To Charles Cowden Clarke

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;He slants his neck beneath the waters brightSo silently, it seems a beam of lightCome from the galaxy: anon he sports,--With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,Or ruffles all the surface of the lakeIn striving from its crystal face to takeSome diamond water drops, and them to treasureIn milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.But not a moment can he there insure them,Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;For down they rush as though they would be free,And drop like hours into eternity.Just like that bird am I in loss of time,Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme;With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent,I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;Still scooping up the water with my fingers,In which a trembling diamond never lingers.

By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly seeWhy I have never penn'd a line to thee:Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,And little fit to please a classic ear;Because my wine was of too poor a savourFor one whose palate gladdens in the flavourOf sparkling Helicon:--small good it wereTo take him to a desert rude, and bare.Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease,While Tasso's page was floating in a breezeThat gave soft music from Armida's bowers,Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:Small good to one who had by Mulla's streamFondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,And lovely Una in a leafy nook,And Archimago leaning o'er his book:Who had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen,From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen;From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania,To the blue dwelling of divine Urania:One, who, of late, had ta'en sweet forest walksWith him who elegantly chats, and talks--The wrong'd Libert as,--who has told you storiesOf laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories;Of troops chivalrous prancing; through a city,And tearful ladies made for love, and pity:With many else which I have never known.Thus have I thought; and days on days have flownSlowly, or rapidly--unwilling stillFor you to try my dull, unlearned quill.Nor should I now, but that I've known you long;That you first taught me all the sweets of song:The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine;What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine:Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,And float along like birds o'er summer seas;Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness;Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudlyUp to its climax and then dying proudly?Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?Shew'd me that epic was of all the king,Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty,And pointed out the patriot's stern duty;The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fellUpon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen,Or known your kindness, what might I have been?What my enjoyments in my youthful years,Bereft of all that now my life endears?And can I e'er these benefits forget?And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?No, doubly no;--yet should these rhymings please,I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease:For I have long time been my fancy feedingWith hopes that you would one day think the readingOf my rough verses not an hour misspent;Should it e'er be so, what a rich content!Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spiresIn lucent Thames reflected:--warm desiresTo see the sun o'er peep the eastern dimness,And morning shadows streaking into slimnessAcross the lawny fields, and pebbly water;To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter;To feel the air that plays about the hills,And sips its freshness from the little rills;To see high, golden corn wave in the lightWhen Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night,And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white,As though she were reclining in a bedOf bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed.No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasuresThan I began to think of rhymes and measures:The air that floated by me seem'd to say"Write! thou wilt never have a better day."And so I did. When many lines I'd written,Though with their grace I was not oversmitten,Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd betterTrust to my feelings, and write you a letter.Such an attempt required an inspirationOf a peculiar sort,--a consummation;--Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have beenVerses from which the soul would never wean:But many days have past since last my heartWas warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart;By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd;Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sadden'd:What time you were before the music sitting,And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanesThat freshly terminate in open plains,And revel'd in a chat that ceased notWhen at night-fall among your books we got:No, nor when supper came, nor after that,--Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;No, nor till cordially you shook my handMid-way between our homes:--your accents blandStill sounded in my ears, when I no moreCould hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor.Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;You chang'd the footpath for the grassy plain.In those still moments I have wish'd you joysThat well you know to honour:--"Life's very toysWith him," said I, "will take a pleasant charm;It cannot be that ought will work him harm."These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might:--Again I shake your hand,--friend Charles, good night.