En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Ode to Indolence

Ah! why for ever on the wing
Persists my wearied soul to roam?
Why, ever cheated, strives to bring
Or pleasure or contentment home?

Thus the poor bird, that draws his name
From Paradise's honour'd groves,
Careless fatigues his little frame,
Nor finds the resting-place he loves.

Lo! on the rural mossy bed
My limbs with careless ease reclined;
Ah, gentle Sloth! indulgent spread
The same soft bandage o'er my mind.

For why should lingering thought invade,
Yet every worldly prospect cloy?
Lend me, soft Sloth! thy friendly aid,
And give me peace, debarr'd of joy.

Lov'st thou yon calm and silent flood,
That never ebbs, that never flows;
Protected by the circling wood
From each tempestuous wind that blows?

An altar on its bank shall rise,
Where oft thy votary shall be found;
What time pale Autumn lulls the skies,
And sickening verdure fades around.

Ye busy Race! ye factious Train!
That haunt ambition's guilty shrine;
No more perplex the world in vain,
But offer here your vows with mine.

And thou, puissant Queen! be kind:
If e'er I shared thy balmy power,
If e'er I sway'd my active mind
To weave for thee the rural bower;

Dissolve in sleep each anxious care;
Each unavailing sigh remove;
And only let me wake to share
The sweets of friendship and of love.

poem by William Shenstone
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Ode To Tranquillity

Tranquillity! thou better name
Than all the family of Fame!
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age
To low intrigue, or factious rage;
For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth,
To thee I gave my early youth,
And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore,
Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar.

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
On him but seldom, Power divine,
Thy spirit rests! Satiety
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Mock the tired worldling. Idle hope
And dire remembrance interlope,
To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind:
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.

But me thy gentle hand will lead
At morning through the accustomed mead;
And in the sultry summer's heat
Will build me up a mossy seat;
And when the gust of Autumn crowds,
And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,
Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune,
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon.

The feeling heart, the searching soul,
To thee I dedicate the whole!
And while within myself I trace
The greatness of some future race,
Aloof with hermit-eye I scan
The present works of present man--
A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Retirement

When in the crimson cloud of Even,
The lingering light decays,
And Hesper on the front of Heaven
His glittering gem displays!
Deep in the silent vale, unseen,
Beside a lulling stream,
A pensive Youth of placid mien,
Indulged this tender theme.

Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled
High o'er the glimmering dale;
Ye woods, along whose windings wild
Murmurs the solemn gale;
Where Melancholy strays forlorn,
And Wo retires to weep,
What time the wan moon's yellow horn
Gleams on the western deep:

To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms
Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,
'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms,
To your retreats I fly.
Deep in your most sequester'd bower
Let me at last recline,
Where Solitude, mild, modest Power,
Leans on her ivy'd shrine.

How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair!
Thy heavenly smile how win!
Thy smile, that smoothes the brow of Care,
And stills the storm within.
O wilt thou to thy favourite grove
Thine ardent votary bring,
And bless his hours, and bid them move
Serene, on silent wing.

Oft let remembrance soothe his mind
With dreams of former days,
When in the lap of Peace reclined
He framed his infant lays;
When Fancy roved at large, nor Care
Nor cold Distrust alarm'd,
Nor Envy with malignant glare
His simple youth had harm'd.

'Twas then, O Solitude, to thee
His early vows were paid,
From heart sincere, and warm, and free,
Devoted to the shade.
Ah why did Fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy! -
O take the wanderer home.

Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine,
Thy charms my only theme;
My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine
Waves o'er the gloomy stream,
Whence the sacred owl on pinions gray
Breaks from the lone vale sails away
To more profound repose.

O while to thee the woodland pours
Its wildly-warbling song,
And balmy from the banks of flowers
The zephyr breathes along;
Let no rude sounds invade from far,
No vagrant foot be nigh,
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car,
Flash on the startled eye.

But if some pilgrim through the glade
Thy hallow'd bowers explore,
O guard from harm his hoary head,
And listen to his lore:
For he of joys divine shall tell
That wean from earthly wo,
And triumph o'er the mighty spell
That chains this heart below.

For me no more the path invites
Ambition loves to tread;
No more I climb those toilsome heights
By guileful Hope misled;
Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more
To mirth's enlivening strain;
For present pleasure soon is o'er,
And all the past is vain.

poem by James Beattie
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet: On Calumny

Be thou a saint and yet the world won't spare;
Be thou most chaste and yet, most tongues will talk;
Be thou a crook and yet people don't care;
Be thou a tiger yet, some men will stalk.

Be thou cruel and yet the world will praise;
Be thou too kind and yet the world will taunt;
Be thou rigid and yet the world can't face;
Be thou timid and yet the world will haunt;

Be thou selfish and yet the world loves thee;
Be thou selfless and yet the world thee hates;
Be thou goodly and yet you are not free;
Be thou evil and yet the world thee mates.

