Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushиd casket of my soul.
Keats.
THE crackling embers on the hearth are dead;
The indoor note of industry is still;
The latch is fast; upon the window-sill
The small birds wait not for their daily bread;
The voiceless flowers—how quietly they shed
Their nightly odours; and the household ill
Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds that fill
The vacant expectation, and the dread
Of listening night. And haply now She sleeps;
For all the garrulous noises of the air
Are hushed in peace; the soft dew silent weeps,
Like hopeless lovers for a maid so fair:—
Oh! that I were the happy dream that creeps
To her soft heart, to find my image there.
Hartley Coleridge.
Side by side with these sonnets may be placed Thomas Warton's Ode—a fine poem, too little known:—
ON this my pensive pillow, gentle Sleep,
Descend in all thy downy plumage drest,
Wipe with thy wings these eyes that wake to weep,
And place thy crown of poppies on my breast.
O steep my senses in Oblivion's balm,
And soothe my throbbing pulse with lenient hand,
This tempest of my boiling blood becalm—
Despair grows mild, Sleep, in thy mild command.
Yet ah! in vain, familiar with the gloom,
And sadly toiling through the tedious night,
I seek sweet slumber while that virgin bloom
For ever hovering haunts my unhappy sight.
Nor would the dawning day my sorrows charm:
Black midnight and the blaze of noon alike
To me appear, while with uplifted arm
Death stands prepared, but still delays, to strike.
T. Warton.
287
AH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
Byron.
Byron's version is a weak piece of youthful work. I add here Pope's Dying Christian to his Soul, a noble poem suggested by that of Hadrian, and emphasizing powerfully the contrast between pagan and Christian sentiment:—
VITAL spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark, they whisper; angels say,
'Sister spirit, come away!'
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave, where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?
Pope.
368
HAPPY the man who his whole time doth bound
Within the enclosure of his little ground.
Happy the man whom the same humble place,
The hereditary cottage of his race,
From his first rising infancy has known,
And by degrees sees gently bending down
With natural propension to that earth
Which both preserved his life and gave him birth.
Him no false distant lights by Fortune set
Could ever into foolish wanderings get.
He never dangers either saw or feared;
The dreadful storms at sea he never heard,
He never heard the shrill allarms of war,
Or the worse noises of the lawyers' Bar.
No change of consuls marks to him the year;
The change of seasons is his calender.
The cold and heat Winter and Summer shows,
Autumn by fruits, and Spring by flowers he knows.
He measures time by landmarks, and has found
For the whole day the Dial of his ground.
A neighbouring wood born with himself he sees,
And loves his old contemporary trees.
He's only heard of near Verona's name,
And knows it, like the Indies, but by fame:
Does with a like concernment notice take
Of the Red Sea and of Benacus Lake.
Thus health and strength he to a third age enjoys,
And sees a long posterity of boys.
About the spacious world let others roam,
The Voyage Life is longest made at home.
Cowley.
I append the version of a poet who was accounted in his time 'the best translator since Pope'.
BLEST who, content with what the country yields,
Lives in his own hereditary fields;
Who can with pleasure his past life behold,
Whose roof paternal saw him young and old;
And, as he tells his long adventures o'er,
A stick supports him where he crawled before;
Who ne'er was tempted from his farm to fly,
And drink new streams beneath a foreign sky:
No merchant, he, solicitous of gain,
Dreads not the storms that lash the sounding main: