
| Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams, | |
| Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, | 120 |
| Lover of loneliness, and wandering, | |
| Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! | |
| Thee must I praise above all other glories | |
| That smile us on to tell delightful stories. | |
| For what has made the sage or poet write | 125 |
| But the fair paradise of Nature’s light? | |
| In the calm grandeur of a sober line, | |
| We see the waving of the mountain pine; | |
| And when a tale is beautifully staid, | |
| We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade: | 130 |
| When it is moving on luxurious wings, | |
| The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings: | |
| Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, | |
| And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases; | |
| O’erhead we see the jasmine and sweet briar, | 135 |
| And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire; | |
| While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles | |
| Charms us at once away from all our troubles: | |
| So that we feel uplifted from the world, | |
| Walking upon the white clouds wreath’d and curl’d. | 140 |
| So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went | |
| On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment; | |
| What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips | |
| First touch’d; what amorous and fondling nips | |
| They gave each other’s cheeks; with all their sighs, | 145 |
| And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes: | |
| The silver lamp,—the ravishment,—the wonder— | |
| The darkness,—loneliness,—the fearful thunder; | |
| Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, | |
| To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne. | 150 |
| |
| So did he feel, who pull’d the boughs aside, | |
| That we might look into a forest wide, | |
| To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades | |
| Coming with softest rustle through the trees; | |
| And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet, | 155 |
| Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet: | |
| Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled | |
| Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. | |
| Poor Nymph,—poor Pan,—how did he weep to find, | |
| Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind | 160 |
| Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain, | |
| Full of sweet desolation—balmy pain. | |
| |
| What first inspired a bard of old to sing | |
| Narcissus pining o’er the untainted spring? | |
| In some delicious ramble, he had found | 165 |
| A little space, with boughs all woven round; | |
| And in the midst of all, a clearer pool | |
| Than e’er reflected in its pleasant cool, | |
| The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping | |
| Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. | 170 |
| And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, | |
| A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride, | |
| Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness, | |
| To woo its own sad image into nearness: | |
| Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move; | 175 |
| But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. | |
| So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot, | |
| Some fainter gleamings o’er his fancy shot; | |
| Nor was it long ere he had told the tale | |
| Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo’s bale. | 180 |
| |
| Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew | |
| That sweetest of all songs, that ever new, | |
| That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, | |
| Coming ever to bless | |
| The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing | 185 |
| Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing | |
| From out the middle air, from flowery nests, | |
| And from the pillowy silkiness that rests | |
| Full in the speculation of the stars. | |
| Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars; | 190 |
| Into some wond’rous region he had gone, | |
| To search for thee, divine Endymion! | |
| |
| He was a Poet, sure a lover too, | |
| Who stood on Latmus’ top, what time there blew | |
| Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below; | 195 |
| And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow | |
| A hymn from Dian’s temple; while upswelling, | |
| The incense went to her own starry dwelling. | |
| But though her face was clear as infant’s eyes, | |
| Though she stood smiling o’er the sacrifice, | 200 |
| The Poet wept at her so piteous fate, | |
| Wept that such beauty should be desolate: | |
| So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, | |
| And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. | |
| |
| Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen | 205 |
| Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen! | |
| As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, | |
| So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. | |
| O for three words of honey, that I might | |
| Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night! | 210 |
| |
| Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, | |
| Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels, | |
| And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes, | |
| Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. | |
| The evening weather was so bright, and clear, | 215 |
| That men of health were of unusual cheer; | |
| Stepping like Homer at the trumpet’s call, | |
| Or young Apollo on the pedestal: | |
| And lovely women were as fair and warm, | |
| As Venus looking sideways in alarm. | 220 |
| The breezes were ethereal, and pure, | |
| And crept through half closed lattices to cure | |
| The languid sick; it cool’d their fever’d sleep, | |
| And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. | |
| Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting | 225 |
| Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting: | |
| And springing up, they met the wond’ring sight | |
| Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight; | |
| Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare, | |
| And on their placid foreheads part the hair. | 230 |
| Young men, and maidens at each other gaz’d | |
| With hands held back, and motionless, amaz’d | |
| To see the brightness in each others’ eyes; | |
| And so they stood, fill’d with a sweet surprise, | |
| Until their tongues were loos’d in poesy. | 235 |
| Therefore no lover did of anguish die: | |
| But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, | |
| Made silken ties, that never may be broken. | |
| Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses, | |
| That follow’d thine, and thy dear shepherd’s kisses: | 240 |
| Was there a Poet born?—but now no more, | |
| My wand’ring spirit must no further soar.— | |
| |
| See Notes. |
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