ODES. FRAGMENT. TO REYNOLDS, MAY, 1818. "It is impossible to know how far knowledge will console us for the death of a friend and the 'ill that flesh is heir to.' With respect to the affections and poetry, you must know by a sympathy my thoughts that way, and I dare say these few lines will be but a ratification. I wrote them on May-day, and intend to finish the ode all in good time." OTHER of Hermes! and still youthful Maia! As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiæ ? In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles, Rounded by thee, my song should die away Rich in the simple worship of a day.' It is much to be regretted he did not finish this ode; this commencement is in his best manner: the sentiment VOL. III. 1 and expression perfect, as every traveller in modern Greece will recognize.-ED. TO PSYCHE. TO HIS BROTHER AND SISTER. "The following poem, the last I have written, is the first and only one with which I have taken even moderate pains. I have, for the most part, dashed off my lines in a hurry; this one I have done leisurely; I think it reads the more richly for it, and it will, I hope, encourage me to write other things in even a more peaceable and healthy spirit. You must recollect that Psyche was not embodied as a goddess before the time of Apuleius the Platonist, who lived after the Augustan age, and consequently the goddess was never worshipped or sacrificed to with any of the ancient fervour, and perhaps never thought of in the old religion: I am more orthodox than to let a heathen goddess be so neglected.' Feb. 1819. By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung, Even into thine own soft-couched ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? O latest-born and loveliest vision far Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet O brightest though too late for antique vows, Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane |