Be my chamber tapestried
With the showers of summer,
Close, but soundless, glorified
When the sunbeams come here-
Wandering harpers, harping on
Waters stringed for such,
Drawing colour, for a tune,
With a vibrant touch.
Bring a shadow green and still
From the chestnut-forest,
Bring a purple from the hill,
When the heat is sorest;
Spread them out from wall to wall,
Carpet-wove around,
Whereupon the foot shall fall
In light instead of sound.
Bring fantastic cloudlets home
From the noontide zenith,
Ranged for sculptures round the room,
Named as Fancy weeneth;
Some be Junos, without eyes,
Naïads, without sources,
Some be birds of paradise,
Some, Olympian horses.
Bring the dews the birds shake off
Waking in the hedges,-
Those too, perfumed for a roof,
From the lilies' edges :
From our England's field and moor,
Bring them calm and white in, Whence to form a mirror pure
For Love's self delighting.
Bring a gray cloud from the east
Where the lark is singing,
(Something of the song at least
Unlost in the bringing :)
That shall be a morning-chair,
Poet-dream may sit in
When it leans out on the air,
Unrhymed and unwritten.
Bring the red cloud from the sun,
While he sinketh catch it;
That shall be a couch,—with one
Sidelong star to watch it,—
Fit for Poet's finest thought
At the curfew-sounding;
Things unseen being nearer brought
Than the sun, around him.
Poet's thought,-not poet's sigh.
'Las, they come together!
Cloudy walls divide and fly
As in April weather.
Cupola and column proud,
Structure bright to see,
Gone! except the moonlit cloud
To which I looked with thee.
Let them! Wipe such visionings
From the fancy's cartel :
Love secures some fairer things,
Dowered with his immortal.
The sun may darken, heaven be bowed,
But still unchanged shall be,—
Here, in my soul,-that moonlit-cloud
To which I looked with thee.
WATCHED a rosebud very long
Brought on by dew and sun and shower,
Waiting to see the perfect flower :
Then, when I thought it should be strong,
It opened at the matin hour
I watched a nest from day to day,
A green nest full of pleasant shade,
Wherein three speckled eggs were laid :
But when they should have hatched in May,
The two old birds had grown afraid
Or tired, and flew away.
Then in my wrath I broke the bough
That I had tended so with care,
Hoping its scent should fill the air :
I crushed the eggs, not heeding how
Their ancient promise had been fair :
I would have vengeance now.
But the dead branch spoke from the sod,
And the eggs answered me again :
Because we failed dost thou complain?
Is thy wrath just? And what if God,
Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain,
Should also take the rod ?
(FROM 'PARADise lost.' BOOK III.)
O sooner had the Almighty ceased, but all
The multitude of Angels, with a shout
Loud as from numbers without number, sweet
As from blest voices, uttering joy, Heaven rung
With jubilee, and loud Hosannas filled
The eternal regions: lowly reverent
Towards either throne they bow, and to the ground
With solemn adoration down they cast
Their crowns inwove with amarant* and gold;
Immortal amarant, a flower which once
In Paradise, fast by the tree of life,
Began to bloom; but soon for man's offence
To Heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows, And flowers aloft shading the fount of life,
And where the river of bliss through midst of Heaven Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream :
With these that never fade the spirits elect
Bind their resplendent locks inwreathed with beams;
Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright
Pavement, that like a sea of jaspar shone,
Impurpled with celestial roses smiled.
Then, crowned again, their golden harps they took,
Harps ever tuned, that glittering by their side
Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet
Of charming symphony they introduce
Their sacred song, and waken raptures high;
No voice exempt, no voice but well could join
Melodious part, such concord is in Heaven.
* Amarant, incorruptible; a purple flower which never fades.
T is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make Man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night—
It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measure life may perfect be.
CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.
OW happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame, or private breath :
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great;
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