TO THE SUPREME BEING.

The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed If Thou the spirit give by which I pray: My una.s.sisted heart is barren clay, Which of its native self can nothing feed: Of good and pious works thou art the seed, Which quickens only where thou say'st it may: Unless thou shew to us thine own true way No man can find it: Father! thou must lead.

Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind By which such virtue may in me be bred That in thy holy footsteps I may tread; The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, That I may have the power to sing of thee, And sound thy praises everlastingly.

13.

_Written in very early Youth_.

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.

The Kine are couch'd upon the dewy gra.s.s; The Horse alone, seen dimly as I pa.s.s, Is up, and cropping yet his later meal: Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.

Now, in this blank of things, a harmony Home-felt, and home-created seems to heal That grief for which the senses still supply Fresh food; for only then, when memory Is hush'd, am I at rest. My Friends, restrain Those busy cares that would allay my pain: Oh! leave me to myself; nor let me feel The officious touch that makes me droop again.

14. COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, Sept. 3, 1803.

Earth has not any thing to shew more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pa.s.s by A sight so touching in it's majesty: This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear G.o.d! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

15.

"Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall con Those many records of my childish years, Remembrance of myself and of my peers Will press me down: to think of what is gone Will be an awful thought, if life have one."

But, when into the Vale I came, no fears Distress'd me; I look'd round, I shed no tears; Deep thought, or awful vision, I had none.

By thousand petty fancies I was cross'd, To see the Trees, which I had thought so tall, Mere dwarfs; the Brooks so narrow, Fields so small.

A Juggler's b.a.l.l.s old Time about him toss'd; I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.

16.

Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud, Nor view of him who sate thereon allow'd; But all the steps and ground about were strown With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone Ever put on; a miserable crowd, Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud, "Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."

I seem'd to mount those steps; the vapours gave Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, With her face up to heaven; that seem'd to have Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone; A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!

17. _To the_ ----.

Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove While I was framing beds for winter flowers; While I was planting green unfading bowers, And shrubs to hang upon the warm alcove, And sheltering wall; and still, as fancy wove The dream, to time and nature's blended powers I gave this paradise for winter hours, A labyrinth Lady! which your feet shall rove.

Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines, Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom Or of high gladness you shall hither bring; And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines Be gracious as the music and the bloom And all the mighty ravishment of Spring.

18.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The Winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not--Great G.o.d! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

19.

It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free; The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder--everlastingly.

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear'st untouch'd by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, G.o.d being with thee when we know it not.

20. TO THE MEMORY OF _RAISLEY CALVERT_.

Calvert! it must not be unheard by them Who may respect my name that I to thee Ow'd many years of early liberty.

This care was thine when sickness did condemn Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem: That I, if frugal and severe, might stray Where'er I liked; and finally array My temples with the Muse's diadem.

Hence, if in freedom I have lov'd the truth, If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays Of higher mood, which now I meditate, It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived Youth!

To think how much of this will be thy praise.

END OF THE FIRST PART.

PART THE SECOND.

SONNETS

DEDICATED _TO LIBERTY_.

1. COMPOSED BY THE _SEA-SIDE, near CALAIS_, August, 1802.