TO THE MUSES

Whether on Ida’s shady brow,

Or in the chambers of the East,

The chambers of the sun, that now

From antient melody have ceas’d;

Whether in Heav’n ye wander fair,

Or. the green comers of the earth,

Or the blue regions of the air,

Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on chrystal rocks ye rove,

Beneath the bosom of the sea

Wand’ring in many a coral grove,

Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry!

How have you left the antient love

That bards of old enjoy’d in you!

The languid strings do scarcely move!

The sound is forc’d, the notes are few!

TO THE EVENING STAR

Thou fair-hair’d angel of the evening,

Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light

Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown

Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!

Smile on our loves, and, while thou drawest the

Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew

On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes

In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on

The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,

And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,

Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,

And the lion glares thro’ the dun forest:

The fleeces of our flocks are cover’d with

Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.

TO MORNING

O holy virgin! clad in purest white,

Unlock heav’n’s golden gates, and issue forth;

Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light

Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring

The honied dew that cometh on waking day.

O radiant morning, salute the sun,

Rouz’d like a huntsman to the chace, and, with

Thy buskin’d feet, appear upon our hills.

SONG

How sweet I roam’d from field to field,

And tasted all the summer’s pride,

’Till I the prince of love beheld,

Who in the sunny beams did glide!

He shew’d me lilies for my hair,

And blushing roses for my brow;

He led me through his gardens fair,

Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,

And Phœbus fir’d by vocal rage;

He caught me in his silken net,

And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;

Then stretches out my golden wing,

And mocks my loss of liberty.

SONG

My silks and fine array,

My smiles and languish’d air,

By love are driv’n away;

And mournful lean Despair

Brings me yew to deck my grave:

Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heav‘n,

When springing buds unfold;

O why to him was’t giv’n,

Whose heart is wintry cold?

His breast is love’s all worship’d tomb,

Where all love’s pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,

Bring me a winding sheet;

When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat:

Then down I’ll lie, as cold as clay.

True love doth pass away!

SONG

Love and harmony combine,

And around our souls intwine,

While thy branches mix with mine,

And our roots together join.

Joys upon our branches sit,

Chirping loud, and singing sweet;

Like gentle streams beneath our feet

Innocence and virtue meet.

Thou the golden fruit dost bear,

I am clad in flowers fair;

Thy sweet boughs perfume the air,

And the turtle buildeth there.

There she sits and feeds her young,

Sweet I hear her mournful song;

And thy lovely leaves among,

There is love: I hear his tongue.

There his charming nest doth lay,

There he sleeps the night away;

There he sports along the day,

And doth among our branches play.

SONG

I love the jocund dance,

The softly-breathing song,

Where innocent eyes do glance,

And where lisps the maiden’s tongue.

I love the laughing vale,

I love the echoing hill,

Where mirth does never fail,

And the jolly swain laughs his fill.

I love the pleasant cot,

I love the innocent bow’r,

Where white and brown is our lot,

Or fruit in the mid-day hour.

I love the oaken seat,

Beneath the oaken tree,

Where all the old villagers meet,

And laugh our sports to see.

I love our neighbours all,

But, Kitty, I better love thee;

And love them I ever shall;

But thou art all to me.

SONG

Memory, hither come,

And tune your merry notes;

And, while upon the wind

Your music floats,

I’ll pore upon the stream,

Where sighing lovers dream,

And fish for fancies as they pass

Within the watery glass.

I’ll drink of the clear stream,.

And hear the linnet’s song;

And there I’ll lie and dream

The day along:

And, when night comes, I’ll go

To places fit for woe,

Walking along the darken’d valley

With silent Melancholy.

MAD SONG

The wild winds weep,

And the night is a-cold;

Come hither, Sleep,

And my griefs unfold:

But lo! the morning peeps

Over the eastern steeps,

And the rustling birds of dawn

The earth do scorn.

Lo! to the vault

Of paved heaven,

With sorrow fraught

My notes are driven:

They strike the ear of night,

Make weep the eyes of day;

They make mad the roaring winds,

And with tempests play.

Like a fiend in a cloud,

With howling woe,

After night I do croud,

And with night will go;

I turn my back to the east,

From whence comforts have increas’d;

For light doth seize my brain

With frantic pain.

SONG

Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry year

Smiles on my head, and mounts his flaming car;

Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade,

And rising glories beam around my head.

My feet are wing’d, while o’er the dewy lawn

I meet my maiden, risen like the morn:

Oh bless those holy feet, like angels’ feet;

Oh bless those limbs, beaming with heav’nly light!

Like as an angel glitt’ring in the sky

In times of innocence and holy joy;

The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song

To hear the music of an angel’s tongue.

So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear:

So when we walk, nothing impure comes near;

Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat;

Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.

But that sweet village, where my black-ey’d maid

Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night’s shade,

Whene’er I enter, more than mortal fire

Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.

SONG

When early mom walks forth in sober grey,

Then to my black ey’d maid I haste away;

When evening sits beneath her dusky bow’r,

And gently sighs away the silent hour,

The village bell alarms, away I go,

And the vale darkens at my pensive woe.

To that sweet village, where my black ey’d maid

Doth drop a tear beneath the silent shade,

I turn my eyes; and, pensive as I go,

Curse my black stars, and bless my pleasing woe

Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees,

Whisp’ring faint murmurs to the scanty breeze,

I walk the village round; if at her side

A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride,

I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe,

That made my love so high, and me so low.

O should she e’er prove false, his limbs I’d tear,

And throw all pity on the burning air;

I’d curse bright fortune for my mixed lot,

And then I’d die in peace, and be forgot.

TO SPRING

O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down

Thro’ the clear windows of the morning, turn

Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,

Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell each other, and the list’ning

Vallies hear; all our longing eyes are turned

Up to thy bright pavillions: issue forth,

And let thy holy feet visit our clime.

Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds

Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste

Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls

Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour

Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put

Thy golden crown upon her languish’d head,

Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee!

TO SUMMER

O thou, who passest thro’ our vallies in

Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat

That flames from their large nostrils ! thou, 0 Summer,

Oft pitched’st here thy golden tent, and oft

Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld

With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard

Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car

Rode o’er the deep of heaven; beside our spring

Sit down, and in our mossy vallies, on

Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy

Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:

Our vallies love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are fam’d who strike the silver wire:

Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:

Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:

We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,

Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,

Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.

TO AUTUMN

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained

With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit

Beneath my shady roof; there thou may’st rest,

And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe;

And all the daughters of the year shall dance!

Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

“The narrow bud opens her beauties to

The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;

Blossoms hang round the brows of morning, and

Flourish down the bright cheek of modest eve,

Till clust’ring Summer breaks forth into singing,

And feather’d clouds strew flowers round her head.

The spirits of the air live on the smells

Of fruit; and joy, with pinions light, roves round

The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.”

Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;

Then rose, girded himself, and o’er the bleak

Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

TO WINTER

O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:

The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark

Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs,

Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.

He hears me not, but o‘er the yawning deep

Rides heavy; his storms are unchain’d, sheathed

In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes,

For he hath rear’d his sceptre o’er the world.

Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings

To his strong bones, strides o’er the groaning rocks:

He withers all in silence, and his hand

Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.

He takes his seat upon the dins; the mariner

Cries in vain. Poor little wretch! that deal’st

With storms, till heaven smiles, and the monster

Is driv’n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.