Good Heavens, Lady, how the gemini
Did you get here? O I shall split my sides!
I shall earthquake —
Sweet Nevis, do not quake, for though I love
You[r] honest countenance all things above,
Truly I should not like to be convey’d
So far into your bosom-gentle maid
Loves not too rough a treatment, gentle Sir —
Pray thee be calm and do not quake nor stir,
No not a stone, or I shall go in fits -
I must – I shall – I meet not such titbits -
I meet not such sweet creatures every day -
By my old nightcap, nightcap night and day,
I must have one sweet buss – I must and shall!
Red-Crag! – What, Madam, can you then repent
Of all the toil and vigour you have spent
To see Ben Nevis and to touch his nose?
Red-Crag, I say! O I must have them close!
Red-Crag, there lies beneath my farthest toe
A vein of sulphur – go dear Red-Crag, go -
And rub your flinty back against it – budge!
Dear Madam, I must kiss you, faith I must!
I must embrace you with my dearest gust!
Blockhead, d’ye hear – Blockhead,” I’ll make her feel -
There lies beneath my east leg’s northern heel
A cave of young earth dragons – well, my boy,
Go thither quick and so complete my joy;
Take you a bundle of the largest pines
And when the sun on fiercest phosphor shines
Fire them and ram them in the dragon’s nest,
Then will the dragons fry and fizz their best
Until ten thousand now no bigger than
Poor alligators – poor things of one span -
Will each one swell to twice ten times the size
Of northern whale – then for the tender prize -
The moment then – for then will Red-Crag rub
His flinty back – and I shall kiss and snub
And press my dainty morsel to my breast.
Blockhead, make haste!
O Muses weep the rest -
The lady fainted and he thought her dead
So pulled the clouds again about his head
And went to sleep again – soon she was rous’d
By her affrighted servants – next day hous’d
Safe on the lowly ground she bless’d her fate
That fainting fit was not delayed too late.
Fill for me a brimming bowl
Fill for me a brimming bowl
And let me in it drown my soul:
But put therein some drug, designed
To banish women from my mind:
For I want not the stream inspiring
That fills the mind with – fond desiring,
But I want as deep a draught
As e’er from Lethe’s wave was quaff d;
From my despairing heart to charm
The image of the fairest form
That e’er my reveling eyes beheld,
That e’er my wandering fancy spell’d.
In vain! away I cannot chase
The melting softness of that face,
The beaminess of those bright eyes,
That breast-earth’s only Paradise.
My sight will never more be blest;
For all I see has lost its zest:
Nor with delight can I explore
The Classic page, or Muse’s lore.
Had she but known how beat my heart,
And with one smile reliev’d its smart
I should have felt sweet relief,
I should have felt ‘the joy of grief.’
Yet as the Tuscan mid the snow
Of Lapland thinks on sweet Arno,
Even so for ever shall she be
The Halo of my Memory.
On Leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour
Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heap’d up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when ’tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
And let there glide by many a pearly car,
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
And half discovered wings, and glances keen.
The while let music wander round my ears.
And as it reaches each delicious ending,
Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
And full of many wonders of the spheres:
For what a height my spirit is contending!
’Tis not content so soon to be alone.
To My Brothers
Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,
And their faint cracklings o’er our silence creep
Like whispers of the household gods that keep
A gentle empire o’er fraternal souls.
And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,
Your eyes are fix’d, as in poetic sleep,
Upon the lore so voluble and deep,
That aye at fall of night our care condoles.
This is your birthday Tom, and I rejoice
That thus it passes smoothly, quietly.
Many such eves of gently whisp’ring noise
May we together pass, and calmly try
What are this world’s true joys, – ere the great voice,
From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
O what can ail thee, knight at arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O What can ail thee, knight at arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow
With