To Doris
G ENILE Doris, timely prudent,
Leave those dull pursuits behind,
Over which, a lovely student,
Thou dost torture sight and mind;
Why thus spend the time of gladness—
Life's bright morn, that flies so fast—
In a strange and subtle madness,
Which will weary you at last?
To thee, of what importance is it,
The transit of a star, or so?
Or if this truth e'er paid a visit
To learned people long ago?
What madness to be ever seeking
The causes of all wondrous things?
Or whence the glancing light that's streaking
The northern ices proudly springs?
Or if the air be simply lighted
By the sun's reflected ray,
Or the solar beam ignited
By the phosphor light of day?
Or if the light ethereal springeth
From the burning torrid zone?
Or to either pole it wingeth—
Gloomy regions chill and lone?
Or what mystic bond of union
Blendeth in one human frame,
In a sacred sweet communion,
Soul and body, earth and flame?
Why the slightest motion stealing
Makes the muscles start so much?
Why the tendons have no feeling,
Even at the roughest touch?
How the nerves' minute sensation
Carries to the inner soul
All the wonders of creation,
From the Tropics to the Pole?
Mute, astonished, stand I gazing,
Lovely Doris, upon thee—
Oft my eyes in wonder raising
How it possibly can be,
That, thus rich in life's best treasures,
Youth and beauty, power to please,
Thou shouldst leave its sweetest pleasures
For such subtle thoughts as these!
When I would, by passion hurried,
In thy presence breathe my cares,
Ever do I find thee buried
Amid circles, lines, and squares!
Then with crystal convex glasses
Thou dost arm thy own bright eyes,
Wasting time that swiftly passes,
Sagely scrutinizing flies!
Or the magnet's operation
Doth fill up the precious hour,
Or the pendulum's vibration,
Or the weight's suspended power.
Science with its dim revealings,
Leave, oh! leave, my Doris bright,
Or you'll lose your heart's best feelings,
And your mind's divinest light!
Let them toil, for ever, over
Wretched books in heat and cold,
They whose chins the down doth cover,
Or the strong beard doth enfold!
Or those others, pale and meagre,
Round whom fate a net hath drawn!
They who labour constant, eager,
All the hours from day to dawn.
Doris, do not thou dispute on
Laws the wisest scarce have known—
Do not thou oppose to Newton
Novel systems of thine own.
Never will the Tuscan beauties
See thee rise with solemn air,
And discharge the lecturer's duties
In the grave professor's chair.
Why to painful toils enslave thee?
Still my wildered spirit asks,
When, my Doris, nature gave thee
Lighter labours, gentler tasks.
Ever should thy voice be sweetest
In the merry notes of song;
Ever should thy foot be fleetest
When the dancers flit along;
Or the cymbal's voice awaking,
As your rapid fingers stray,
Most harmonious music making,
Sweetly solemn, gently gay!
Or thou mayest sweetly chatter,
In the soft Parisian tongue,
About any graceful matter
Fit for one so fair and young.
Be it, too, thy pride to bathe thee
In our old poetic springs,
In the majesty array thee
Of our mighty minstrel kings;
History, too, has stores of meaning,
Every page with wisdom rife,
There thou canst be ever gleaning
Knowledge of our varied life!
If my Doris were but giving
All her mind to tasks like these,
Not a gentle lady living
But she might surpass with ease.
Seek not labours from a distance,
Nearer tasks thou may'st discern,
Arts that sweetly lend assistance
Unto nature thou canst learn:—
How to braid your silken tresses
With the most bewitching air,
Foreign fashions, graceful dresses—
These to study—those to wear.
For it were unjust to heaven,
As thy grateful heart must feel,
If the charms that it has given
Thou shouldst darken or conceal.
Thus, my Doris, ever gaining
Grace from all those simple arts,
Soon thou wilt be proudly reigning
Queen of willing minds and hearts.
If the knowledge thou hast tasted
Still allures thy vain pursuit,
All thy spring-time will be wasted,
And thy autumn without fruit.
Then, since every pleasure woos thee,
Can thy bosom yet be steeled?
Youth attends thee—joy pursues thee—
Yield! my gentle Doris, yield!
Leave the pedant's mouldy coffers;
Turn to tasks more bright and fair;
Seize the good that fortune offers,
Since 'twere vain to seek elsewhere.