Be thou yourself and yet the world finds fault;
Be thou anything, yet the world will vault.

poem by John Celes
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When Thou Hast Spent The Lingering Day

WHEN thou hast spent the lingering day in pleasure and delght,
Or after toil and weary way, dost seek to rest at night,
Unto thy pains or pleasures past, add this one labor yet:
Ere sleep close up thine eye too fast, do not thy God forget,
But search within thy secret thoughts, what deeds did thee befall;
And if thou find amiss in aught, to God for mercy call.
Yea, though thou find nothing amiss which thou canst call to mind,
Yet evermore remmeber this: there is the more behind;
And think how well so ever it be that thou hast spent the day,
It came of God, and not of thee, so to direct thy way.
Thus if thou try thy daily deeds and pleasure in this pain,
Thy life shall cleanse thy corn from weeds, and thine shall be the gain;
But if thy sinful, sluggish eye will venture for to wink,
Before thy wading will may try how far thy soul may sink,
Beware and wake; for else, thy bed, which soft and smooth is made,
May heap more harm upon thy head than blows of en'my's blade.
Thus if this pain procure thine ease, in bed as thou dost lie,
Perhaps it shall not God displease to sing thus, soberly:

``I see that sleep is lent me here to ease my weary bones,
As death at last shall eke appear, to ease my grievous groans.
My daily sports, my paunch full fed, have caused my drowsy eye,
As careless life, in quiet led, might cause my soul to die.
The stretching arms, the yawning breath, which I to bedward use,
Are patterns of the pangs of death, when life will me refuse.
And of my bed each sundry part in shadows doth resemble
The sundry shapes of death, whose dart shall make my flesh to tremble.
My bed itself is like the grave, my sheets the winding sheet,
My clothes the mold which I must have to cover me most meet;
The hungry fleas, which frisk so fresh, to worms I can compare,
Which greedily shall gnaw my flesh and leave the bones full bare.
The waking cock, that early crows to wear the night away
Puts in my mind the trump that blows before the Latter Day.
And as I rise up lustily when sluggish sleep is past,
So hope I to rise joyfully to Judgment at the last.
Thus will I wake, thus will I sleep, thus will I hope to rise,
Thus will I neither wail nor weep, but sing in godly wise;
My bones shall in this bed remain, my soul in God shall trust,
By whom I hope to rise again from death and earthly dust.''

poem by George Gascoigne
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Ode To The Poppy

Written by a deceased friend.

NOT for the promise of the labour'd field,
Not for the good the yellow harvests yield,
I bend at Ceres' shrine;
For dull, to human eyes, appear
The golden glories of the year,
Alas!--a melancholy worship's mine,
I hail the goddess for her scarlet flower;
Thou brilliant weed,
That dost so far exceed
The richest gifts gay Flora can bestow:
Heedless I pass'd thee, in life's morning hour,
(Thou comforter of woe)
Till sorrow taught me to confess thy power.
In early days, when Fancy cheats,
A varied wreath I wove,
Of laughing Spring's luxuriant sweets,
To deck ungrateful Love:
The rose, or thorn, my labours crown'd;
As Venus smiled, or Venus frown'd;

But Love and Joy, and all their train, are flown;
E'en languid Hope no more is mine,
And I will sing of thee alone,
Unless, perchance, the attributes of Grief,
The cypress bud, and willow leaf,
Their pale funereal foliage blend with thine.
Hail, lovely blossom!--thou canst ease
The wretched victims of Disease;
Canst close those weary eyes in gentle sleep,
Which never open but to weep;
For, oh! thy potent charm
Can agonizing Pain disarm;
Expel imperious Memory from her seat,
And bid the throbbing heart forget to beat.
Soul-soothing plant! that can such blessings give,
By thee the mourner bears to live!
By thee the hopeless die!
Oh! ever 'friendly to despair,'
Might Sorrow's pallid votary dare,
Without a crime, that remedy implore,
Which bids the spirit from its bondage fly,
I'd court thy palliative aid no more;
No more I'd sue that thou shouldst spread,
Thy spell around my aching head,
But would conjure thee to impart
Thy balsam for a broken heart;
And by thy soft Lethean power,
( Inestimable flower)
Burst these terrestrial bonds, and other regions try.

poem by Charlotte Smith
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Υμνος αυμνος

O Thou whose image in the shrine
Of human spirits dwells divine;
Which from that precinct once conveyed,
To be to outer day displayed,
Doth vanish, part, and leave behind
Mere blank and void of empty mind,
Which wilful fancy seeks in vain
With casual shapes to fill again!
O Thou that in our bosom’s shrine
Dost dwell, unknown because divine!
I thought to speak, I thought to say,
‘The light is here,’ ‘behold the way,’
‘The voice was thus,’ and ‘thus the word,’
And ‘thus I saw,’ and ‘that I heard,’—
But from the lips that half essayed
The imperfect utterance fell unmade.

O Thou, in that mysterious shrine
Enthroned, as I must say, divine!
I will not frame one thought of what
Thou mayest either be or not.
I will not prate of ‘thus’ and ‘so,’
And be profane with ‘yes’ and ‘no,’
Enough that in our soul and heart
Thou, whatso’er Thou may’st be, art.

Unseen, secure in that high shrine
Acknowledged present and divine,
I will not ask some upper air,
Some future day to place Thee there;
Nor say, nor yet deny, such men
And women saw Thee thus and then:
Thy name was such, and there or here
To him or her Thou didst appear.

Do only Thou in that dim shrine,
Unknown or known, remain, divine;
There, or if not, at least in eyes
That scan the fact that round them lies,
The hand to sway, the judgment guide,
In sight and sense Thyself divide:
Be Thou but there,—in soul and heart,
I will not ask to feel Thou art.

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ode II: To Sleep

I.
Thou silent power, whose welcome sway
Charms every anxious thought away;
In whose divine oblivion drown'd,
Sore pain and weary toil grow mild,
Love is with kinder looks beguil'd,
And grief forgets her fondly-cherish'd wound;
Oh whither hast thou flown, indulgent god?
God of kind shadows and of healing dews,
Whom dost thou touch with thy Lethæan rod?
Around whose temples now thy opiate airs diffuse?

II.
Lo, midnight from her starry reign
Looks awful down on earth and main.
The tuneful birds lie hush'd in sleep,
With all that crop the verdant food,
With all that skim the crystal flood,
Or haunt the caverns of the rocky steep.
No rushing winds disturb the tufted bowers;
No wakeful sound the moon-light valley knows,
Save where the brook its liquid murmur pours,
And lulls the waving scene to more profound repose.

III.
Oh let not me alone complain,
Alone invoke thy power in vain!
Descend, propitious, on my eyes;
Not from the couch that bears a crown,
Not from the courtly statesman's down,
Nor where the miser and his treasure lies:
Bring not the shapes that break the murderer's rest,
Nor those the hireling soldier loves to see,
Nor those which haunt the bigot's gloomy breast:
Far be their guilty nights, and far their dreams from me!

IV.
Nor yet those awful forms present,
For chiefs and heroes only meant:
The figur'd brass, the choral song,
The rescued people's glad applause,
The listening senate, and the laws
Fix'd by the counsels of Timoleon's tongue,
Are scenes too grand for fortune's private ways;
And though they shine in youth's ingenuous view,
The sober gainful arts of modern days
To such romantic thoughts have bid a long adieu.

V.
I ask not, god of dreams, thy care
To banish Love's presentments fair:
Nor rosy cheek nor radiant eye
Can arm him with such strong command
That the young sorcerer's fatal hand
Should round my soul his pleasing fetters tie.
Nor yet the courtier's hope, the giving smile
(A lighter phantom, and a baser chain)
Did e'er in slumber my proud lyre beguile
To lend the pomp of thrones her ill-according strain.

VI.
But, Morpheus, on thy balmy wing
Such honorable visions bring,
As sooth'd great Milton's injur'd age,
When in prophetic dreams he saw
The race unborn with pious awe
Imbibe each virtue from his heavenly page:
Or such as Mead's benignant fancy knows
When health's deep treasures, by his art explor'd,
Have sav'd the infant from an orphan's woes,
Or to the trembling sire his age's hope restor'd.

poem by Mark Akenside
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Ode to Health, 1730

O Health! capricious maid!
Why dost thou shun my peaceful bower,
Where I had hope to share thy power,
And bless thy lasting aid?

Since thou, alas! art flown,
It 'vails not whether Muse or Grace,
With tempting smile, frequent the place;
I sigh for thee alone.

Age not forbids thy stay:
Thou yet mightst act the friendly part;
Thou yet mightst raise this languid heart;
Why speed so swift away?

Thou scorn'st the city air;
I breathe fresh gales o'er furrow'd ground,
Yet hast not thou my wishes crown'd,
O false! O partial Fair!

I plunge into the wave;
And though with purest hands I raise
A rural altar to thy praise,
Thou wilt not deign to save.

Amid my well-known grove,
Where mineral fountains vainly bear
Thy boasted name, and titles fair,
Why scorns thy foot to rove?

Thou hear'st the sportsman's claim;
Enabling him, with idle noise,
To drown the Muse's melting voice,
And fright the timorous game.

Is thought thy foe? Adieu,
Ye midnight lamps! ye curious tomes!
Mine eye o'er hills and valleys roams,
And deals no more with you.

Is it the clime you flee?
Yet midst his unremitting snows
The poor Laponian's bosom glows,
And shares bright rays from thee.

There was, there was a time,
When, though I scorn'd thy guardian care,
Nor made a vow, nor said a prayer,
I did not rue the crime.

Who then more blest than
When the glad schoolboy's task was done,
And forth, with jocund spirit, I run
To freedom and to joy?

