And from them comes a silver flash of light,
As from the westward of a Summer's night;
Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes
Gone mad thro' olden songs and poesies.
See! what is coming from the distance dim! A golden Galley all in silken trim!
Three rows of oars are lightening, moment whiles,
Into the verd'rous bosoms of those isles;
Towards the shade, under the Castle wall,
It comes in silence,-now 'tis hidden all.
The Clarion sounds, and from a Postern-gate
An echo of sweet music doth create
A fear in the poor Herdsman, who doth bring
His beasts to trouble the enchanted spring-
He tells of the sweet music, and the spot,
To all his friends, and they believe him not.
O, that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake, Would all their colours from the sunset take: From something of material sublime,
Rather than shadow our own soul's day-time
In the dark void of night. For in the world
We jostle, but my flag is not unfurl'd
On the Admiral-staff, and to philosophise
I dare not yet! Oh, never will the prize,
High reason, and the love of good and ill,
Be my award! Things cannot to the will
Be settled, but they tease us out of thought;
Or is it that imagination brought
Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin'd,
Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind,
Cannot refer to any standard law
Of either earth or heaven? It is a flaw
In happiness, to see beyond our bourn,-
It forces us in summer skies to mourn,
It spoils the singing of the Nightingale.
Dear Reynolds! I have a mysterious tale,
And cannot speak it: the first page I read
Upon a Lampit rock of green sea-weed
Among the breakers; 'twas a quiet eve,
The rocks were silent, the wide sea did weave
An untumultuous fringe of silver foam
Along the flat brown sand; I was at home
And should have been most happy, but I saw
Too far into the sea, where every maw
The greater on the less feeds evermore.-
But I saw too distinct into the core
Of an eternal fierce destruction,
And so from happiness I far was gone.
Still am I sick of it, and though, to-day,
I've gather'd young spring-leaves, and flowers gay
Of periwinkle and wild strawberry,
Still do I that most fierce destruction see,-
The Shark at savage prey,-the Hawk at pounce,—
The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce,
Ravening a Worm,-Away, ye horrid moods!
Moods of one's mind! You know I hate them well.
You know I'd sooner be a clapping Bell
To some Kamschatkan Missionary Church,
Than with these horrid moods be left i' the lurch.
"I have enjoyed the most delightful walks these three fine days, beautiful enough to make me content.
ERE all the summer could I stay,
For there's a Bishop's Teign,
And King's Teign,
And Coomb at the clear Teign's head;
Where, close by the stream,
You may have your cream,
All spread upon barley bread.
There's Arch Brook,
And there's Larch Brook,
Both turning many a mill;
And cooling the drouth
Of the salmon's mouth,
And fattening his silver gill.
There's a wild wood,
A mild hood,
To the sheep on the lea o' the down,
Where the golden furze,
With its green, thin spurs,
Doth catch at the maiden's gown.
There's Newton Marsh,
With its spear-grass harsh,-
A pleasant summer level;
Where the maidens sweet
Of the Market street,
Do meet in the dark to revel.
There's Barton rich,
With dyke and ditch,
And hedge for the thrush to live in;
And the hollow tree
For the buzzing bee,
And a bank for the wasp to hive in.
And O and O,
The daisies blow,
And the primroses are waken'd;
And the violets white
Sit in silver light,
And the green buds are long in the spike end.
Then who would go
Into dark Soho,
And chatter with dank-hair'd critics,
When he can stay
For the new-mown hay,
And startle the dappled crickets?
"There's a bit of doggerel; you would like a bit of botheral."
HERE be you going, you Devon maid? And what have ye there in the basket? Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy, Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?
I love your hills and I love your dales,
And I love your flocks a-bleating;
But oh, on the heather to lie together,
With both our hearts a-beating!
I'll put your basket all safe in a nook;
Your shawl I'll hang on a willow;
And we will sigh in the daisy's eye,
And kiss on a grass-green pillow.
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