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I love not Man the less, but Nature They melt into thy yeast of waves, more,
which mar From these our interviews, in which I Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of steal
1630 What I can ne'er express, yet can not all
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what conceal.
Thy waters washed them power while Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean they were free, -roll!
And many a tyrant since; their shores Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in obey vain;
The stranger, slave or savage; their Man marks the earth with ruin-his decay control
1605 Has dried up realms to deserts:—not so Stops with the shore; upon the watery thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth playremain
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
browWhen for a moment, like a drop of rain, Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou He sinks into thy depths with bubbling
rollest now. groan,
1610 Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined
Thou glorious mirror, where the Aland unknown.
Glasses itself in tempests:in all time, 1640 His steps are not upon thy paths—thy Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or fields
storm, Are not a spoil for him—thou dost arise Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime And shake him from thee; the vile Dark-heaving;-boundless, endless, and strength he wields
sublime For earth's destruction thou dost all The image of Eternity—the throne despise,
Of the Invisible; even from out thy Spurning him from thy bosom to the slime
The monsters of the deep are made; And send'st him, shivering in thy play
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, And howling, to his Gods, where haply fathomless, alone.
lies His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my And dashest him again to earth-there
joy let him lay.
of youthful sports was on thy breast
1620 The armaments which thunderstrike the Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from walls
1650 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations I wantoned with thy breakers—they to quake,
me And monarchs tremble in their capitals, Were a delight; and if the freshening sea The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing make
fear, Their clay creator the vain title take 1625 For I was as it were a child of thee, Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;
And trusted to thy billows far and near, These are thy toys, and, as the snowy And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I flake,
'Tis poetry—at least by his assertion,
And may appear so when the dog-star From the DEDICATION
And he who understands it would be able I
To add a story to the Tower of Babel. BOB SOUTHEY! You're a poet-Poetlaureate,
XVII And representative of all the race; Although 'tis true that you turned out a | Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to Tory at
dedicate Last, -yours has lately been a common In honest simple verse, this song to case;
130 And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye And, if in flattering strains I do not pred
at? With all the Lakers, in and out of place? 'Tis that I still retain my “buff and A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
blue”; Like "four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye; My politics as yet are all to educate:
Apostasy's so fashionable, too,
To keep one creed's a task grown quite
Herculean: "Which pye being opened they began to
Is it not so, my Tory, Ultra-Julian? (This old song and new simile holds
good), “A dainty dish to set before the King,"
From CANTO III Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;
THE ISLES OF GREECE And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece! But like a hawk encumbered with his Where burning Sappho loved and sung, hood,
Where grew the arts of war and peace, Explaining metaphysics to the nation-15 Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! I wish he would explain his Explanation. Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
And be the only Blackbird in the dish; Their place of birth alone is mute And then you overstrain yourself, or so, 21
To sounds which echo further west And tumble downward like the flying Than your sires’ “Islands of the Blest.”
fish Gasping on deck, because you soar too
The mountains look on Marathon- 701 high, Bob,
And Marathon looks on the sea; And fall
, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, And musing there an hour alone, Bob!
I dreamed that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persian's grave, 705 IV
I could not deem myself a slave. And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Excursion",
25 A king sate on the rocky brow (I think the quarto holds five hundred Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; pages),
And ships, by thousands, lay below, Has given a sample from the vasty ver- And men in nations;-all were his! 710 sion
He counted them at break of dayOf his new system to perplex the sages; And when the sun set, where were they?
And where are they? and where art thou, Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
My country? On thy voiceless shore On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, The heroic lay is tuneless now
Exists the remnant of a line The heroic bosom beats no more!
Such as the Doric mothers bore; And must thy lyre, so long divine, And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 765 Degenerate into hands like mine?
The Heracleidan blood might own.
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
Trust not for freedom to the Franks
They have a king who buys and sells: In native swords and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells; 770 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad.
Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Must we but blush?–Our fathers bled. Our virgins dance beneath the shadeEarth! render back from out thy breast 727 I see their glorious black eyes shine; 775 A remnant of our Spartan dead!
But gazing on each glowing maid, Of the three hundred grant but three, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To make a new Thermopylæ!
730 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. What, silent still? and silent all?
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Ah! no; the voices of the dead
Where nothing, save the waves and I, Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 781 And answer, “Let one living head, There, swan-like, let me sing and die: But one arise, —we come, we come!”
735 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine'Tis but the living who are dumb. Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! In vain-in vain: strike other chords: Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Thus sung, or would, or could, or should Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
785 And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
740 The modern Greek, in tolerable verse; Hark! rising to the ignoble call
If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece How answers each bold Bacchanal!
was young, You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet:
Yet in these times he might have done
much worse: Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget
His strain displayed some feeling-right
745 The nobler and the manlier one?
or wrong; You have the letters Cadmus gave
And feeling, in a poet, is the source 790 Think he meant them for a slave?