How jovial then the day!
What since have all my labours found,
Thus climbing life, to gaze around,
That can thy loss repay?

Wert thou, alas! but kind,
Methinks no frown that Fortune wears,
Nor lessen'd hopes, nor growing cares,
Could sink my cheerful mind.

Whate'er my stars include,
What other breasts convert to pain,
My towering mind should soon disdain,
Should scorn-Ingratitude!

Repair this mouldering cell,
And, blest with objects found at home,
And envying none their fairer dome,
How pleased my soul should dwell!

Temperance should guard the doors;
From room to room should Memory stray,
And, ranging all in neat array,
Enjoy her pleasing stores--

There let them rest unknown,
The types of many a pleasing scene;
But to preserve them bright or clean,
Is thine, Fair Queen! alone.

poem by William Shenstone
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O Thou Breeze of Spring!

O thou breeze of spring!
Gladdening sea and shore,
Wake the woods to sing,
Streams have felt the sighing
Of thy scented wing,
Let each found replying,
Hail thee, breeze of spring,
Once more!

O'er long-buried flowers
Passing, not in vain,
Odours in soft showers
Thou hast brought again,
Let the primrose greet thee,
Incense forth to meet thee -
Wake my heart no more!
No more!

From a funeral urn
Bower'd in leafy gloom,
Ev'n
thy
soft return
Calls not song or bloom.
Leave my spirit sleeping
Like that silent thing;
Stir the founts of weeping

There
, O breeze of spring,
No more!

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Speeches of Sloth and Virtue

[Upon the Plan of Xenophen's Judgment of Hercules]

SLOTH

Hither, dear Boy, direct thy wandring Eyes,
'Tis here the lovely Vale of Pleasure lies.
Debate no more -- to me thy self resign;
Her mossy Caves, her Groves, and all are mine.
For me the Goddess opes her various Pow'r,
Springs in a Tree, or blossoms in a Flow'r:
To please my Ear she breaths celestial Strains:
To please my Eye, with Lillies strews the Plains:
To form my Couch in mossy Beds she grows:
To gratify my Smell she blooms a Rose.
Oft' in some Nymph the Deity I find,
Where in one Form the various Sweets are join'd.
Yield but to me, -- a Choir of Nymphs shall rise,
And with the blooming Sight regale thy Eyes:
Their beauteous Cheeks a fairer Rose shall wear,
A brighter Lilly in their Necks appear:
Thou on their Breasts thy wearied Head recline,
Nor at the Swan's less pleasing Nest repine:
Whilst Philomel in each soft Voice complains,
And gently lulls thee with her dying Strains:
Whilst spicy Gums round each fair Bosom glow;
And in each Accent myrrhy Odours flow.
For thee with softest Art the Dome shall rise,
And spiring Turrets glitter thro' the Skies.
For thee the Robe shall glow with purple Rays;
The Side-board sparkle, and gilt Chariot blaze.
In brilliant Mines, be other Hands employ'd,
So the gay Product be by thine enjoy'd.
For thee the Poplar shall her Amber drain:
For thee in clouded Beauty spring the Cane.
To please thy Taste shall Gallia prune the Vine:
To swell thy Treasures India sink the Mine.
For thee each Nations nicer Stores shall grow,
And ev'ry Wind some lovely Tribute blow.
Learning shall ne'er molest thy tranquil Reign,
Nor Science puzzle thy inactive Brain:
Sometimes perhaps thy Fancy take her Wing
To grace a Fan, or celebrate a Ring:
Fix various Dyes to suit each varying Mien:
Prescribe where Patches shou'd in Crouds be seen:

Or sigh soft Strains along the vocal Grove,
And tell the Charms, the sweet Effects of Love!
Or if more specious Ease thy Care shou'd claim,
And thy Breast glow with faint Desire of Fame,
Some trivial Science shall thy Thoughts amuse;
And Learning's Name a solemn Sound diffuse.
To Thee all Nature's shelly Store I'll bring,
To thee the Sparklings on the Insect's Wing.
Pleasure in infant Forms shalt thou descry;
View, in an Ant, or hear her in a Fly;

When near thy Path, as oft as Spring appears,
The sportive Goddess buzzes round thy Ears:
Now in some Pebble's curious Vein is seen,
Or on some Leaf bestows unusual Green.
Then Sleep shall wrap thee in her downy Arms,
And round thy weary'd Head diffuse her Charms;
Lest growing Pride thy peaceful Schemes o'erthrow,
And Thought succeed, -- my most destructive Foe.
The watry Nymphs shall tune the tinkling Vales,
And gentle Zephyrs harmonize their Gales:

For thy repose instruct, with Rival Joy,
Their Streams to murmur, and their Winds to sigh.
Thus shalt thou spend the sweetly-flowing Day,
Till lost in Bliss thou breath thy Soul away:
How easy a Transition should'st thou find,
Were to thy Fate Annihilation join'd!

VIRTUE.

