To know, to esteem, to love—and then to part,
Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart!
O for some dear abiding-place of Love,
O'er which my spirit, like the mother dove,
Might brood with warming wings!-O fair as kind,
Were but one sisterhood with you combined,
(Your very image they in shape and mind)
Far rather would I sit in solitude,
The forms of memory all my mental food,
And dream of you, sweet sisters, (ah, not mine!)
And only dream of you (ah dream and pine!
Than have the presence, and partake the pride,
And shine in the eye of all the world beside!
POEMS WRITTEN IN LATER LIFE.
Έρως άει λάληδρος έταιρος.
In many ways doth the full heart reveal
The presence of the love it would conceal;
But in far more th' estranged heart lets know
The absence of the love, which yet it fain would show.
To be a Prodigal's favourite-then, worse truth,
A Miser's Pensioner-behold our lot!
O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
Age might but take the things Youth needed not.
Wordsworth, The Small Celandine.
WORDSWORTH,
VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-
Both were mine! Life went a Maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young?-Ah, woful when!
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along:-
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When youth and I liv'd in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like ;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O youth! for years so many and sweet,
"Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit―
It cannot be, that thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd :-
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe, that Thou art gone
?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size:
But springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieve,
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist.
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.
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