In breaking up a long-continued frost,
Bring with them vernal promises, the hope Of active days urged on by flying hours,- Days of sweet leisure, taxed with patient thought Abstruse, nor wanting punctual service high, Matins and vespers of harmonious verse!
Thus far, O Friend! did I, not used to make A present joy the matter of a song,
Pour forth that day my soul in measured strains That would not be forgotten, and are here Recorded to the open fields I told A prophecy poetic numbers came Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe A renovated spirit singled out,
Such hope was mine, for holy services.
My own voice cheered me, and, far more, the mind's
Internal echo of the imperfect sound;
To both I listened, drawing from them both
A cheerful confidence in things to come.
Content and not unwilling now to give
A respite to this passion, I paced on With brisk and eager steps; and came, at length, To a green shady place, where down I sat
Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by choice, And settling into gentler happiness.
'Twas autumn, and a clear and placid day, With warmth, as much as needed, from a sun Two hours declined towards the west; a day With silver clouds, and sunshine on the grass, And in the sheltered and the sheltering grove A perfect stillness. Many were the thoughts Encouraged and dismissed, till choice was made Of a known Vale, whither my feet should turn, Nor rest till they had reached the very door Of the one cottage which methought I saw. No picture of mere memory ever looked So fair; and while upon the fancied scene I gazed with growing love, a higher power Than Fancy gave assurance of some work Of glory there forthwith to be begun,
Perhaps too there performed. Thus long I mused, Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon, Save when, amid the stately grove of oaks, Now here, now there, an acorn, from its cup Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or at once To the bare earth dropped with a startling sound. From that soft couch I rose not, till the sun Had almost touched the horizon; casting then
A backward glance upon the curling cloud Of city smoke, by distance ruralized;
Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive,
But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took,
Even with the chance equipment of that hour The road that pointed toward the chosen Vale. It was a splendid evening, and my soul
Once more made trial of her strength, nor lacked Æolian visitations; but the harp
Was soon defrauded, and the banded host
Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds, And lastly utter silence! "Be it so;
Why think of any thing but present good?" So, like a home-bound laborer I pursued My way beneath the mellowing sun, that shed Mild influence; nor left in me one wish Again to bend the Sabbath of that time
To a servile yoke. What need of many words? A pleasant loitering journey, through three days Continued, brought me to my hermitage.
I spare to tell of what ensued, the life
In common things-the endless store of things, Rare, or at least so seeming every day. Found all about me in one neighborhood-- The self-congratulation, and, from morn
To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene. But speedily an earnest longing rose To brace myself to some determined aim, Reading or thinking; either to lay up New stores, or rescue from decay the old By timely interference and therewith Came hopes still higher, that with outward life I might endue some airy phantasies That had been floating loose about for years, And to such beings temperately deal forth The many feelings that oppressed my heart. That hope hath been discouraged; welcome light Dawns from the east, but dawns to disappear And mock me with a sky that ripens not Into a steady morning: if my mind, Remembering the bold promise of the past, Would gladly grapple with some noble theme, Vain is her wish; where'er she turns she finds Impediments from day to day renewed.
And now it would content me to yield up Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts Of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Friend! The Poet, gentle creature as he is,
Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times;
His fits when he is neither sick nor well,
Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts: his mind, best pleased While she as duteous as the mother dove
Sits brooding, lives not always to that end, But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on That drive her as in trouble through the groves ; With me is now such passion, to be blamed No otherwise than as it lasts too long.
When, as becomes a man who would prepare For such an arduous work, I through myself Make rigorous inquisition, the report
Is often cheering; for I neither seem
To lack that first great gift, the vital soul, Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers, Subordinate helpers of the living mind: Nor am I naked of external things, Forms, images, nor numerous other aids Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil And needful to build up a Poet's praise. Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such As may be singled out with steady choice;
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