[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew,And in thy heart they withered! Such chill dewWan Indolence on each young blossom shed;And Vanity her filmy net-work spread,With eye that rolled around in asking gaze,And tongue that trafficked in the trade of praise.Thy follies such! the hard world marked them well!Were they more wise, the proud who never fell?Rest, injured shade! the poor man's grateful prayerOn heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear.As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass,And sit me down upon its recent grass,With introverted eye I contemplateSimilitude of soul, perhaps of – fate;To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assignedEnergic Reason and a shaping mind,The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part,And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart.Sloth-jaundiced all! and from my graspless handDrop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand.I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,A dreamy pang in Morning's feverous doze.Is this piled earth our Being's passless mound?Tell me, cold grave! is death with poppies crowned?Tired Sentinel! mid fitful starts I nod,And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod![1794]To a Young LadyWith a Poem on the French RevolutionMuch on my early youth I love to dwell,Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,I heard of guilt and wondered at the tale!Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.Aye as the star of evening flung its beamIn broken radiance on the wavy stream,My soul amid the pensive twilight gloomMourned with the breeze, O Lee Boo!3 o'er thy tomb.Where'er I wandered, Pity still was near,Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear:No knell that tolled, but filled my anxious eye,And suffering Nature wept that one should die!4Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast,Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West:When slumbering Freedom roused by high DisdainWith giant fury burst her triple chain!Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glowed;Her banners, like a midnight meteor, flowed;Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skiesShe came, and scattered battles from her eyes!Then Exultation waked the patriot fireAnd swept with wild hand the Tyrtæan lyre:Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance,And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow.With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,Where peaceful Virtue weaves the myrtle braid.And O! if Eyes whose holy glances roll,Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;If Smiles more winning, and a gentler MienThan the love-wildered Maniac's brain hath seenShaping celestial forms in vacant air,If these demand the impassioned Poet's care –If Mirth and softened Sense and Wit refined,The blameless features of a lovely mind;Then haply shall my trembling hand assignNo fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine.Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuse –Ne'er lurked the snake beneath their simple hues;No purple bloom the Child of Nature bringsFrom Flattery's night-shade: as he feels he sings.September, 1792Sonnet I»Content, as random Fancies might inspire,If his weak harp at times or lonely lyreHe struck with desultory hand, and drewSome softened tones to Nature not untrue.«Bowles.My heart has thanked thee, Bowles! for those soft strainsWhose sadness soothes me, like the murmuringOf wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring!For hence not callous to the mourner's painsThrough Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went:And when the mightier throes of mind began,And drove me forth, a thought-bewildered man,Their mild and manliest melancholy lentA mingled charm, such as the pang consignedTo slumber, though the big tear it renewed;Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure broodOver the wavy and tumultuous mind,As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweepMoved on the darkness of the unformed deep.[1795 or 1796]Sonnet IIAs late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale,With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise:She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale –»Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,Ere in an evil hour with altered voiceThou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoiceBlasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame.Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl!Thee stormy Pity and the cherished lureOf Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soulWildered with meteor fires [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

zanotowane.pl

doc.pisz.pl

pdf.pisz.pl

listy-do-eda.opx.pl