The Muses
AN ELEGY .
O Muses ! sacred, solitary maids,
Come from your grottos, founts, and favourite shades,
Whether you pace the flowery vales of Nisme,
Or pleasant fancies, or some waking dream,
Bind you by Loire's fair bank, or sweet Garonne;
Whether among the light nymphs of the Rhone
You rest admiring, when the moon's calm light
Renews their dances through the fragrant night:
Come! I have fled the city's wretched joys,
The wearying echo of its vulgar noise.
On glaring highways all with dust o'erstrown,
No flowers of poesy have ever grown;
The tranquil lyre, with quiet fancy, flies,
Startled and scared from tumult and from cries;
And rapid cars, and brass wheels' creeking hum,
Frighten the Muse, which instantly is dumb!
Come, pour your treasures in a copious tide;
But oh! ye Muses, when shall ye preside
As my Penates? When shall I be grown,
The dweller of a field which is my own?
When shall I ruralize in calm delight,
This my sole task each happy day and night,
To sleep and do no more, — a useless poet quite, —
Tasting, apart from labour and from strife,
The sweet oblivion of a tranquil life?
Ye know from earliest youth my spirit yields
To all the rustic charms of hills and fields,
And how my heart has fed on memories old,
The rural legends of the age of gold.
Those streams and orchards, Eden's sacred place, —
The sweet first cradle of the human race;
And gentle Ruth, so fair and so forlorn,
Following the reapers through the prostrate corn;
And Joseph seeking upon Sichem's plains
His shepherd brethren; and Jacob's pains
For Rachel suffered, — she the prize and spoil
Of fifteen years of servitude and toil.
Ah! yes, I hope in some sequestered scene,
Circled with woods and hills and meadows green,
To have an humble roof, — a limpid spring,
Whose water, murmuring like a living thing,
Refreshes in its fruitful plaintive flight
My orchard trees, my flocks so snowy white;
There all forgetting, rich alone in health,
Far from the proud ennui that waits on wealth,
To live as they did live long since, we're told,
Whose names embalmed the sacred pages hold,
In Babylon's rich plains, the patriarchs of old! —
There to have friends and children, and a spouse
Both wise and beautiful. Beneath the boughs
Of shady woods to wander book in hand,
To feel within my breast my heart expand
With peace to which no pleasure can compare!
O gentle Melancholy! Goddess fair,
Of silent caverns and all forest glooms,
Whose languid charm insensibly consumes
The heart of him who takes his pensive way
Along the silent vales at close of day,
And sees the last of daylight's dying fire,
And on the distant hills the rosy lights expire:
In wise enjoyment, silent, thought-possessed,
Sits down, lets fall his head upon his breast,
Sees at his feet, within the azure tide,
Which, like his thoughts, so calm and pure doth glide,
The sweet reflection of the leafy crowds,
And hills, and cottage roofs, and purple-fringed clouds
Sees near him, back returned from happier spheres,
Those phantom shapes familiar to our tears,
That fair immortal band that fills his brain: —
Julia — weak lover — fallen without a stain;
Clarissa — in whose holy beauty breathes
The air of heaven, whose grief no poisoned thorn enwreathes,
Suffers without a groan, without a murmur dies;
And Clementina — soul from purest skies,
Encircled, crushed, by undeserving pains,
Though reason flies, her innocence remains
O cherished forms! O shapes with cheering eyes,
To you in waking dreams his spirit flies,
In tears attends you through each sad retreat,
Stands by your hearths, and views your features sweet,
Upbraids your tyrants, and with feelings strong,
Loves, those who love you, hates who do you wrong.
But suddenly he thinks, — the vision flies, —
Those touching objects of his tears and sighs
Are but perhaps of mere ideal kind,
Of genius born, and children of the mind;
He rises troubled, moveth to and fro,
Enchanting projects make his bosom glow:
He will go seek through cities, rocks, and dells,
If on the earth a Clementina dwells,
And in some desert, far from jealous eyes,
Will kneel before the maid, and serve her 'till he dies!