Fly, fly, fond Youth, the too indulgent Maid,
Nor err, by such fantastick Scenes betray'd.
Tho' in my Path the prickly Thorn be seen,
And the waste Turf produce a fainter Green;

Tho' no gay Rose, or purple Product shine,
The rugged Surface still conceals the Mine;
And each unsightly Object can supply
More lasting Pleasure, more substantial Joy.
But shou'd those airy glittr'ing Toys allure,
Yet whence cou'd Sloth the mighty Boon procure?
Or whence receive, or how those Gifts bestow,
Which I alone possess -- her greatest Foe?
I from old Ocean rob the treasur'd Store,
And hidden Gems thro' ev'ry Realm explore:

'Twas I the rugged Brilliant first reveal'd,
By tenfold Strata in the Earth conceal'd:
'Tis I the shapeless Surface still refine,
And teach the rugged Brilliant how to shine.
Where blooms the Rose, where spires the shapely Tree,
Where smiles the Grape, without fair Industry?
But grant we Sloth the Scene herself has drawn,
The mossy Grotto, and the flow'ry Lawn:
Let Frankincense with ev'ry Wind exhale,
And Philomela breath in ev'ry Gale:

Let Brilliants sparkle, (dear Machines of Pride!)
And from the Poplar flow the Amber Tide:
Let gay Pomona, quitting all around,
For choicest Fruits select the hallow'd Ground;
To tread the favour'd Soil shou'd Virtue cease,
Nor mossy Grotts, nor flow'ry Lawns cou'd please:
Nor ought Pomona's luscious Gifts avail:
The Sound harmonious; or the spicy Gale.
See'st thou those Rocks in dreadful Pomp arise,
And barren Cliffs that sweep the vaulted Skies?

Those Fields whence Phoebus all their Moisture drains,
And, too profusely kind, disrobes the Plains?
When I vouchsafe to tread the lonely Soil,
Those Rocks seem lovely, and those Desarts smile;
Oft' on those pathless Wilds as I appear,
(With Converse sweet his lonely Steps to chear)
Those Cliffs the Exile has with Pleasure view'd,
And call'd that Desart, ``Blissful Solitude!
Known by its airy Height and tow'ring Spires,
Behind that Scene Fame's lofty Dome retires.

Steep the Ascent by which to Fame we rise,
Yet equal to the Labour is the Prize:
From thence you gain an earthly Crown;
From thence -- you reach the Skies.
Far, far below the downy Throne is seen
That lulls to Rest Ignavia's softer Queen:

Thence to Fame's Turrets oft' She lifts her Eyes,
Desirous still, still impotent to rise.
Oft', when resolv'd to gain those shining Tow'rs,
The pensive Queen the dire Ascent explores;

Comes onward, wafted by the gummy Trees,
Some Sylvan Musick, or some scented Breeze;
She turns her Head; her own gay Realm she spies,
And all the airy Resolution dies.
Thus still in vain these gilded Visions please
The Wretch of Glory, whilst the Slave of Ease;
Doom'd ever in ignoble State to pine,
Boast her own Scenes, and languish after mine.

poem by William Shenstone
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The Belated Swallow

And the birds of the air have nests.”

Belated swallow, whither flying?
The day is dead, the light is dying,
The night draws near:
Where is thy nest, slow put together,
Soft-lined with moss and downy feather,
For shelter-place in stress of weather
And darkness drear?

Past, past, above the lighted city,
Unknowing of my wondering pity,
Seaward she flies.
Alas, poor bird! what rude awaking
Has driven thee forth, when storms are breaking,
And frightened gulls the waves forsaking
With warning cries?

Alas, my soul! while leaves are greenest
Thy heedless head thou fondly screenest
Beneath thy wing.
How bravely thou thy plumage wearest,
How lightly thou life's burthen bearest,
How happily thy home preparest,
In careless spring!

Yet Destiny the hour may bring thee
When none of all that sing can sing thee
To joy or rest!
When all the winds that blow shall blow thee;
And, ere the floods shall overflow thee,
The sunlight linger but to show thee
Thy shattered nest

poem by Mary Hannay Foott
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Fancy

Ever let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home:
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her:
Open wide the mind's cage-door,
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming;
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting: What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky.
Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overaw'd,
Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her!
She has vassals to attend her:
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May,
From dewy sward or thorny spray;
All the heaped Autumn's wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth:
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear;
Rustle of the reaped corn;
Sweet birds antheming the morn:
And, in the same moment, hark!
'Tis the early April lark,
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White-plum'd lillies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf, and every flower
Pearled with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its celled sleep;
And the snake all winter-thin
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;
Then the hurry and alarm
When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
Acorns ripe down-pattering,
While the autumn breezes sing.

Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Every thing is spoilt by use:
Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gaz'd at? Where's the maid
Whose lip mature is ever new?
Where's the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? Where's the face
One would meet in every place?
Where's the voice, however soft,
One would hear so very oft?
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let, then, winged Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind:
Dulcet-ey'd as Ceres' daughter,
Ere the God of Torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide;
With a waist and with a side
White as Hebe's, when her zone
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet,
While she held the goblet sweet
And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh
Of the Fancy's silken leash;
Quickly break her prison-string
And such joys as these she'll bring.--
Let the winged Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.

poem by John Keats
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Ode To Cheerfulness

LOVELY nymph! with eye serene,
Dimpled smile and frolic mien;
Come, with airy step advancing,
Come, with blooming Hebe dancing;
O'er the meads I see thee straying—
Youth and sport around thee playing—
Gay content, thy sister fair,
Twines a garland round thy hair.
Thine the lip of roseate dye;
Thine the pleasure-sparkling eye;
Thine the cheek that softly glows,
Brighter than the blushing rose!

Guide me to thy fav'rite bow'rs,
To deck thy rural shrine with flow'rs.
In thy lowly, sylvan cell,
Peace and virtue love to dwell;
Ever let me own thy sway,
Still to thee my tribute pay.

When Zephyr waves his balmy wing,
To kiss the sweets of May;
When the soft melodies of spring
Resound from ev'ry spray;
With thee, sweet maid! I'll rove along,
And tread the morning dews;
To hear the wood-lark's early song,
To court the laughing muse.

With thee I'll rove, when summer pours
Her treasures o'er the land;
When fair Pomona sheds her stores,
With kind, luxuriant hand;—

When Autumn, bearing golden sheaves,
Delights the happy swain;
And softly paints the fading leaves,
And crowns the fertile plain.

And e'en in winter's hoary reign
I'll wake my festive lays;
Thy look shall prompt th' enliv'ning strain,
And 'brighten at the blaze!'

I court thee in the vernal hours
Of life's enchanting morn;
Thy hand shall strew my path with flow'rs
And steal away the thorn:

But when the dawn of youth is fled,
The spring of life so fair;
Ah! wilt thou then benignly shed
Thy placid beams around my head,
And steal my thoughts from care?

Yes! gentle pow'r, thy heav'nly ray
Shall cheer my morning bright;
And e'en in life's declining day,
Shall gild the dark and thorny way,
With mild, celestial light!

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Serenade

Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how
I wake and passionate watches keep;
And yet while I address thee now,
Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep.
'Tis sweet enough to make me weep,
That tender thought of love and thee,
That while the world is hush'd so deep,
Thy soul's perhaps awake to me!
Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep!
With golden visions of thy dower,
While I this midnight vigil keep,
And bless thee in thy silent bower;
To me 'tis sweeter than the power
Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurl'd,
That I alone, at this still hour,
In patient love outwatch the world.

poem by Thomas Hood
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An Irregular Ode, After Sickness

-Melius, bunny venerit ipsa, canemus.
-Virg.
Imitation.

His wish'd-for presence will improve the song.

Too long a stranger to repose,
At length from Pain's abhorred couch I rose,
And wander'd forth alone,
To court once more the balmy breeze,
And catch the verdure of the trees,
Ere yet their charms were flown.

'Twas from a bank with pansies gay,
I hail'd once more the cheerful day,
The sun's forgotten beams
O Sun! how pleasing were thy rays,
Reflected from the polish'd face
Of yon refulgent streams!

Raised by the scene, my feeble tongue
Essay'd again the sweets of song:
And thus, in feeble strains and slow,
The loitering numbers 'gan to flow.

'Come, gentle Air! my languid limbs restore,
And bid me welcome from the Stygian shore;
For sure I heard the tender sighs,
I seem'd to join the plaintive cries,
Of hapless youths who through the myrtle grove
Bewail for ever their unfinish'd love;
To that unjoyous clime,
Torn from the sight of these ethereal skies;
Debarr'd the lustre of their Delia's eyes,
And banish'd in their prime.

'Come, gentle Air! and, while the thickets bloom,
Convey the jasmine's breath divine;
Convey the woodbine's rich perfume,
Nor spare the sweet-leaf'd eglantine
And mayst thou shun the rugged storm,
Till Health her wonted charms explain,
With Rural Pleasure in her train,
To greet me in her fairest form
While from this lofty mount I view
The Sons of earth, the vulgar crew,
Anxious for futile gains, beneath me stray,
And seek with erring step Contentment's obvious way.

'Come, gentle Air! and thou, celestial Muse!
Thy genial flame infuse,
Enough to lend a pensive bosom aid,
And gild Retirement's gloomy shade;
Enough to rear such rustic lays
As foes may slight, but partial friends will praise.'

The gentle Air allow'd my claim,
And, more to cheer my drooping frame,
She mixt the balm of opening flowers,
Such as the bee, with chemic powers,
From Hybla's fragrant hills inhales,
Or scents Sabea's blooming vales:
But, ah! the nymphs that heal the pensive mind,
By prescripts more refined,
Neglect their votary's anxious moan:
Oh! how should they relieve?-the Muses all were flown.

