  MUSE of the Fields! oft have I said farewell To thee, my boon companion, loved so long, And hung thy sweet harp in the bushy dell, For abler hands to wake an abler song. Much did I fear my homage did thee wrong: Yet, loth to leave, as oft I turned again; And to its wires mine idle hands would cling, Torturing it into song. It may be vain; Yet still I try, ere Fancy droops her wing, And hopeless Silence comes to numb its ev’ry string. Muse of the Pasture Brooks! on thy calm sea Of poesy I’ve sailed; and though the will To speed were greater than my prowess be, I’ve ventur’d with much fear of usage ill, Yet more of joy. Though timid be my skill, As not to dare the depths of mightier streams; Yet rocks abide in shallow ways, and I Have much of fear to mingle with my dreams. Yet, lovely Muse, I still believe thee by, And think I see thee smile, and so forget I sigh. Muse of the Cottage Hearth! oft did I tell My hopes to thee, nor feared to plead in vain; But felt around my heart thy witching spell, That bade me as thy worshipper remain: I did so, and still worship. Oh! again Smile on my offerings, and so keep them green! Bedeck my fancies like the clouds of even, Mingling all hues which thou from heaven dost glean! To me a portion of thy power be given, If theme so mean as mine may merit aught of heaven. For thee in youth I culled the simple flower, That on thy bosom gained a sweeter hue, And took thy hand along life’s sunny hour, Meeting the sweetest joys that ever grew: More friends were needless, and my foes were few. Though freedom then be deemed as rudeness now. And what once won thy praise now meets disdain, Yet the last wreath I braided for thy brow, Thy smiles did so commend, it made me vain To weave another one, and hope for praise again. With thee the spirit of departed years Wakes that sweet voice which time hath rendered dumb; And freshens, like to spring, loves, hopes, and fears, That in my bosom found an early home, Wooing the heart to ecstasy.—I come Seeking the pleasures that are found in bloom. O happy hopes, that Time hath only left Around the haunts where thou didst erst sojourn! Then smile, sweet Muse, again, and welcome my return. With thee the raptures of life’s early day Appear, and all that pleased me when a boy. Though pains and cares have torn the best away, And winter creeps between us to destroy, Do thou commend, the recompence is joy: The tempest of the heart shall soon be calm. Though sterner Truth against my dreams rebel, Hope feels success; and all my spirits warm, To strike with happier mood thy simple shell, And seize thy mantle’s hem—O! say not fare-thee-well. Still, sweet Enchantress! youth’s strong feelings move, That from thy presence their existence took:— The innocent idolatry and love, Paying thee worship in each secret nook, That fancied friends in tree, and flower, and brook, Shaped clouds to angels and beheld them smile, And heard commending tongues in ev’ry wind. Life’s grosser fancies did these dreams defile, Yet not entirely root them from the mind; I think I hear them still, and often look behind. Aye, I have heard thee in the summer wind, As if commending what I sung to thee; Aye, I have seen thee on a cloud reclined, Kindling my fancies into poesy; I saw thee smile, and took the praise to me. In beauties, past all beauty, thou wert drest; I thought the very clouds around thee knelt: I saw the sun to linger in the west, Paying thee worship; and as eve did melt In dews, they seemed thy tears for sorrows I had felt. Sweeter than flowers on beauty’s bosom hung, Sweeter than dreams of happiness above, Sweeter than themes by lips of beauty sung, Are the young fancies of a poet’s love. When round his thoughts thy trancing visions move. In floating melody no notes may sound, The world is all forgot and past his care, While on thy harp thy fingers lightly bound, As winning him its melody to share; And heaven itself, with him, where is it then but there? E’en now my heart leaps out from grief, and all The gloom thrown round by Care’s o’ershading wing; E’en now those sunny visions to recall, Like to a bird I quit dull earth and sing: Life’s tempest swoon to calms on every string. If earthly visions have been only mine, My weakness in thy service woos esteem, And proves my truth as almost worthy thine: Surely true worship makes the meanest theme divine. And still, warm courage, calming many a fear, Heartens my hand once more thy harp to try To join the anthem of the minstrel year: For summer’s music in thy praise is high; The very winds about thy mantle sigh Love-melodies; thy minstrel bards to be, Insects and birds, exerting all their skill, Float in continued song for mastery, While in thy haunts loud leaps the little rill, To kiss thy mantle’s hem; and how can I be still? |
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