« AnteriorContinuar »
Will not some say that I presumptuously Have spoken? that from hastening dis
grace "Twere better far to hide my foolish face?
That whining boyhood should with reverence bow
Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach?
If I do hide myself, it sure shall be
And there shall be a kind memorial graven.
But off Despondence! miserable bane! They should not know thee, who athirst to gain
A noble end, are thirsty every hour. What though I am not wealthy in the dower
Be but the essence of deformity,
Ah! rather let me like a madman run Over some precipice; let the hot sun Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down
Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown
Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.
An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle, Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!
How many days! what desperate turmoil!
Ere I can have explored its widenesses. Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees, I could unsay those-no, impossible! Impossible!
For sweet relief I'll dwell On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay Begun in gentleness die so away. E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades :
I turn full hearted to the friendly aids That smooth the path of honor; brotherhood,
And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.
The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet
Into the brain ere one can think upon it; The silence when some rhymes are coming out;
when they're come, the very pleasant rout:
The message certain to be done to
'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow
Some precious book from out its snug retreat, To cluster round it when we next shall
Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs; Many delights of that glad day recalling, When first my senses caught their tender falling.
And with these airs come forms of elegance Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's
A sun-a shadow of a magnitude. 1817. March 9, 1817.
ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER
COME hither all sweet maidens soberly. Down-looking aye, and with a chastened light
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white. And meekly let your fair hands joined be.
As if so gentle that ye could not see, Untouched, a victim of your beauty bright,
Sinking away to his young spirit's night, Sinking bewildered 'mid the dreary sea: 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death; Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.
O horrid dream! see how his body dips Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile: