I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods;

I envy not the beast that takes
His license in the field of time,
Unfetter’d by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;

Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted troth
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
‘T is better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

I.

    True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow,
        And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr,
    But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river,
        Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair:
    To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over;
        To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain;
    Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover,
        And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.

II.

    O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning,
        And sweet is the lily at evening close;
    But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie
        Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.
    Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring;
        Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law:
    And still to her charms she al...

Heavenly Archer, bend thy bow;
Now the flame of life burns low,
Youth is gone; I, too, would go.

Even Fortune leads to this:
Harsh or kind, at last she is
Murderess of all ecstasies.

Yet the spirit, dark, alone,
Bound in sense, still hearkens on
For tidings of a bliss foregone.

Sleep is well for dreamless head,
At no breath astonishèd,
From the Gardens of the Dead.

I the immortal harps hear ring,
By Babylon's river languishing.
Heavenly Archer, loose thy string.

    Talk not to me of savages
        From Afric's burning sun,
    No savage e'er could rend my heart
        As, Jessy, thou hast done.
    But Jessy's lovely hand in mine,
        A mutual faith to plight,
    Not even to view the heavenly choir
        Would be so blest a sight.

CARMEN PATIBULARE
(To H. S.)


Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Crook
And the rope of the Black Election,
'Tis the faith of the Fool that a race you rule
Can never achieve perfection:
And 'It's O for the time of the New Sublime
And the better than human way
When the Wolf (poor beast) shall come to his own
And the Rat shall have his day!'

For Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Beam
And the power of provocation,
You have cockered the Brute with your dreadful fruit
Till your thought is mere stupration:
And 'It's how should we rise to be pure and wise,
And how can we choose but fall,
So long as the Hangman makes us dread
And the Noose floats free for all?'

So Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Coign
And the trick there's no recalling,

    The world of dreams is all my own,
    Wherein I wander - free, alone; -
            And each weird, fervid fantasy
            Is dearer than earth's joys to me.
    The waking world I share with you;
    And yours, as mine, is the ocean's blue.
            For us both spring's early flowers are fair,
            Or the cold stars gleam through the frosty air.

    But in the world of dreams I rove
    Over sunny fields, or in shaded grove, -
            Such beauty your eyes never saw -
            And all is mine without let or law.
    Ah! the hopes and fears that come and go
    With my flying fancy, none may know;
            Though unsubstantial, it seems
            My real world - this world of dreams.

The air is dark and fragrant
    With memories of a shower,
And sanctified with stillness
    By this most holy hour.

The leaves forget to whisper
    Of soft and secret things,
And every bird is silent,
    With folded eyes and wings.

O blessed hour of midnight,
    Of sleep and of release,
Thou yieldest to the toiler
    The wages of thy peace.

And I, who have not laboured,
    Nor borne the heat of noon,
Receive thy tranquil quiet--
    An undeserved boon.

Yes, truly God is gracious,
    Who makes His sun to shine
Upon the good and evil,
    And idle lives like mine.

Upon the just and unjust
    He sends His rain to fall,
And gives this hour of blessing
    Freely alike to all.

Here's a valentine nosegay for Mary,
Some of Spring's earliest flowers;
The ivy is green by the dairy,
And so are these laurels of ours.
Though the snow fell so deep and the winter was dreary,
The laurels are green and the sparrows are cheery.

The snowdrops in bunches grow under the rose,
And aconites under the lilac, like fairies;
The best in the bunches for Mary I chose,
Their looks are as sweet and as simple as Mary's.
The one will make Spring in my verses so bare,
The other set off as a braid thy dark hair.

Pale primroses, too, at the old parlour end,
Have bloomed all the winter 'midst snows cold and dreary,
Where the lavender-cotton kept off the cold wind,
Now to shine in my valentine nosegay for Mary;
And appear in my verses all Summer, and b...

No lovelier hills than thine have laid
My tired thoughts to rest:
No peace of lovelier valleys made
Like peace within my breast.

Thine are the woods whereto my soul,
Out of the noontide beam,
Flees for a refuge green and cool
And tranquil as a dream.

Thy breaking seas like trumpets peal;
Thy clouds - how oft have I
Watched their bright towers of silence steal
Into infinity!

My heart within me faults to roam
In thought even far from thee:
Thine be the grave whereto I come,
And thine my darkness be.

Golden Apollo, that thro' heaven wide
Scatter'st the rays of light, and truth's beams,
In lucent words my darkling verses dight,
And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams,
That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams,
All while the jocund hours in thy train
Scatter their fancies at thy poet's feet;
And when thou yields to night thy wide domain,
Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain.
For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay
With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse,
Sound without sense; yet in his rude affray,
(For ignorance is Folly's leasing nurse
And love of Folly needs none other's curse)
Midas the praise hath gain'd of lengthen'd ears,
For which himself might deem him ne'er the worse
To sit in council with his modern peers,
And judge of tink...

Darkly October; Where the wild fowl fly,
Utters a harsh and melancholy cry;
And slowly closing, far a sunset door,
Day wildly glares upon.the world once more,
Where Twilight, with one star to lamp her by,
Walks with the Wind that haunts the hills and shore.

The Spirit of Autumn, with averted gaze,
Comes slowly down the ragged garden ways;
And where she walks she lays a finger cold
On rose and aster, lily and marigold,
And at her touch they turn, in mute amaze,
And bow their heads, assenting to the cold.

And all around rise phantoms of the flowers,
Scents, ghost-like, gliding from the dripping bowers;
And evermore vague, spectral voices ring
Of Something gone, or Something perishing:
Joy's requiem; hope's tolling of the Hours;
Love's dirge of d...

I rose at night, and visited
The Cave of the Unborn:
And crowding shapes surrounded me
For tidings of the life to be,
Who long had prayed the silent Head
To haste its advent morn.

Their eyes were lit with artless trust,
Hope thrilled their every tone;
"A scene the loveliest, is it not?
A pure delight, a beauty-spot
Where all is gentle, true and just,
And darkness is unknown?"

My heart was anguished for their sake,
I could not frame a word;
And they descried my sunken face,
And seemed to read therein, and trace
The news that pity would not break,
Nor truth leave unaverred.

And as I silently retired
I turned and watched them still,
And they came helter-skelter out,
Driven forward like a rabble rout
Into the world t...

(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)



I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing,
With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing,
Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air,
And a knot of red roses sown in under there
Where the shadows are lost in her hair.

Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground
Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound;
And the gleam of a smile, O as fair and as faint
And as sweet as the master of old used to paint
Round the lips of their favorite saint!

And that lace at her throat - and fluttering hands
Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands,
The flakes of their touches - first fluttering at
The bow - then the roses - the hair and then that
Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat.

Ah, what artist on earth with a model like this,
Holding not ...

(Ode to Lycoris. May 1817)

Enough of climbing toil! Ambition treads
Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough,
Or slippery even to peril! and each step,
As we for most uncertain recompence
Mount toward the empire of the fickle clouds,
Each weary step, dwarfing the world below,
Induces, for its old familiar sights,
Unacceptable feelings of contempt,
With wonder mixed, that Man could e'er be tied,
In anxious bondage, to such nice array
And formal fellowship of petty things!
Oh! 'tis the 'heart' that magnifies this life,
Making a truth and beauty of her own;
And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing shades,
And gurgling rills, assist her in the work
More efficaciously than realms outspread,
As in a map, before the adventurer's gaze,
Ocean an...

When I shall go
Into the narrow home that leaves
No room for wringing of the hands and hair,
And feel the pressing of the walls which bear
The heavy sod upon my heart that grieves,
(As the weird earth rolls on),
Then I shall know
What is the power of destiny. But still,
Still while my life, however sad, be mine,
I war with memory, striving to divine
Phantom to-morrows, to outrun the past;
For yet the tears of final, absolute ill
And ruinous knowledge of my fate I shun.
Even as the frail, instinctive weed
Tries, through unending shade, to reach at last
A shining, mellowing, rapture-giving sun;
So in the deed of breathing joy's warm breath,
Fain to succeed,
I, too, in colorless longings, hope till death.

Spirto felice, che sì dolcemente.

BEHOLDING IN FANCY THE SHADE OF LAURA, HE TELLS HER THE LOSS THAT THE WORLD SUSTAINED IN HER DEPARTURE.


    Blest spirit, that with beams so sweetly clear
Those eyes didst bend on me, than stars more bright,
And sighs didst breathe, and words which could delight
Despair; and which in fancy still I hear;--
I see thee now, radiant from thy pure sphere
O'er the soft grass, and violet's purple light,
Move, as an angel to my wondering sight;
More present than earth gave thee to appear.
Yet to the Cause Supreme thou art return'd:
And left, here to dissolve, that beauteous veil
In which indulgent Heaven invested thee.
Th' impoverish'd world at thy departure mourn'd:
For love departed, and the sun grew pale,
And de...

    The North Star whispers:    "You are one
    Of those whose course no chance can change.
    You blunder, but are not undone,
    Your spirit-task is fixed and strange.

    "When here you walk, a bloodless shade,
    A singer all men else forget.
    Your chants of hammer, forge and spade
    Will move the prairie-village yet.

    "That young, stiff-necked, reviling town
    Beholds your fancies on her walls,
    And paints them out or tears them down,
    Or bars them from her feasting-halls.

    "Yet shall the fragments still remain;
    Yet shall remain some watch-tower strong
    That ivy-vines will not disdain,
    Haunted and trembling with your song.

    "Your flambeau in the dusk shall burn,
    Flame high in storms, fl...