"I ought to be accurst, if I refuse "Kings have long hands, they say; and though I be "So distant, they may reach at length to me. "However, of all princes, thou "Shouldst not reproach rewards for being small or "slow; "Thou! who rewardest but with popular breath, "And that too after death." HYMN TO LIGHT. FIRST-born of Chaos, who so fair didst come From the old negro's darksome womb! Thou tide of glory, which no rest dost know, Thou golden shower of a true Jove! Who does in thee descend, and heaven to earth make love! Hail, active Nature's watchful life and health! Thou the world's beauteous bride, the lusty bride. groom he! Say from what golden quivers of the sky Swiftness and power by birth are thine: 'Tis, I believe, this archery to show, That so much cost in colours thou, And skill in painting, dost bestow, Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heavenly bow. Swift as light thoughts their empty career run, Let a post-angel start with thee, And thou the goal of earth shalt reach as soon as he. Thou in the moon's bright chariot, proud and gay, Dost thy bright wood of stars survey; And all the year dost with thee bring Ofthousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal spring. Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above The sun's gilt tents for ever move, And still, as thou in pomp dost go, The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn The humble glow-worms to adorn, And with those living spangles gild (O greatness without pride!) the bushes of the field. Night, and her ugly subjects, thou dost fright, And Sleep, the lazy owl of night; Asham'd, and fearful to appear, They skreen their horrid shapes with the black hemisphere. With them there hastes, and wildly takes th' alarm, At the first opening of thine eye- Ill omens and ill sights removes out of thy way. To shake his wings, and rouse his head: A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy look. Encourag'd at the sight of thee, To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee. Ev'n Lust, the master of a harden'd face, In sympathizing night he rolls his smoky fires. When, Goddess! thou lift'st up thy waken'd head, Out of the morning's purple bed, Thy quire of birds about thee play, And all the joyful world salutes the rising day. The ghosts, and monster-spirits, that did presume A body's privilege to assume, Vanish again invisibly, And bodies gain again their visibility. All the world's bravery, that delights our eyes, Thou the rich dye on them bestow'st, Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go'st. The virgin-lilies, in their white, Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light. Girt in thy purple swaddling-bands: Thou cloth'st it in a gay and parti-colour'd coat. Flora herself envies to see Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she. Ah, Goddess! would thou couldst thy hand withhold, And be less liberal to gold! Didst thou less value to it give, Of how much care, alas! might'st thou poor man relieve! To me the sun is more delightful far, And all fair days much fairer are. But few, ah! wondrous few, there be, Who do not gold prefer, O Goddess! ev'n to thee. Through the soft ways of heaven, and air, and sea, Which open all their pores to thee, Like a clear river thou dost glide, And with thy living stream through the close channels slide. But, where firm bodies thy free course oppose, Takes there possession, and does make, In th' empyræan heaven does stay. Thy rivers, lakes, and springs, below, From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow. LIFE AND FAME. OH, Life! thou Nothing's younger brother! So like, that one might take one for the other! In all the cobwebs of the schoolmen's trade, As 't is "to be," or "not to be." Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Yet canst nor wave nor wind sustain, But, broken and o'erwhelm'd, the endless oceans meet again. And with what rare inventions do we strive Ourselves then to survive? Wise, subtle arts, and such as well befit That Nothing Man's no wit Some with vast costly tombs would purchase it, "Here lies the great"-false marble! where? Nothing but small and sordid dust lies there.Some build enormous mountain-palaces, The fools and architects to please; A lasting life in well-hewn stone they rear: Was slain so many hundred years before, Lives in the dropping ruins of his amphitheatre. His father-in-law an higher place does claim He, since that toy his death, Does fill all mouths, and breathes in all men's breath. What substance, what subsistence, what hypostasis, In those alone does the great Cæsar live, Think we not only have, but give, eternity. Who his to-morrow would bestow, For all old Homer's life, e'er since he dy'd, till now! ODE. OF SOLITUDE. HAIL, old patrician trees, so great and good! Hail, ye plebeian underwood! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food |