Indweller of a peaceful vale, Ravaged erewhile by white-hair'd Dane; Rare architect of many a wondrous tale, Which, till Helvellyn's head lie prostrate, shall remain! From Arno's side I hear thy Derwent flow, And see methinks the lake below Reflect thy graceful progeny, more fair And radiant than the purest waters are, Even when gurgling in their joy among The bright and blessed throng Whom, on her arm recline, The beauteous Proserpine With tenderest regretful gaze, Thinking of Enna's yellow field, surveys. Alas! that snows are shed Upon thy laurel'd head, Hurtled by many cares and many wrongs! Malignity lets none Approach the Delphic throne; A hundred lane-fed curs bark down Fame's hundred tongues. But this is in the night, when men are slow To raise their eyes, when high and low, The scarlet and the colourless, are one: Soon Sleep unbars his noiseless prison, And active minds again are risen; Where are the curs? dream-bound, and whimpering in the sun. At fife's or lyre's or tabor's sound The dance of youth, O Southey, runs not round, But closes at the bottom of the room Amid the falling dust and deepening gloom, Where the weary sit them down, And Beauty too unbraids, and waits a lovelier crown. We hurry to the river we must cross, And swifter downward every footstep wends; Happy, who reach it ere they count the loss Of half their faculties and half their friends! When we are come to it, the stream Is not so dreary as they deem Who look on it from haunts too dear; The weak from Pleasure's baths feel most its chilling air! No firmer breast than thine hath Heaven To poet, sage, or hero given: No heart more tender, none more just To that He largely placed in trust: Therefore shalt thou, whatever date Of years be thine, with soul elate Rise up before the Eternal throne, And hear, in God's own voice, "Well done." Not, were that submarine Gem-lighted city mine, Wherein my name, engraven by thy hand, Above the royal gleam of blazonry shall stand; Not, were all Syracuse Pour'd forth before my Muse, With Hiero's cars and steeds, and Pindar's lyre Brightening the path with more than solar fire, Could I, as would beseem, requite the praise Showered upon my low head from thy most lofty lays. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON A PALMETTO by SIDNEY LANIER ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY by FRANCIS BEAUMONT ARIZONA POEMS: 6. RAIN IN THE DESERT by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER THE SUPPLIANT by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON PEACE ON EARTH by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON |