The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door.
He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn.
'How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits If any man obtain that which he merits Or any merit that which he obtains.'
For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain!
What would'st thou have a good great man obtain?
Place? titles? salary? a gilded chain?
Or throne of corses which his sword had slain? Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends! Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? three treasures, LOVE and
And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infants' breath: And three firm friends, more sure than day and night
HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL DEATH!
YOUTH AND AGE (1822-1832)
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee- Both were mine! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young!
When I was young?-Ah, woful When! Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flashed along:- Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O! the joys, that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old.
Ere I was old? Oh woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! O Youth! for years so many and sweet, 'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, I'll think it but a fond conceit- It cannot be that Thou art gone! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:- And thou wert aye a masker bold! What strange disguise hast now put on, To make believe, that Thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this altered size: But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! Life is but thought: so think I will That Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve! Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve, When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest, That may not rudely be dismist; Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile.
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair
The bees are stirring-birds are on the wing-- And Winter slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live.
(Written at Westbury, 1798)
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,
""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.
"I find them in the garden, For there's many hereabout; And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell us what 't was all about," Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out; But every body said," quoth he,
66 That 'twas a famous victory.
"My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.
"With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then
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