Epistle To My Brother George
Full
many
a
dreary
hour
have
I
past,
My
brain
bewildered,
and
my
mind
o'ercast
With
heaviness;
in
seasons
when
I've
thought
No
spherey
strains
by
me
could
e'er
be
caught
From
the
blue
dome,
though
I
to
dimness
gaze
On
the
far
depth
where
sheeted
lightning
plays;
Or,
on
the
wavy
grass
outstretched
supinely,
Pry
'mong
the
stars,
to
strive
to
think
divinely:
That
I
should
never
hear
Apollo's
song,
Though
feathery
clouds
were
floating
all
along
The
purple
west,
and,
two
bright
streaks
between,
The
golden
lyre
itself
were
dimly
seen:
That
the
still
murmur
of
the
honey
bee
Would
never
teach
a
rural
song
to
me:
That
the
bright
glance
from
beauty's
eyelids
slanting
Would
never
make
a
lay
of
mine
enchanting,
Or
warm
my
breast
with
ardour
to
unfold
Some
tale
of
love
and
arms
in
time
of
old.
But
there
are
times,
when
those
that
love
the
bay,
Fly
from
all
sorrowing
far,
far
away;
A
sudden
glow
comes
on
them,
nought
they
see
In
water,
earth,
or
air,
but
poesy.
It
has
been
said,
dear
George,
and
true
I
hold
it,
(For
knightly
Spenser
to
Libertas
told
it,)
That
when
a
Poet
is
in
such
a
trance,
In
air
her
sees
white
coursers
paw,
and
prance,
Bestridden
of
gay
knights,
in
gay
apparel,
Who
at
each
other
tilt
in
playful
quarrel,
And
what
we,
ignorantly,
sheet-lightning
call,
Is
the
swift
opening
of
their
wide
portal,
When
the
bright
warder
blows
his
trumpet
clear,
Whose
tones
reach
nought
on
earth
but
Poet's
ear.
When
these
enchanted
portals
open
wide,
And
through
the
light
the
horsemen
swiftly
glide,
The
Poet's
eye
can
reach
those
golden
halls,
And
view
the
glory
of
their
festivals:
Their
ladies
fair,
that
in
the
distance
seem
Fit
for
the
silv'ring
of
a
seraph's
dream;
Their
rich
brimmed
goblets,
that
incessant
run
Like
the
bright
spots
that
move
about
the
sun;
And,
when
upheld,
the
wine
from
each
bright
jar
Pours
with
the
lustre
of
a
falling
star.
Yet
further
off,
are
dimly
seen
their
bowers,
Of
which,
no
mortal
eye
can
reach
the
flowers;
And
'tis
right
just,
for
well
Apollo
knows
'Twould
make
the
Poet
quarrel
with
the
rose.
All
that's
revealed
from
that
far
seat
of
blisses
Is
the
clear
fountains'
interchanging
kisses,
As
gracefully
descending,
light
and
thin,
Like
silver
streaks
across
a
dolphin's
fin,
When
he
upswimmeth
from
the
coral
caves,
And
sports
with
half
his
tail
above
the
waves.
These
wonders
strange
he
sees,
and
many
more,
Whose
head
is
pregnant
with
poetic
lore.
Should
he
upon
an
evening
ramble
fare
With
forehead
to
the
soothing
breezes
bare,
Would
he
nought
see
but
the
dark,
silent
blue
With
all
its
diamonds
trembling
through
and
through?
Or
the
coy
moon,
when
in
the
waviness
Of
whitest
clouds
she
does
her
beauty
dress,
And
staidly
paces
higher
up,
and
higher,
Like
a
sweet
nun
in
holy-day
attire?
Ah,
yes!
much
more
would
start
into
his
sight—
The
revelries
and
mysteries
of
night:
And
should
I
ever
see
them,
I
will
tell
you
Such
tales
as
needs
must
with
amazement
spell
you.
These
are
the
living
pleasures
of
the
bard:
But
richer
far
posterity's
reward.
What
does
he
murmur
with
his
latest
breath,
While
his
proud
eye
looks
though
the
film
of
death?