By flowery plain or woodland shades
I fondly sought the charming maids;
By woodland shades or flowery plain
I sought them, faithless maids! in vain;
When, lo! in happier hour,
I leave behind my native mead,
To range where Zeal and Friendship lead,
To visit Luxborough's honour'd bower.

Ah! foolish man! to seek the tuneful maids
On other plains, or near less verdant shades;
Scarce have my footsteps press'd the favour'd ground,
When sounds ethereal strike my ear;
At once celestial forms appear;
My fugitives are found!
The Muses here attune their lyres,
Ah! partial, with unwonted fires;
Here, hand in hand, with careless mien,
The sportive graces trip the green.

But whilst I wander'd o'er a scene so fair,
Too well at one survey I trace
How every Muse and every Grace
Had long employ'd their care.
Lurks not a stone enrich'd with lively stain,
Blooms not a flower amid the vernal store,
Falls not a plume on India's distant plain,
Glows not a shell on Adria's rocky shore,
But torn, methought, from native lands or seas,
From their arrangement gain fresh power to please.

And some had bent the wildering maze,
Bedeck'd with every shrub that blows,
And some entwined the willing sprays,
To shield th' illustrious dame's repose;
Others had graced the sprightly dome,
And taught the portrait where to glow;
Others arranged the curious tome,
Or, 'mid the decorated space,
Assign'd the laurell'd bust a place,
And given to learning all the pomp of show.
And now from every task withdrawn,
They met and frisk'd it o'er the lawn.

Ah! woe is me, said I,
And - -'s hilly circuit heard my cry:
Have I for this with labour strove,
And lavish'd all my little store,
To fence for you my shady grove,
And scollop every winding shore,
And fringe with every purple rose,
The sapphire stream that down my valley flows?

Ah! lovely treacherous maids!
To quit unseen my votive shades,
When pale Disease, and torturing Pain,
Had torn me from the breezy plain,
And to a restless couch confined,
Who ne'er your wonted tasks declined.

She needs not your officious aid
To swell the song, or plan the shade;
By genuine Fancy fired,
Her native genius guides her hand,
And while she marks the sage command,
More lovely scenes her skill shall raise,
Her lyre resound with nobler lays
Than ever you inspired.

Thus I my rage and grief display,
But vainly blame, and vainly mourn,
Nor will a Grace, or Muse, return
Till Luxborough lead the way.

poem by William Shenstone
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Ode XIV: To The Honourable Charles Townshend: From The Country

I.
Say, Townshend, what can London boast
To pay thee for the pleasures lost,
The health to-day resign'd,
When spring from this her favorite seat
Bade winter hasten his retreat,
And met the western wind?

II.
Oh knew'st thou how the balmy air,
The sun, the azure heavens prepare
To heal thy languid frame,
No more would noisy courts ingage;
In vain would lying faction's rage
Thy sacred leisure claim.

III.
Oft i look'd forth, and oft admir'd;
Till with the studious volume tir'd
I sought the open day;
And, sure, I cry'd, the rural gods
Expect me in their green abodes,
And chide my tardy lay.

IV.
But ah in vain my restless feet
Trac'd every silent shady seat
Which knew their forms of old:
Nor Naiad by her fountain laid,
Nor Wood-nymph tripping through her glade,
Did now their rites unfold:

V.
Whether to nurse some infant oak
They turn the slowly-tinkling brook
And catch the pearly showers,
Or brush the mildew from the woods,
Or paint with noontide beams the buds,
Or breathe on opening flowers.

VI.
Such rites, which they with spring renew,
The eyes of care can never view;
And care hath long been mine:
And hence offended with their guest,
Since grief of love my soul oppress'd,
They hide their toils divine.

VII.
But soon shall thy inlivening tongue
This heart, by dear affliction wrung,
With noble hope inspire:
Then will the sylvan powers again
Receive me in their genial train,
And listen to my lyre.

VIII.
Beneath yon Dryad's lonely shade
A rustic altar shall be paid,
Of turf with laurel fram'd:
And thou the inscription wilt approve;
'This for the peace which, lost by love,
By friendship was reclaim'd.'

poem by Mark Akenside
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Stanzas to Time

CAPRICIOUS foe to human joy,
Still varying with the fleeting day;
With thee the purest raptures cloy,
The fairest prospects fade away;
Nor worth, nor pow'r thy wings can bind,
All earthly pleasures fly with THEE;
Inconstant as the wav'ring wind
That plays upon the summer sea.

I court thee not, ungentle guest,
For I have e'er been doom'd to find
Life's gayest hours but idly drest,
With sweets that pall the sick'ning mind:
When smiling HOPE with placid mien,
Around my couch did fondly play;
Too oft thy aëry form I've seen,
On DOWNY pinions glide away.

But when, perplex'd with pain or care,
My couch with THORNS was scatter'd round;
When the pale priestess of DESPAIR
My mind in fatal spells had bound;
When the dull hours no joy could bring,
No bliss my weary fancy prove;
I mark'd thy leaden, pond'rous wing,
With TARDY pace, unkindly move.

