ODE TO MELANCHOLY. Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave; I saw my mother in her shroud; Aye, let us think of him a while How wide the yew-tree spreads its gloom, That sleep around its stem! How cold the dead have made these stones, With natural drops kept ever wet! But love may haunt the grave of love, And watch the mould in vain. 663 O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine, The moon! she is the source of sighs, She taunts men's brain's, and makes them mad. All things are touched with melancholy, THOMAS HOOD. O lady! we receive but what we give, And would we aught behold of higher worth Than that inanimate cold world allowed Those sounds, which oft have raised me whilst To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd— they awed, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live. II. A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear― O lady in this wan and heartless mood, And its peculiar tint of yellow green; DEJECTION-AN ODE. Joy, lady, is the spirit and the power Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms our ear or sight All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colors a suffusion from that light. VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress; And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence fancy made me dreams of happi ness. For hope grew round me like the twining vine; And fruits and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth, From my own nature all the natural manThis was my sole resource, my only plan: Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. VII. 665 Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Mad lutanist! who, in this month of showers, Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Mak'st devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among! Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold! What tell'st thou now about? 'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold. But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! A tale of less affright, And tempered with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay: 'Tis of a little child Upon a lonesome wild Not far from home, but she hath lost her way; And now moans low in bitter grief and fear And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. VIII. 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep; Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my Full seldom may my friend such vigils He never turned the poor from the gate- Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, Good man! old man! But was always ready to break the pate Of his country's enemy. What knight could do a better thing GEORGE COLMAN, "the younger." I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. I AM a friar of orders gray, Under Bonnybell's window panes― Wait till you come to forty year. Forty times over let Michaelmas pass; Pledge me round; I bid ye declare, All good fellows whose beards are grayDid not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere Ever a month was past away? The reddest lips that ever have kissed, And haste away to mine eternal home; 'T will not be long, Perilla, after this That I must give thee the supremest kiss. But pretty lies loved I As much as any king When youth was on the wing, And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by. Alas! and I have not When one pert lady said— I see (sit quiet now!) a white hair on your head!" Another, more benign, Drew out that hair of mine, And in her own dark hair Pretended she had found That one, and twirled it round.— Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring Fair as she was, she never was so fair. Part of the cream from that religious spring, With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet; That done, then wind me in that very sheet Which wrapt thy smooth limbs when thou didst implore The gods' protection, but the night before; Follow me weeping to my turf, and there Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear. Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be Devoted to the memory of me; Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep. ROBERT HERRICK. THE ONE GRAY HAIR. THE wisest of the wise Listen to pretty lies, And love to hear them told; Doubt not that Solomon Listened to many a one Some in his youth, and more when he grew old. I never sat among The choir of Wisdom's song, WALTER SAVAGE LANdor. OLD. By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing; Oft I marked him sitting there alone, All the landscape like a page perusing; Poor, unknown By the wayside, on a mossy stone. Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed hat; Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding; Silver buttons, queue, and crimpt cravat; Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding— There he sat! Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed hat. Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, No one sympathizing, no one heedingNone to love him for his thin gray hair, And the furrows all so mutely pleading Age and careSeemed it pitiful he should sit there. |