That I have not the cloudy winds to keep
Fresh for the opening of the morning’s eye.
Such dim- conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an indescribable feud;
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
Wasting of old Time—with a billowy main,
A sun, a shadow of a magnitude.
To Haydon
(With The Above)
Definitely of these mighty things;
Forgive me, that I have not eagle’s wings,
That what I want I know not where to seek,
And think that I would not be over-meek,
In rolling out upfollow’d thunderings,
Even to the steep of Heliconian springs,
Were I of ample strength for such a freak.
Think, too, that all these numbers should be thine;
Whose else? In this who touch thy vesture’s hem?
For, when men stared at what was most divine
With brainless idiotism and o’erwise phlegm,
Thou hadst beheld the full Hesperian shine
Of their star in the east, and gone to worship them!
On A Picture Of Leander
Down-looking aye, and with a chasten’d light
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,
And meekly let your fair hands joined be,
As if so gentle that ye could not see,
Untouch’d, a victim of your beauty bright,
Sinking away to his young spirit’s night,
Sinking bewilder’d ’mid the dreary sea:
’Tis young Leander toiling to his death;
Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips
For Hero’s cheek, and smiles against her smile.
O horrid dream! see how his body dips,
Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam a while:
He’s gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!
Lines To—
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Any—anywhere.
Do not look so sad, sweet one,—
Sad and fadingly;
Shed one drop then—it is gone—
Oh! ’twas born to die!
Still so pale? then, dearest, weep;
Weep, I’ll count the tears,
And each one shall be a bliss
For thee in after years.
Than a sunny rill;
And thy whispering melodies
Are tenderer still.
At fleeting blisses;
Let us too; but be our dirge
A dirge of kisses.
Lines
I’ve left my little queen,
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
Ah! through their nestling touch,
Who—who could tell how much
There is for madness—cruel, or complying?
Those faery lids how sleek!
Those lips how moist!—they speak,
In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds:
Into my fancy’s ear
Melting a burden dear,
How “Love doth know no fulness, nor no bounds.”
True!—tender monitors!
I bend unto your laws:
This sweetest day for dalliance was born!
So, without more ado,
I’ll feel my heaven anew,
For all the blushing of the hasty morn.
On The Sea
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
Often ’tis in such gentle temper found,
That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be moved for days from whence it sometime fell,
When last the winds of heaven were unbound.
Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vex’d and tired,
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;
Oh ye! whose ears are dinn’d with uproar rude,
Or fed too much with
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