IF SUCH THY GIFTS, O Time! for thee
My sated heart shall ne'er repine;
I bow content to FATE'S decree,
And with thy thorns thy roses twine;
Yet e'er thy fickle reign shall end,
The balmy sweets of FRIENDSHIP'S hour,
I'll with my cup of sorrow blend,
And smile, REGARDLESS OF THY POW'R.

poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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They Shall Not Know

When thou art happy, thou dear heart of pleasure,
Because men love thee and the feasts are spread,
And Fortune in thy lap has poured her treasure,
And Spring is there and roses crown thy head,
Then think of one who loved thee for his woe,
And, if thou sigh
With others by,
They shall not know.

When thou art silent in thy day of trouble,
Because fools vex and thou hast rivals found
And love has played thee falser than a bubble
And memory stings and grief is as a wound,
Then think of one whose hand first soothed thy brow,
And, if a smile
Thy tears beguile,
These shall not know.

When all is ended, thou pale ghost of sorrow,
And time's last flower is gathered from the grove,
And yesterday to thee is as to--morrow
And there is none to speak to thee of love,
Then sing these songs one made thee long ago,
And men shall swear
Thou still art fair--
Yet shall not know.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Elegy I. He Arrives at His Retirement in the Country

He Arrives at His Retirement in the Country, and Takes Occasion To Expatiate in Praise of Simplicity.

To a Friend

For rural virtues, and for native skies,
I bade Augusta's venal sons farewell;
Now 'mid the trees I see my smoke arise,
Now hear the fountains bubbling round my cell.

O may that Genius, which secures my rest,
Preserve this villa for a friend that's dear!
Ne'er may my vintage glad the sordid breast,
Ne'er tinge the lip that dares be insincere!

Far from these paths, ye faithless Friends, depart!
Fly my plain board, abhor my hostile name!
Hence the faint verse that flows not from the heart,
But mourns, in labour'd strains, the price of fame!

O loved Simplicity! be thine the prize!
Assiduous Art correct her page in vain!
His be the palm, who, guiltless of disguise,
Contemns the power the dull resource to feign!

Still may the mourner, lavish of his tears
For lucre's venal need, invite my scorn!
Still may the bard, dissembling doubts and fears,
For praise, for flattery sighing, sigh forlorn!

Soft as the line of lovesick Hammond flows,
'Twas his fond heart effused the melting theme;
Ah! never could Aonia's hill disclose
So fair a fountain, or so loved a stream.

Ye loveless Bards! intent with artful pains
To form a sigh, or to contrive a tear!
Forego your Pindus, and on - plains
Survey Camilla's charms, and grow sincere.

But thou, my Friend! while in thy youthful soul
Love's gentle tyrant seats his awful throne,
Write from thy bosom-let not art control
The ready pen, that makes his edicts known.

Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace
The forms our pencil or our pen design'd!
'Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face!
Such the soft image of our youthful mind!'

Soft, whilst we sleep beneath the rural bowers,
The Loves and Graces steal unseen away;
And where the turf diffused its pomp of flowers,
We wake to wintry scenes of chill decay!

Curse the sad fortune that detains thy fair;
Praise the soft hours that gave thee to her arms;
Paint thy proud scorn of every vulgar care,
When hope exalts thee, or when doubt alarms.

Where with Oenone thou hast worn the day,
Near fount or stream, in meditation, rove;
If in the grove Oenone loved to stray,
The faithful Muse shall meet thee in the grove.

poem by William Shenstone
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The Last Song of Sappho

SOUND on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
My dirge is in thy moan;
My spirit finds response in thee,
To its own ceaseless cry-'Alone, alone !'

Yet send me back one other word,
Ye tones that never cease !
Oh ! let your secret caves be stirr'd,
And say, dark waters! will ye give me peace?

Away! my weary soul hath sought
In vain one echoing sigh,
One answer to consuming thought
In human hearts-and will the wave reply ?

Sound on, thou dark, unslumbering sea!
Sound in thy scorn and pride !
I ask not, alien world, from thee,
What my own kindred earth hath still denied.

And yet I loved that earth so well,
With all its lovely things!
-Was it for this the death-wind fell
On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings?

-Let them lie silent at my feet !
Since broken even as they,
The heart whose music made them sweet,
Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away.

Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name,
The laurel-wreath is mine-
-With a lone heart, a weary frame-
O restless deep ! I come to make them thine !

Give to that crown, that burning crown,
Place in thy darkest hold!
Bury my anguish, my renown,
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold.

Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest,
Thou hast thy love, thy home;
They wait thee in the quiet nest,
And I, the unsought, unwatch'd-for-I too come!

I, with this winged nature fraught,
These visions wildly free,
This boundless love, this fiery thought-
Alone I come-oh ! give me peace, dark sea!

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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