But if I dream that all these are, They are to me for that I dream; For all things are as they seem to all, And all things flow like a stream. Argal-this very opinion is only true relatively tc the flowing philosophers. IV. POEMS PUBLISHED IN THE EDITION OF 1833, AND OMITTED IN LATER EDITIONS Of the thirty poems in the 1833 volume, fourteen were omitted in 1842; but eight of these (including 'Kate,' restored since the poet's death) were afterwards given a place in the collected editions, as explained in the prefatory notes. SONNET O BEAUTY, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet! How canst thou let me waste my youth in sighs? I only ask to sit beside thy feet. Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes. Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not fold My arms about thee-scarcely dare to speak And nothing seems to me so wild and bold, As with one kiss to touch thy blesséd cheek. Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke, The bare word KISS hath made my inner soul To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note Hath melted in the silence that it broke. THE HESPERIDES This poem is reprinted in the 'Memoir' (vol. i. p. 61) with the following note: 'Published and suppressed by my father, and republished by me here (with accents written by him) in consequence of a talk that I had with him, in which he regretted that he had done away with it from among his "Juvenilia." The author of the 'Memoir 'has since added 'Kate' (which he does not mention) to the Juvenilia' in the collected editions (see p. 23 above), but he has not restored this poem. "Hesperus and his daughters three, Comus. Heard neither warbling of the nightingale, Blown seaward from the shore; but from a slope That ran bloom-bright into the Atlantic blue, SONG I The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit, Guard it well, guard it warily, Standing about the charméd root. Round about all is mute, As the snow-field on the mountain-peaks, Sleep and stir not: all is mute. If ye sing not, if ye make false measure, Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, ever and aye, Looking under silver hair with a silver eye. Honor comes with mystery; Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden apple be stol'n away, For his ancient heart is drunk with overwatch For he is older than the world, Dropping the eyelid over the eyes. III Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, night and day, Lest the old wound of the world be healed, The golden apple stolen away, And the ancient secret revealed. Father, old Himala weakens, Caucasus is bold and strong. Wandering waters unto wandering waters call; Half-round the mantling night is drawn, Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth morn. IV Every flower and every fruit the redolent breath For the western sun and the western star, The end of day and beginning of night Holy and bright, round and full, bright and The world is wasted with fire and sword, Bound about The gnarled bole of the charméd tree. The golden apple, the golden apple, the hal lowed fruit, Guard it well, guard it warily, Watch it warily, Singing airily, Standing about the charméd root ROSALIND This poem (see p. 21 above) has been restored, but without the following note, which is appended to it in the 1833 volume : AUTHOR'S NOTE. Perhaps the following lines may be allowed to stand as a separate poem; originally they made part of the text, where they were manifestly superfluous. My Rosalind, my Rosalind, To whom the slope and stream of Life, Break through your iron shackles - fling them far. O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar O DARLING ROOM I O DARLING room, my heart's delight, No little room so warm and bright, II For I the Nonnenwerth have seen, III Yet never did there meet my sight, With two such couches soft and white, TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH You did late review my lays, You did mingle blame and praise, When I learnt from whom it came, I forgave you all the blame, I could not forgive the praise, V. OTHER DISCARDED AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS ON CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY Written in 1830. See Notes. THEREFORE your Halls, your ancient Colleges Your doctors and your proctors, and your deans Shall not avail you, when the Daybeam sports NO MORE This and the two following poems were contributed to The Gem, a Literary Annual' (London, 1831). O SAD No More! O sweet No More! By a mossed brook bank on a stone And both my eyes gushed out with tears. ANACREONTICS WITH roses musky-breathed, A light and thrilling laughter, A FRAGMENT WHERE is the Giant of the Sun, which stood Of brassy vastness broad-blown Argosies Contributed to 'The Englishman's Maga zine for August, 1831; and reprinted in Friendship's Offering,' 1833. CHECK every outflash, every ruder sally Of thought and speech; speak low, and give up wholly Thy spirit to mild-minded Melancholy; This is the place. Through yonder poplar alley Below the blue-green river windeth slowly; But in the middle of the sombre valley The crispéd waters whisper musically, And all the haunted place is dark and holy. The nightingale, with long and low preamble, Warbled from yonder knoll of solemn larches, And in and out the woodbine's flowery arches The summer midges wove their wanton gambol. And all the white-stemmed pinewood slept above When in this valley first I told my love. SONNET Contributed to 'the Yorkshire Literary Annual,' 1832. THERE are three things which fill my heart with sighs, And steep my soul in laughter (when I view I hold them all most dear; but oh! black eyes, Of late such eyes looked at me - while I mused, At sunset, underneath a shadowy plane, THE SKIPPING-ROPE Printed in 1842, but omitted in all editions after 1850. SURE never yet was antelope Stand off, or else my skipping-rope How lightly whirls the skipping-rope! Go, get you gone, you muse and mope Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope, There, take it, take my skipping-rope, THE NEW TIMON AND THE POETS Published in Punch,' February 28, 1846, signed Alcibiades'; and followed in the next number (March 7, 1846) by the lines entitled 'Afterthought,' afterwards included as 'Literary Squabbles' in the collected edition of 1872. See p. xv. above. WE know him, out of Shakespeare's art, That, strongly loathing, greatly broke. So died the Old: here comes the New. I thought we knew him: What, it's you, Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys A Lion, you, that made a noise, And shook a mane en papillotes. And once you tried the Muses too; As Captain is to Subaltern. But men of long-enduring hopes, An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art, But you, Sir, you are hard to please; Nor like a gentleman at ease, With moral breadth of temperament. And what with spites and what with fears, You cannot let a body be: It's always ringing in your ears, They call this man as good as me.' What profits now to understand |