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Beneath my palm trees, by the river side,
I sat a-weeping: in the whole world wide There was no one to ask me why I wept,-And so I kept
Brimming the water-lily cups with tears Cold as my fears.
"Beneath my palm trees, by the river side,
I sat a-weeping: what enamor'd bride, Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds,
But hides and shrouds
Beneath dark palm trees by a river side? "And as I sat, over the light blue hills There came a noise of revellers: the rills Into the wide stream came of purple hue
'Twas Bacchus and his crew! The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills
Snapping his lucid fingers merrily!—
Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill
With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines,
Savory, latter mint, and columbines, Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme;
Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime,
All gather'd in the dewy morning: hie Away fly, fly!
Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven, Aquarius! to whom king Jove has given Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feather'd wings,
Two fan-like fountains,-thine illuminings
For Dian play: Dissolve the frozen purity of air; Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare
Shew cold through watery pinions; make more bright
The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage night:
Haste, haste away!-
Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see!
Speeding away swift as the eagle bird?
The Lion's mane's on end: the Bear how fierce!
The Centaur's arrow ready seems to
Some enemy: far forth his bow is bent Into the blue of heaven. He'll be shent, Pale unrelentor,
When he shall hear the wedding lutes aplaying.-
Andromeda sweet woman! why delaying
So timidly among the stars: come hither! Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither
No! those days are gone away,
No, the bugle sounds no more, And the twanging how no more; Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill; There is no mid-forest laugh, Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight, amaz'd to hear Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent; For he left the merry tale Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din ; Gone, the song of Gamelyn; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the "grené shawe;" All are gone away and past! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his turfed grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze: He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her-strange! that honey Can't be got without hard money!
So it is: yet let us sing, Honor to the old bow-string! Honor to the bugle-horn! Honor to the woods unshorn! Honor to the Lincoln green!
Thy life is but two dead eternities-
Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep,
Another cannot wake thy giant size. July, 1818. 1819.
THE HUMAN SEASONS
FOUR Seasons fill the measure of the
There are four seasons in the mind of
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
He furleth close; contented so to look
THE MERMAID TAVERN
SOULS of Poets dead and gone,
I have heard that on a day
And pledging with contented smack
Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
EVER let the Fancy roam,
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Open wide the mind's cage-door,
When the soundless earth is muffled,
When the Night doth meet the Noon
To banish Even from her sky.
Fancy, high-commission'd:-send her!
And thou shalt quaff it:-thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear;
Rustle of the reaped corn;
Sweet birds antheming the morn:
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; Every thing is spoilt by use: Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gaz'd at? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new? Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where's the face One would meet in every place? Where's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft? At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.