When they abate their fiery glare: Cold though your nature be, 'tis pure; Your birthright is a fence From all that haughtier kinds endure Ah! not alone by colours bright Are Ye to Heaven allied, When, like essential Forms of light, For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled For moonlight fascinations mild Your gift, ere shutters close; Accept, mute Captives! thanks and praise; That gentle admirations raise LIBERTY. (SEQUEL TO THE ABOVE.) [Addressed to a Friend; the Gold and Silver Fishes having been removed to a pool in the pleasure-ground of Rydal Mount.] "The liberty of a people consists in being governed by laws which they have made for themselves, under whatever form it be of government. The liberty of a private man, in being master of his own time and actions, as far as may consist with the laws of God and of his country. Of this latter we are here to discourse." COWLEY. THOSE breathing Tokens of your kind regard, That spreads into an elfin pool opaque Of which close boughs a glimmering mirror make, On whose smooth breast with dimples light and small The fly may settle, leaf or blossom fall. There swims, of blazing sun and beating shower And near him, darkling like a sullen Gnome, Dissevered both from all the mysteries Of hue and altering shape that charmed all eyes. They pined, perhaps, they languished while they shone; And, if not so, what matters beauty gone Roll on, ye spouting Whales, who die or keep Spread, tiny Nautilus, the living sail; Dive, at thy choice, or brave the freshening gale! If unreproved the ambitious Eagle mount Sunward to seek the daylight in its fount, Bays, gulfs, and Ocean's Indian width, shall be, Till the world perishes, a field for thee! While musing here I sit in shadow cool, And watch these mute Companions, in the pool, Among reflected boughs of leafy trees, By glimpses caught— disporting at their ease No sheltering stone, no tangled root was near. They wore away the night in starless gloom; Thus, and unable to complain, they fared, Is there a cherished Bird (I venture now To snatch a sprig from Chaucer's reverend brow)— Is there a brilliant Fondling of the cage, Though sure of plaudits on his costly stage, Though fed with dainties from the snow-white hand Of a kind Mistress, fairest of the land, But gladly would escape; and, if need were, The Snail the house he carries on his back: The far-fetched Worm with pleasure would disown The bed we give him, though of softest down; A noble instinct; in all Kinds the same, All Ranks! What Sovereign, worthy of the name, If doomed to breathe against his lawful will An element that flatters him to kill, But would rejoice to barter outward show For the least boon that freedom can bestow? |