"What
though
I
leave
this
dull
and
earthly
mould,
Yet
shall
my
spirit
lofty
converse
hold
With
after
times.—The
patriot
shall
feel
My
stern
alarum,
and
unsheath
his
steel;
Or,
in
the
senate
thunder
out
my
numbers
To
startle
princes
from
their
easy
slumbers.
The
sage
will
mingle
with
each
moral
theme
My
happy
thoughts
sententious;
he
will
teem
With
lofty
periods
when
my
verses
fire
him,
And
then
I'll
stoop
from
heaven
to
inspire
him.
Lays
have
I
left
of
such
a
dear
delight
That
maids
will
sing
them
on
their
bridal
night.
Gay
villagers,
upon
a
morn
of
May,
When
they
have
tired
their
gentle
limbs
with
play
And
formed
a
snowy
circle
on
the
grass,
And
placed
in
midst
of
all
that
lovely
lass
Who
chosen
is
their
queen,—with
her
fine
head
Crowned
with
flowers
purple,
white,
and
red:
For
there
the
lily,
and
the
musk-rose,
sighing,
Are
emblems
true
of
hapless
lovers
dying:
Between
her
breasts,
that
never
yet
felt
trouble,
A
bunch
of
violets
full
blown,
and
double,
Serenely
sleep:—she
from
a
casket
takes
A
little
book,—and
then
a
joy
awakes
About
each
youthful
heart,—with
stifled
cries,
And
rubbing
of
white
hands,
and
sparkling
eyes:
For
she's
to
read
a
tale
of
hopes,
and
fears;
One
that
I
fostered
in
my
youthful
years:
The
pearls,
that
on
each
glist'ning
circlet
sleep,
Must
ever
and
anon
with
silent
creep,
Lured
by
the
innocent
dimples.
To
sweet
rest
Shall
the
dear
babe,
upon
its
mother's
breast,
Be
lulled
with
songs
of
mine.
Fair
world,
adieu!
Thy
dales,
and
hills,
are
fading
from
my
view:
Swiftly
I
mount,
upon
wide
spreading
pinions,
Far
from
the
narrow
bound
of
thy
dominions.
Full
joy
I
feel,
while
thus
I
cleave
the
air,
That
my
soft
verse
will
charm
thy
daughters
fair,
And
warm
thy
sons!"
Ah,
my
dear
friend
and
brother,
Could
I,
at
once,
my
mad
ambition
smother,
For
tasting
joys
like
these,
sure
I
should
be
Happier,
and
dearer
to
society.
At
times,
'tis
true,
I've
felt
relief
from
pain
When
some
bright
thought
has
darted
through
my
brain:
Through
all
that
day
I've
felt
a
greater
pleasure
Than
if
I'd
brought
to
light
a
hidden
treasure.
As
to
my
sonnets,
though
none
else
should
heed
them,
I
feel
delighted,
still,
that
you
should
read
them.
Of
late,
too,
I
have
had
much
calm
enjoyment,
Stretched
on
the
grass
at
my
best
loved
employment
Of
scribbling
lines
for
you.
These
things
I
thought
While,
in
my
face,
the
freshest
breeze
I
caught.
E'en
now
I'm
pillowed
on
a
bed
of
flowers
That
crowns
a
lofty
clift,
which
proudly
towers
Above
the
ocean-waves,
The
stalks,
and
blades,
Chequer
my
tablet
with
their
quivering
shades.
On
one
side
is
a
field
of
drooping
oats,
Through
which
the
poppies
show
their
scarlet
coats;
So
pert
and
useless,
that
they
bring
to
mind
The
scarlet
coats
that
pester
human-kind.
And
on
the
other
side,
outspread,
is
seen
Ocean's
blue
mantle
streaked
with
purple,
and
green.
Now
'tis
I
see
a
canvassed
ship,
and
now
Mark
the
bright
silver
curling
round
her
prow.
I
see
the
lark
dowm-dropping
to
his
nest,
And
the
broad
winged
sea-gull
never
at
rest;
For
when
no
more
he
spreads
his
feathers
free,
His
breast
is
dancing
on
the
restless
sea.
Now
I
direct
my
eyes
into
the
west,
Which
at
this
moment
is
in
sunbeams
drest:
Why
westward
turn?
'Twas
but
to
say
adieu!
'Twas
but
to
kiss
my
hand,
dear
George,
to
you!
