VIII. TO HOMER. 1818. STANDING aloof in giant ignorance, Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, So thou wast blind!-but then the veil was rent, And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive; Aye, on the shores of darkness there is light, And precipices show untrodden green; There is a budding morrow in midnight; There is a triple sight in blindness keen; Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befel, To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell. IX. ANSWER TO A SONNET ENDING THUS : "Dark eyes are dearer far Than those that made the hyacinthine bell;" By J. H. REYNOLDS. Feb. 1818. BLUE! 'Tis the life of heaven,the domain The bosomer of clouds, gold, grey and dun. And all its vassal streams: pools numberless Married to green in all the sweetest flowersForget-me-not, the blue bell,—and, that queen Of secrecy, the violet: what strange powers Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great, When in an Eye thou art alive with fate! X. TO J. H. REYNOLDS. O THAT a week could be an age, and we So time itself would be annihilate, So a day's journey in oblivious haze To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate. O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind! To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant! In little time a host of joys to bind, And keep our souls in one eternal pant! This morn, my friend, and yester-evening taught Me how to harbour such a happy thought. TIME's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb; And snared by the ungloving of thine hand. But I behold thine eyes' well memoried light; I cannot look upon the rose's dye, But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight; I cannot look on any budding flower, But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips, And harkening for a love-sound, doth devour Its sweets in the wrong sense : - Thou dost eclipse Every delight with sweet remembering, And grief unto my darling joys dost bring. * A lady whom he saw for some few moments at Vauxhall, XII. TO SLEEP. 1819. O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight! Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, Around my bed its lulling charities; Then save me, or the passed day will shine Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength, for darkness burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul. |