That every cloud, that spreads above And forth into the fields I went, I wonder❜d at the bounteous hours, THE DAY DREAM. O LADY FLORA, let me speak: A pleasant hour has past away I went thro' many wayward moods Across my fancy, brooding warm, And loosely settled into form. And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw, Then take the broidery-frame, and add A crimson to the quaint Macaw, And I will tell it. Turn your face, Nor look with that too-earnest eye The rhymes are dazzled from their place, And order'd words asunder fly. THE SLEEPING PALACE. VII. When will the hundred summers die, Bring truth that sways the soul of men? Here all things in their place remain, As all were order'd, ages since. Across the hills, and far way II. ,,I'd sleep another hundred years, "O love, 't was such as this and this." And o'er them many a sliding star, And many a merry wind was borne, And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar, The twillight melted into morn. III. O eyes long laid in happy sleep!" O happy sleep, that lightly fled!" "O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep!" O love, thy kiss would wake the dead!" And o'er them many a flowing range Of vapour buoy'd the crescent-bark, And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, The twilight died into the dark. IV. "A hundred summers! can it be? And whither goest thou, tell me where?" "O seek my father's court with me, For there are greater wonders there." Beyond their utmost purple rim, I. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And if you find no moral there, Go, look in any glass and say, What moral is in being fair. Oh, to what uses shall we put The wildweed-flower that simply blows? And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose? II But any man that walks the mead, A meaning suited to his mind. In Art like Nature, dearest friend; So 'twere to cramp its use, if I Should hook it to some useful end. L'ENVOI. I. You shake your head. A random string Your finer female sense offends. Well -were it not a pleasant thing And learn the world, and sleep again, To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars, And wake on science grown to more, On secrets of the brain, the stars, As wild as aught of fairy lore; And all that else the years will show, The Poet-forms of stronger hours, The vast Republics that may grow, The Federations and the Powers; Titanic forces taking birth In divers seasons, divers climes, For we are Ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times. 11. So sleeping, so aroused from sleep Thro' sunny decads new and strange, Or gay quinquenniads would we reap The flower and quintessence of change. III. Ah, yet would I - and would I might! So much your eyes my fancy takeBe still the first to leap to light That I might kiss those eyes awake! For, am I right, or am I wrong, To choose your own you did not care; You'd have my moral from the song, And I will take my pleasure there: And, am I right or am I wrong, My fancy, ranging thro' and thro', Perforce will still revert to you: The prelude to some brighter world. IV. For since the time when Adam first And every bird of Eden burst The fullness of the pensive mind: That lets thee neither hear nor see: But break it. In the name of wife, My father left a park to me, Yet say the neighbours when they call, That grows within the woodland. O had I lived when song was great 'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, The woodbine wreaths that bind her, And down the middle buzz! she went Came wet-shot alder from the wave, Old elms came breaking from the vine, When, ere his song was ended, The random sunshine lighten'd! Oh! nature first was fresh to men, And wanton without measure; So youthful and so flexile then, You moved her at your pleasure. Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs! And make her dance attendance, Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, And scirrhous roots and tendons. 'Tis vain! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle; But what is that I hear? a sound They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening thro' there, By squares of tropic summer shut And I must work thro' months of toil, To grow my own plantation. ST. AGNES' EVE. DEEP on the convent-roof the snows The shadows of the convent-towers Still creeping with the creeping hours Make Thou my spirit pure and clear Or this first snowdrop of the year As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, So shows my soul before the Lamb, So in mine earthly house I am, Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, The flashes come and go; For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide A light upon the shining sea The Bridegroom with his bride! SIR GALAHAD. My good blade carves the casques of men, The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims. Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, I leap on board: no helmsman steers: A gentle sound, and awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: My spirit beats her mortal bars, |