Dejection: An Ode
- Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
- With the old Moon in her arms;
- And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
- We shall have a deadly storm.
- (Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence)
I
- Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
- The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
- This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
- Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
- Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
- Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
- Upon the strings of this Aeolian lute,
- Which better far were mute.
- For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
- And overspread with phantom light,
- (With swimming phantom light o'erspread
- But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
- I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
- The coming-on of rain and squally blast.
- And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,
- And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
- Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
- And sent my soul abroad,
- Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
- Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!
II
- A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
- A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
- Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
- In word, or sigh, or tear—
- O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
- To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed,
- All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
- Have I been gazing on the western sky,
- And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
- And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye!
- And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
- That give away their motion to the stars;
- Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
- Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:
- Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
- In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
- I see them all so excellently fair
- I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!
III
- My genial spirits fail;
- And what can these avail
- To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
- It were a vain endeavour,
- Though I should gaze forever
- On that green light that lingers in the west:
- I may not hope from outward forms to win
- The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
IV
- O Lady! we receive but what we give,
- And in our life alone does Nature live:
- Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud!
- And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
- Than that inanimate cold world allowed
- To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
- Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
- A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
- Enveloping the Earth—
- And from the soul itself must there be sent
- A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
- Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
V
- O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
- What this strong music in the soul may be!
- What, and wherein it doth exist,
- This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
- This beautiful and beauty-making power.
- Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
- Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
- Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,
- Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
- Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower
- A new Earth and new Heaven,
- Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud—
- Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud—
- We in ourselves rejoice!
- And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
- All colours a suffusion from that light.
VI
- There was a time when, though my path was rough,
- This joy within me dallied with distress,
- And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
- Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
- For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
- And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
- But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
- Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
- But oh! each visitation
- Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
- My shaping spirit of Imagination.
- For not to think of what I needs must feel,
- But to be still and patient, all I can;
- And haply by abstruse research to steal
- From my own nature all the natural man—
- This was my sole resource, my only plan:
- Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
- And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
VII
- Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
- Reality's dark dream!
- I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
- Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
- Of agony by torture lengthened out
- That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,
- Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
- Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
- Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
- Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
- Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
- Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
- Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
- The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
- Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
- Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold!
- What tell'st thou now about?
- 'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
- With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds—
- At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
- But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
- And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
- With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over—
- It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
- A tale of less affright,
- And tempered with delight,
- As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,—
- 'Tis of a little child
- Upon a lonesome wild,
- Nor far from home, but she hath lost her way:
- And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
- And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.
VIII
- 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
- Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
- Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
- And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
- May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
- Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
- With light heart may she rise,
- Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
- Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
- To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
- Their life the eddying of her living soul!
- O simple spirit, guided from above,
- Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
- Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
- --oOo-- -