Six columns, three on either side, Throne of the massive ore, from which With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. Sole star of all that place and time, THE GOOD HAROUN ALRASCHID! ODE TO MEMORY. I. HOU who stealest fire, THO From the fountains of the past, To glorify the present; oh, haste, I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. 2. Come not as thou camest of late, Flinging the gloom of yesternight On the white day; but robed in soften❜d light Of orient state. Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, Even as a maid, whose stately brow The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd, When she, as thou, Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight The black earth with brilliance rare. 3. Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast, (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind Never grow sere, When rooted in the garden of the mind, In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Though deep not fathomless, Was cloven with the million stars which tremble Small thought was there of life's distress ; O strengthen me, enlighten me! I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. 4. Come forth I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines Unto mine inner eye, Divinest Memory! Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried: Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, The seven elms, the poplars four That stand beside my father's door, The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland. Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat When the first matin-song hath waken❜d loud What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. 5. Large dowries doth the raptured eye To the young spirit present When first she is wed; And like a bride of old In triumph led, With music and sweet showers Unto the dwelling she must sway. With royal frame-work of wrought gold; Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls For the discovery And newness of thine art so pleased thee, Or boldest since, but lightly weighs With thee unto the love thou bearest On the prime labour of thine early days: No matter what the sketch might be ; Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, Or even a sand-built ridge Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Overblown with murmurs harsh, Or even a lowly cottage whence we see Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity, The trenched waters run from sky to sky; Or a garden bower'd close With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, Or opening upon level plots Of crowned lilies, standing near Whither in after life retired From weary wind, With youthful fancy reinspired, We may hold converse with all forms And those whom passion hath not blinded, My friend, with you to live alone, SONG. I. ASPIRIT haunts the year's last hours Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh In the walks; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers: Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, |