O Muses ! sacred, solitary maids,
Come from your grottos, founts, and favourite shades,
Whether you pace the flowery vales of Nisme,
Or pleasant fancies, or some waking dream,
Bind you by Loire's fair bank, or sweet Garonne;
Whether among the light nymphs of the Rhone
You rest admiring, when the moon's calm light
Renews their dances through the fragrant night:
Come! I have fled the city's wretched joys,
The wearying echo of its vulgar noise.
On glaring highways all with dust o'erstrown,
No flowers of poesy have ever grown;
The tranquil lyre, with quiet fancy, flies,
Startled and scared from tumult and from cries;
And rapid cars, and brass wheels' creeking hum,
Frighten the Muse, which instantly is dumb!
Come, pour your treasures in a copious tide;
But oh! ye Muses, when shall ye preside
As my Penates? When shall I be grown,
The dweller of a field which is my own?
When shall I ruralize in calm delight,
This my sole task each happy day and night,
To sleep and do no more, — a useless poet quite, —
Tasting, apart from labour and from strife,
The sweet oblivion of a tranquil life?
Ye know from earliest youth my spirit yields
To all the rustic charms of hills and fields,
And how my heart has fed on memories old,
The rural legends of the age of gold.
Those streams and orchards, Eden's sacred place, —
The sweet first cradle of the human race;
And gentle Ruth, so fair and so forlorn,
Following the reapers through the prostrate corn;
And Joseph seeking upon Sichem's plains
His shepherd brethren; and Jacob's pains
For Rachel suffered, — she the prize and spoil
Of fifteen years of servitude and toil.
Ah! yes, I hope in some sequestered scene,
Circled with woods and hills and meadows green,
To have an humble roof, — a limpid spring,
Whose water, murmuring like a living thing,
Refreshes in its fruitful plaintive flight
My orchard trees, my flocks so snowy white;
There all forgetting, rich alone in health,
Far from the proud ennui that waits on wealth,
To live as they did live long since, we're told,
Whose names embalmed the sacred pages hold,
In Babylon's rich plains, the patriarchs of old! —
There to have friends and children, and a spouse
Both wise and beautiful. Beneath the boughs
Of shady woods to wander book in hand,
To feel within my breast my heart expand
With peace to which no pleasure can compare!
O gentle Melancholy! Goddess fair,
Of silent caverns and all forest glooms,
Whose languid charm insensibly consumes
The heart of him who takes his pensive way
Along the silent vales at close of day,
And sees the last of daylight's dying fire,
And on the distant hills the rosy lights expire:
In wise enjoyment, silent, thought-possessed,
Sits down, lets fall his head upon his breast,
Sees at his feet, within the azure tide,
Which, like his thoughts, so calm and pure doth glide,
The sweet reflection of the leafy crowds,
And hills, and cottage roofs, and purple-fringed clouds
Sees near him, back returned from happier spheres,
Those phantom shapes familiar to our tears,
That fair immortal band that fills his brain: —
Julia — weak lover — fallen without a stain;
Clarissa — in whose holy beauty breathes
The air of heaven, whose grief no poisoned thorn enwreathes,
Suffers without a groan, without a murmur dies;
And Clementina — soul from purest skies,
Encircled, crushed, by undeserving pains,
Though reason flies, her innocence remains
O cherished forms! O shapes with cheering eyes,
To you in waking dreams his spirit flies,
In tears attends you through each sad retreat,
Stands by your hearths, and views your features sweet,
Upbraids your tyrants, and with feelings strong,
Loves, those who love you, hates who do you wrong.
But suddenly he thinks, — the vision flies, —
Those touching objects of his tears and sighs
Are but perhaps of mere ideal kind,
Of genius born, and children of the mind;
He rises troubled, moveth to and fro,
Enchanting projects make his bosom glow:
He will go seek through cities, rocks, and dells,
If on the earth a Clementina dwells,
And in some desert, far from jealous eyes,
Will kneel before the maid, and serve her 'till he dies!
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