Leave those dull pursuits behind,
Over which, a lovely student,
Thou dost torture sight and mind;
Why thus spend the time of gladness—
Life's bright morn, that flies so fast—
In a strange and subtle madness,
Which will weary you at last?
To thee, of what importance is it,
The transit of a star, or so?
Or if this truth e'er paid a visit
To learned people long ago?
What madness to be ever seeking
The causes of all wondrous things?
Or whence the glancing light that's streaking
The northern ices proudly springs?
Or if the air be simply lighted
By the sun's reflected ray,
Or the solar beam ignited
By the phosphor light of day?
Or if the light ethereal springeth
From the burning torrid zone?
Or to either pole it wingeth—
Gloomy regions chill and lone?
Or what mystic bond of union
Blendeth in one human frame,
In a sacred sweet communion,
Soul and body, earth and flame?
Why the slightest motion stealing
Makes the muscles start so much?
Why the tendons have no feeling,
Even at the roughest touch?
How the nerves' minute sensation
Carries to the inner soul
All the wonders of creation,
From the Tropics to the Pole?
Mute, astonished, stand I gazing,
Lovely Doris, upon thee—
Oft my eyes in wonder raising
How it possibly can be,
That, thus rich in life's best treasures,
Youth and beauty, power to please,
Thou shouldst leave its sweetest pleasures
For such subtle thoughts as these!
When I would, by passion hurried,
In thy presence breathe my cares,
Ever do I find thee buried
Amid circles, lines, and squares!
Then with crystal convex glasses
Thou dost arm thy own bright eyes,
Wasting time that swiftly passes,
Sagely scrutinizing flies!
Or the magnet's operation
Doth fill up the precious hour,
Or the pendulum's vibration,
Or the weight's suspended power.
Science with its dim revealings,
Leave, oh! leave, my Doris bright,
Or you'll lose your heart's best feelings,
And your mind's divinest light!
Let them toil, for ever, over
Wretched books in heat and cold,
They whose chins the down doth cover,
Or the strong beard doth enfold!
Or those others, pale and meagre,
Round whom fate a net hath drawn!
They who labour constant, eager,
All the hours from day to dawn.
Doris, do not thou dispute on
Laws the wisest scarce have known—
Do not thou oppose to Newton
Novel systems of thine own.
Never will the Tuscan beauties
See thee rise with solemn air,
And discharge the lecturer's duties
In the grave professor's chair.
Why to painful toils enslave thee?
Still my wildered spirit asks,
When, my Doris, nature gave thee
Lighter labours, gentler tasks.
Ever should thy voice be sweetest
In the merry notes of song;
Ever should thy foot be fleetest
When the dancers flit along;
Or the cymbal's voice awaking,
As your rapid fingers stray,
Most harmonious music making,
Sweetly solemn, gently gay!
Or thou mayest sweetly chatter,
In the soft Parisian tongue,
About any graceful matter
Fit for one so fair and young.
Be it, too, thy pride to bathe thee
In our old poetic springs,
In the majesty array thee
Of our mighty minstrel kings;
History, too, has stores of meaning,
Every page with wisdom rife,
There thou canst be ever gleaning
Knowledge of our varied life!
If my Doris were but giving
All her mind to tasks like these,
Not a gentle lady living
But she might surpass with ease.
Seek not labours from a distance,
Nearer tasks thou may'st discern,
Arts that sweetly lend assistance
Unto nature thou canst learn:—
How to braid your silken tresses
With the most bewitching air,
Foreign fashions, graceful dresses—
These to study—those to wear.
For it were unjust to heaven,
As thy grateful heart must feel,
If the charms that it has given
Thou shouldst darken or conceal.
Thus, my Doris, ever gaining
Grace from all those simple arts,
Soon thou wilt be proudly reigning
Queen of willing minds and hearts.
If the knowledge thou hast tasted
Still allures thy vain pursuit,
All thy spring-time will be wasted,
And thy autumn without fruit.
Then, since every pleasure woos thee,
Can thy bosom yet be steeled?
Youth attends thee—joy pursues thee—
Yield! my gentle Doris, yield!
Leave the pedant's mouldy coffers;
Turn to tasks more bright and fair;
Seize the good that fortune offers,
Since 'twere vain to seek elsewhere.
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