Of others' feeling; but they are such liars, ye
And take all colors, like the hands of Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
dyers. We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine;
But words are things, and a small drop of
751 He served-but served Polycrates
ink À tyrant; but our masters then
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, Were still, at least, our countrymen.
That which makes thousands, perhaps The tyrant of the Chersonese
795 Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 'Tis strange, the shortest letter which That tyrant was Miltiades!
Oh! that the present hour would lend Instead of speech, may form a lasting link Another despot of the kind!
Of ages; to what straits old Time reSuch chains as his were sure to bind. 760
Frail man, when paper-even a rag like All are not moralists, like Southey, when this,
He prated to the world of “PantisocSurvives himself, his tomb, and all that's
800 Or Wordsworth, unexcised, unhired, who then
835 And when his bones are dust, his grave a Seasoned his peddler poems with deblank,
mocracy: His station, generation, even his nation, Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy;
In chronological commemoration, When he and Southey, following the same Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 805 path, Or graven stone found in a barrack's Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath).
station In digging the foundation of a closet, Such names at present cut a convict May turn his name up as a rare deposit. figure,
The very Botany Bay in moral geogAnd glory long has made the sages smile;
raphy; 'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, Their loyal treason, renegado rigor, wind
Are good manure for their more bare Depending more upon the historian's
Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is Than on the name a person leaves be
Than any since the birthday of typogTroy owes to Homer what whist owes to
A drowsy, frowsy poem called The ExcurThe present century was growing blind To the great Marlborough's skill in giving | Writ in a manner which is
815 Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. Milton's the prince of poets-so we say;
But let me to my story: I must own, A little heavy, but no less divine:
If I have any fault, it is digressionAn independent being in his day
Leaving my people to proceed alone, Learned, pious, temperate in love and
While I soliloquize beyond expression; wine:
But these are my addresses from the But his life falling into Johnson's way,
861 We're told this great high priest of all
Which put off business to the ensuing the Nine
session, Was whipt at college,-a harsh sire,-odd Forgetting each omission is a loss to spouse,
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. For the first Mrs. Milton left his house.
I know that what our neighbors called All these are, certes, entertaining facts, 825 longueurs
865 Like Shakespeare's stealing deer, Lord (We've not so good a word, but have the Bacon's bribes;
thing, Like Titus' youth, and Cæsar's earliest In that complete perfection which enacts;
sures Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well An epic from Bob Southey every describes);
spring-) Like Cromwell's pranks;-but although Form not the true temptation which truth exacts
allures These amiable descriptions from the The reader; but 'twould not be hard to scribes, 830 bring
870 As most essential to their hero's story, Some fine examples of the épopée They do not much contribute to his glory. To prove its grand ingredient is ennui.
We learn from Horace, “Homer some
times sleeps"; We feel without him, Wordsworth some
times wakes, To show with what complacency he creeps, With his dear“—Waggoners," around his lakes.
876 He wishes for “a boat” to sail the deepsOf ocean?-No, of air; and then he
makes Another outcry for “a little boat," And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 880
When Nero perished by the justest doom
Which ever the destroyer yet destroyed,
965 Perhaps the weakness of a heart not
void Of feeling for some kindness done, when
power Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour.
If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal But I'm digressing; what on earth has plain,
Nero, And Pegasus runs restive in his "Wag- Or any such like sovereign buffoons, 970 gon,”
To do with the transactions of my hero, Could he not beg the loan of Charles's More than such madmen's fellow-manWain,
the moon's? Or pray Medea for a single dragon? Sure my invention must be down at zero, Or if ioo classic for his vulgar brain, 885 And I grown one of many “wooden He feared his neck to venture such a spoons” nag on,
Of verse (the name with which we CanAnd he must needs mount nearer to the tabs please
To dub the last of honors in degrees). Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon?
I feel this tediousness will never do
'T is being too epic, and I must cut down O Hesperus! thou bringest all good (In copying) this long canto into two; things
945 They'll never find it out, unless I own 980 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, The fact, excepting some experienced few; To the young bird the parent's brooding And then as an improvement 'twill be wings,
shown: The welcome stall to the o'erlabored I'll prove that such the opinion of the steer;
critic is Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone From Aristotle passim.-See Ilointikys.
clings, Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes, when Pegasus seems winSoft hour! which wakes the wish and ning melts the heart
The race, he sprains a wing, and down
5 Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way Our sin the same, and hard as his to As the far bell of vesper makes him start, mend,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay; Being pride, which leads the mind to soar Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
too far, Ah! surely nothing dies but something Till our own weakness shows us what we mourns.