AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE.
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late Spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Tow'rd which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven. All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.
Hence, loathed Melancholy!
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,
In Stygian cave forlorn
'Mongst horrid shapes and shrieks and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings
And the night-raven sings!
There, under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell!-
But come, thou Goddess! fair and free,
In Heaven yclept Euphrosynè,
And by men heart-easing Mirth !
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth
With two sister Graces more,
To ivy crowned Bacchus bore :
Or whether (as some sager sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the Spring,
Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a-Maying,
There on beds of violets blue
And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew,
Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, Nymph! and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek
And love to live in dimple sleek,
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides!
Come! and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe!
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty!
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth! admit me of thy crew,
To live with her and live with thee,
In unreprovèd pleasures free :
To hear the lark begin his flight
And singing startle the dull night
From his watch-tower in the skies
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid Good-Morrow
Through the sweet-briar or the vine
Or the twisted eglantine,—
While the cock with lively din
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack or the barn-door
Stoutly struts his dames before;
Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill
Through the high wood echoing shrill;
Sometimes walking, not unseen,
By hedge-row elms on hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern Gate
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Robed in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight,-
While the ploughman near at hand
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale!-
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
While the landscape round it measures:
Russet lawns, and fallows grey
Where the nibbling flocks do stray,
Mountains on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest,
Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
Towers and battlements it sees,
Bosom'd high in tufted trees,—
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The cynosure of neighbouring eyes;
Hard by a cottage chimney smokes
From betwixt two agèd oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met
Are at their savoury dinner set,
Of herbs and other country messes
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
And then in haste her bower she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves
Or, if the earlier season lead,
To the tann'd haycock in the mead.
Sometimes with secure delight
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks sound
To many a youth and many a maid
Dancing in the chequer'd shade,
And young and old come forth to play
On a sunshine holiday,
Till the livelong daylight fail;
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat:
How fairy Mab the junkets eat;
She was pinch'd and pull'd-she said,
And he by friar's lantern led;
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night ere glimpse of morn
His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn
That ten day-labourers could not end,-
Then lies him down, the lubber fiend,
And stretch'd out all the chimney's length
Basks at the fire his hairy strength,—
And crop-full out of door he flings
Ere the first cock his matin rings:
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.
Tower'd cities please as then,
And the busy hum of men :
Where throngs of knights and barons bold In weeds of peace high triumphs hold; With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence and judge the prize
Of wit or arms, while both contend
To win her grace whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear,
In saffron robe, with taper clear;
And pomp and feast and revelry,
With masque and antique pageantry :
Such sights as youthful poets dream
On summer eves by haunted stream!
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild!
And ever, against eating cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
Married to immortal verse!
Such as the meeting soul may pierce,
In notes with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running,
Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony:
That Orpheus' self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half-regain'd Eurydicè.
These delights if thou canst give,
Mirth with thee I mean to live.
Hence, vain deluding Joys!
The brood of Folly, without father bred :
How little you bested
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