Lord of the Celtic dells, Where Clwyd listens as his minstrel tells Of Arthur, or Pendragon, or perchance The plumes of flashy France, Or, in dark region far across the main, Far as Grenada in the world of Spain, Warriors untold to Saxon ear, Until their steel-clad spirits reappear; How happy were the hours that held Thy friend (long absent from his native home) Amid thy scenes with thee! how wide a-field From all past cares and all to come! What hath Ambition's feverish grasp, what hath Inconstant Fortune, panting Hope; What Genius, that should cope With the heart-whispers in that path Winding so idly, where the idler stream Flings at the white-hair'd poplars gleam for gleam? Ablett, of all the days My sixty summers ever knew, Pleasant as there have been no few, Memory not one surveys Like those we spent together. Wisely spent Are they alone that leave the soul content. Together we have visited the men Whom Pictish pirates vainly would have drown d; Ah, shall we ever clasp the hand again That gave the British harp its truest sound? Live, Derwent's guest! and thou by Grasmere springs! Serene creators of immortal things. And live too thou for happier days Whom Dryden's force and Spenser's fays Have heart and soul possest: Growl in grim London he who will, Revisit thou Maiano's hill, And swell with pride his sun-burnt breast. Old Redi in hiseasy chair With varied chant awaits thee there, And here are voices in the grove Aside my house, that make me think Bacchus is coming down to drink To Ariadne's love. But whither am I borne away From thee, to whom began my lay? Courage! I am not yet quite lost; I stept aside to greet my friends; Believe me, soon the greeting ends, I know but three or four at most. Deem not that Time hath borne too hard Upon the fortunes of thy bard, Leaving me only three or four: 'Tis my old number; dost thou start At such a tale? in what man's heart Is there fireside for more? I never courted friends or Fame; She pouted at me long, at last she came, And threw her arms around my neck and said, "Take what hath been for years delay'd, And fear not that the leaves will fall One hour the earlier from thy coronal." Ablett! thou knowest with what even hand I waved away the offer'd seat Among the clambering, clattering, stilted great, The rulers of our land; Nor crowds nor kings can lift me up, Nor sweeten Pleasure's purer cup. Thou knowest how, and why, are dear to me My citron groves of Fiesole, My chirping Affrico, my beechwood nook, My Naiads, with feet only in the brook, Which runs away and giggles in their faces, Yet there they sit, nor sigh for other places. 'Tis not Pelasgian wall, By him made sacred whom alone 'Twere not profane to call The bard divine, nor (thrown Far under me) Valdarno, nor the crest Of Vallombrosa in the crimson east. Here can I sit or roam at will; Few trouble me, few wish me ill, Few come across me, few too near; Here all my wishes make their stand; Here ask I no one's voice or hand; Scornful of favour, ignorant of fear. Yon vine upon the maple bough Flouts at the hearty wheat below; Away her venal wines the wise man sends, While those of lower stem he brings From inmost treasure vault, and sings Their worth and age among his chosen friends. Behold our Earth, most nigh the sun Her zone least opens to the genial heat, But farther off her veins more freely run: 'Tis thus with those who whirl about the great; The nearest shrink and shiver, we remote May open-breasted blow the pastoral oat. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BURIAL OF BOSTON CORBETT (ONE WARDEN TO ANOTHER) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TOWARD THE GULF; DEDICATED TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SURFACE AND STRUCTURE: BONAVENTURE HOTEL, LOS ANGELES by KAREN SWENSON THE MOTHER'S HOPE by SAMUEL LAMAN BLANCHARD AT THE WEDDING MARCH by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS |