LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. NOR cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign Hark! the deep buzz of vanity and hate! Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, While the pert captain, or the primmer priest, O give me, from this heartless scene released, Or lies the purple evening on the bay Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees, On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, Whom his own true-love buried in the sands! The things of Nature utter; birds or trees Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 1799. ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he— 'I love my Love, and my Love loves me!" 1798-9. TO A LADY. WITH FALCONER'S "SHIPWRECK." АH! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell; Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark! Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings, 66 Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark! Cling to the shrouds!" In vain! The breakers roar— Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, No classic roamer, but a ship-wrecked man ! Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name Of gratitude! remembrances of friend, Or absent or no more! shades of the Past, Which Love makes substance! Hence to thee I send, O dear as long as life and memory last! I send with deep regards of heart and head, Sweet maid, for friendship formed! this work to thee: And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me. TO A YOUNG LADY. ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER. WHY need I say, Louisa dear! Risen from the bed of pain and fear, The sunny showers, the dappled sky, Believe me, while in bed you lay, How can we do without her? Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew, And Heaven is overflowing! INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE. O LEAVE the lily on its stem; A cypress and a myrtle-bough And now a tale of love and woe, But most, my own dear Genevieve, And now, once more a tale of woe, And trembles on the string. * Here followed the Stanzas, afterwards published separately under the titie "Love" (see p. 198), and after them came the other three stanzas printed above; the whole forming the introduction to the intended Dark Ladie, of which all that exists is subjoined. |