ODE TO LYCORIS. MAY 1817
The discerning reader, who is aware that in the poem of Ellen
Irwin I was desirous of throwing the reader at once out of the old
ballad, so as, if possible, to preclude a comparison between that
mode of dealing with the subject and the mode I meant to adopt--
may here perhaps perceive that this poem originated in the four
last lines of the first stanza. Those specks of snow, reflected in
the lake and so transferred, as it were, to the subaqueous sky,
reminded me of the swans which the fancy of the ancient classic
poets yoked to the car of Venus. Hence the tenor of the whole
first stanza, and the name of Lycoris, which--with some readers
who think my theology and classical allusion too far-fetched and
therefore more or less unnatural and affected--will tend to
unrealise the sentiment that pervades these verses. But surely one
who has written so much in verse as I have done may be allowed to
retrace his steps in the regions of fancy which delighted him in
his boyhood, when he first became acquainted with the Greek and
Roman Poets. Before I read Virgil I was so strongly attached to
Ovid, whose Metamorphoses I read at school, that I was quite in a
passion whenever I found him, in books of criticism, placed below
Virgil. As to Homer, I was never weary of travelling over the
scenes through which he led me. Classical literature affected me
by its own beauty. But the truths of scripture having been
entrusted to the dead languages, and these fountains having been
recently laid open at the Reformation, an importance and a
sanctity were at that period attached to classical literature that
extended, as is obvious in Milton's Lycidas, for example, both to
its spirit and form in a degree that can never be revived. No
doubt the hackneyed and lifeless use into which mythology fell
towards the close of the 17th century, and which continued through
the 18th, disgusted the general reader with all allusion to it in
modern verse; and though, in deference to this disgust, and also
in a measure participating in it, I abstained in my earlier
writings from all introduction of pagan fable, surely, even in its
humble form, it may ally itself with real sentiment, as I can
truly affirm it did in the present case.
AN age hath been when Earth was proud
Of lustre too intense
To be sustained; and Mortals bowed
The front in self-defence.
Who 'then', if Dian's crescent gleamed,
Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed
While on the wing the Urchin played,
Could fearlessly approach the shade?
--Enough for one soft vernal day,
If I, a bard of ebbing time,
And nurtured in a fickle clime,
May haunt this horned bay;
Whose amorous water multiplies
The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes;
And smooths her liquid breast--to show
These swan-like specks of mountain snow,
White as the pair that slid along the plains
Of heaven, when Venus held the reins!
In youth we love the darksome lawn
Brushed by the owlet's wing;
Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn,
And Autumn to the Spring.
Sad fancies do we then affect,
In luxury of disrespect
To our own prodigal excess
Of too familiar happiness.
Lycoris (if such name befit
Thee, thee my life's celestial sign!)
When Nature marks the year's decline,
Be ours to welcome it;
Pleased with the harvest hope that runs
Before the path of milder suns;
Pleased while the sylvan world displays
Its ripeness to the feeding gaze;
Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell
Of the resplendent miracle.
But something whispers to my heart
That, as we downward tend,
Lycoris! life requires an 'art'
To which our souls must bend;
A skill--to balance and supply;
And, ere the flowing fount be dry,
As soon it must, a sense to sip,
Or drink, with no fastidious lip.
Then welcome, above all, the Guest
Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea,
Seem to recall the Deity
Of youth into the breast:
May pensive Autumn ne'er present
A claim to her disparagement!
While blossoms and the budding spray
Inspire us in our own decay;
Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal,
Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the Soul!