DEJECTION: AN ODE. Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! We shall have a deadly storm. a model ode. BALLAD OF SIR PATRICK SPENCE. I. WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! The coming on of rain and squally blast. fast! See remarks of De quincey lating to this poem in Recollections the Lake Puels, sup. S.T.C., ad fin.. Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! II. A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, And its peculiar tint of yellow green : In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see, not feel how beautiful they are! My genial spirits fail; And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: IV. O Lady! we receive but what we give, Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! And from the soul itself must there be sent V. O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud— And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: For Hope grew round me, like the twining vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth : Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, For not to think of what I needs must feel, From my own nature all the natural man— This was my soul resource, my only plan: Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, I turn from you, and listen to the wind, scream Of agony by torture lengthened out That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest without, Bare craig, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among 'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds * Tairn is a small lake, generally if not always applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country. |