Epistle To John Hamilton Reynolds
Dear
Reynolds,
as
last
night
I
lay
in
bed,
There
came
before
my
eyes
that
wonted
thread
Of
shapes,
and
shadows,
and
remembrances,
That
every
other
minute
vex
and
please:
Things
all
disjointed
come
from
north
and
south,--
Two
witch's
eyes
above
a
cherub's
mouth,
Voltaire
with
casque
and
shield
and
habergeon,
And
Alexander
with
his
nightcap
on;
Old
Socrates
a-tying
his
cravat,
And
Hazlitt
playing
with
Miss
Edgeworth's
cat;
And
Junius
Brutus,
pretty
well
so-so,
Making
the
best
of's
way
towards
Soho.
Few
are
there
who
escape
these
visitings--
Perhaps
one
or
two
whose
lives
have
patent
wings,
And
through
whose
curtains
peeps
no
hellish
nose,
No
wild-boar
tushes,
and
no
mermaid's
toes;
But
flowers
bursting
out
with
lusty
pride,
And
young
AEolian
harps
personified;
Some
Titian
colours
touch'd
into
real
life,--
The
sacrifice
goes
on;
the
pontiff
knife
Gleams
in
the
sun,
the
milk-white
heifer
lows,
The
pipes
go
shrilly,
the
libation
flows:
A
white
sail
shows
above
the
green-head
cliff,
Moves
round
the
point,
and
throws
her
anchor
stiff;
The
mariners
join
hymn
with
those
on
land.
You
know
the
Enchanted
Castle
--
it
doth
stand
Upon
a
rock
on
the
border
of
a
lake,
Nested
in
trees,
which
all
do
seem
to
shake
From
some
old
magic
like
Urganda's
sword.
O
Phoebus!
that
I
had
thy
sacred
word
To
show
this
Castle
in
fair
dreaming
wise
Unto
my
friend,
while
sick
and
ill
he
lies!
You
know
it
well
enough,
where
it
doth
seem
A
mossy
place,
a
Merlin's
Hall,
a
dream;
You
know
the
clear
lake,
and
the
little
isles,
The
mountains
blue,
and
cold
near
neighbour
rills--
All
which
elsewhere
are
but
half
animate,
Here
do
they
look
alive
to
love
and
hate,
To
smiles
and
frowns;
they
seem
a
lifted
mound
Above
some
giant,
pulsing
underground.
Part
of
the
building
was
a
chosen
See
Built
by
a
banish'd
Santon
of
Chaldee;
The
other
part,
two
thousand
years
from
him,
Was
built
by
Cuthbert
de
Saint
Aldebrim;
Then
there's
a
little
wing,
far
from
the
sun,
Built
by
a
Lapland
witch
turn'd
maudlin
nun;
And
many
other
juts
of
aged
stone
Founded
with
many
a
mason-devil's
groan.
The
doors
all
look
as
if
they
op'd
themselves,
The
windows
as
if
latch'd
by
fays
and
elves,
And
from
them
comes
a
silver
flash
of
light
As
from
the
westward
of
a
summer's
night;
Or
like
a
beauteous
woman's
large
blue
eyes
Gone
mad
through
olden
songs
and
poesies.
See
what
is
coming
from
the
distance
dim!
A
golden
galley
all
in
silken
trim!
Three
rows
of
oars
are
lightening,
moment
whiles,
Into
the
verdurous
bosoms
of
those
isles;
Towards
the
shade
under
the
Castle
wall
It
comes
in
silence
--
now
'tis
hidden
all.
The
clarion
sounds,
and
from
a
postern-gate
An
echo
of
sweet
music
doth
create
A
fear
in
the
poor
herdsman
who
doth
bring
His
beasts
to
trouble
the
enchanted
spring,--
He
tells
of
the
sweet
music
and
the
spot
To
all
his
friends,
and
they
believe
him
not.
O
that
our
dreamings
all,
of
sleep
or
wake,
Would
all
their
colours
from
the
sunset
take:
From
something
of
material
sublime,
Rather
than
shadow
our
own
soul's
day-time
In
the
dark
void
of
night.
For
in
the
world
We
jostle-
but
my
flag
is
not
unfurl'd
On
the
Admiral-staff
--
and
to
philosophize
I
dare
not
yet!
Oh,
never
will
the
prize,
High
reason,
and
the
lore
of
good
and
ill,
Be
my
award!
Things
cannot
to
the
will
Be
settled,
but
they
tease
us
out
of
thought;
Or
is
it
that
Imagination
brought
Beyond
its
proper
bound,
yet
still
confin'd,
Lost
in
a
sort
of
Purgatory
blind,
Cannot
refer
to
any
standard
law
Of
either
earth
or
heaven?
It
is
a
flaw
In
happiness
to
see
beyond
our
bourn,--
It
forces
us
in
summer
skies
to
mourn,
It
spoils
the
singing
of
the
Nightingale.
Dear
Reynolds!
I
have
a
mysterious
tale
And
cannot
speak
it.
The
first
page
I
read
Upon
a
lampit
rock
of
green
sea-weed
Among
the
breakers;
'twas
a
quiet
eve,
The
rocks
were
silent,
the
wide
sea
did
weave
An
untumultuous
fringe
of
silver
foam
Along
the
flat
brown
sand;
I
was
at
home
And
should
have
been
most
happy,--
but
I
saw
Too
far
into
the
sea,
where
every
maw
The
greater
on
the
less
feeds
evermore.--
But
I
saw
too
distinct
into
the
core
Of
an
eternal
fierce
destruction,
And
so
from
happiness
I
far
was
gone.
Still
am
I
sick
of
it,
and
though
to-day
I've
gather'd
young
spring-leaves,
and
flowers
gay
Of
periwinkle
and
wild
strawberry,
Still
do
I
that
most
fierce
destruction
see,--
The
Shark
at
savage
prey,
the
Hawk
at
pounce,--
The
gentle
Robin,
like
a
Pard
or
Ounce,
Ravening
a
worm
--
Away,
ye
horrid
moods!
Moods
of
one's
mind!
You
know
I
hate
them
well.
You
know
I'd
sooner
be
a
clapping
Bell
To
some
Kamschatcan
Missionary
Church,
Than
with
these
horrid
moods
be
left
i'
the
lurch.
Do
you
get
health
--
and
Tom
the
same
--
I'll
dance,
And
from
detested
moods
in
new
Romance
Take
refuge.
Of
bad
lines
a
Centaine
dose
Is
sure
enough
--
and
so
"here
follows
prose."
