Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50)

by Homer

  Distressed the weary loins that felt no ease;

  The slippery seat betrayed the sliding part

  That pressed it, and the feet hung dangling down,

  Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.

  These for the rich: the rest, whom fate had placed

  In modest mediocrity, content

  With base materials, sat on well-tanned hides

  Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth,

  With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn,

  Or scarlet crewel in the cushion fixed:

  If cushion might be called, what harder seemed

  Than the firm oak of which the frame was formed.

  No want of timber then was felt or feared

  In Albion’s happy isle. The lumber stood

  Ponderous, and fixed by its own massy weight.

  But elbows still were wanting; these, some say,

  An alderman of Cripplegate contrived,

  And some ascribe the invention to a priest

  Burly and big, and studious of his ease.

  But rude at first, and not with easy slope

  Receding wide, they pressed against the ribs,

  And bruised the side, and elevated high

  Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears.

  Long time elapsed or e’er our rugged sires

  Complained, though incommodiously pent in,

  And ill at ease behind. The ladies first

  Gan murmur, as became the softer sex.

  Ingenious fancy, never better pleased

  Than when employed to accommodate the fair,

  Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised

  The soft settee; one elbow at each end,

  And in the midst an elbow, it received,

  United yet divided, twain at once.

  So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne;

  And so two citizens who take the air,

  Close packed and smiling in a chaise and one.

  But relaxation of the languid frame

  By soft recumbency of outstretched limbs,

  Was bliss reserved for happier days; so slow

  The growth of what is excellent, so hard

  To attain perfection in this nether world.

  Thus first necessity invented stools,

  Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs,

  And luxury the accomplished Sofa last.

  The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick,

  Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he

  Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour

  To sleep within the carriage more secure,

  His legs depending at the open door.

  Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk,

  The tedious rector drawling o’er his head,

  And sweet the clerk below; but neither sleep

  Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead,

  Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour

  To slumber in the carriage more secure,

  Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk,

  Nor yet the dozings of the clerk are sweet,

  Compared with the repose the Sofa yields.

  Oh, may I live exempted (while I live

  Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene)

  From pangs arthritic that infest the toe

  Of libertine excess. The Sofa suits

  The gouty limb, ’tis true; but gouty limb,

  Though on a Sofa, may I never feel:

  For I have loved the rural walk through lanes

  Of grassy swarth, close cropped by nibbling sheep,

  And skirted thick with intertexture firm

  Of thorny boughs: have loved the rural walk

  O’er hills, through valleys, and by river’s brink,

  E’er since a truant boy I passed my bounds

  To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames.

  And still remember, nor without regret

  Of hours that sorrow since has much endeared,

  How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed,

  Still hungering penniless and far from home,

  I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws,

  Or blushing crabs, or berries that emboss

  The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere.

  Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite

  Disdains not, nor the palate undepraved

  By culinary arts unsavoury deems.

  No Sofa then awaited my return,

  No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs

  His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil

  Incurring short fatigue; and though our years,

  As life declines, speed rapidly away,

  And not a year but pilfers as he goes

  Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep,

  A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees

  Their length and colour from the locks they spare;

  The elastic spring of an unwearied foot

  That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence,

  That play of lungs inhaling and again

  Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes

  Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me,

  Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impaired

  My relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothed

  Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find

  Still soothing and of power to charm me still.

  And witness, dear companion of my walks,

  Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive

  Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love,

  Confirmed by long experience of thy worth

  And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire —

  Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.

  Thou know’st my praise of Nature most sincere,

  And that my raptures are not conjured up

  To serve occasions of poetic pomp,

  But genuine, and art partner of them all.

  How oft upon yon eminence, our pace

  Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne

  The ruffling wind scarce conscious that it blew,

  While admiration feeding at the eye,

  And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene!

  Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned

  The distant plough slow-moving, and beside

  His labouring team, that swerved not from the track,

  The sturdy swain diminished to a boy!

  Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain

  Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o’er,

  Conducts the eye along his sinuous course

  Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank

  Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms

  That screen the herdsman’s solitary hut;

  While far beyond and overthwart the stream

  That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,

  The sloping land recedes into the clouds;

  Displaying on its varied side the grace

  Of hedgerow beauties numberless, square tower,

  Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells

  Just undulates upon the listening ear;

  Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.

  Scenes must be beautiful which daily viewed

  Please daily, and whose novelty survives

  Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years:

  Praise justly due to those that I describe.

  Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds

  Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

  The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,

  That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood

  Of ancient growth, make music not unlike

  The dash of ocean on his winding shore,

  And lull the spirit while they fill the mind,

  Unnumbered branches waving in the blast,

  And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once.

  Nor less co
mposure waits upon the roar

  Of distant floods, or on the softer voice

  Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip

  Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall

  Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length

  In matted grass, that with a livelier green

  Betrays the secret of their silent course.

  Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,

  But animated Nature sweeter still

  To soothe and satisfy the human ear.

  Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one

  The livelong night: nor these alone whose notes

  Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain,

  But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime

  In still repeated circles, screaming loud,

  The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl

  That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.

  Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,

  Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,

  And only there, please highly for their sake.

  Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought

  Devised the weather-house, that useful toy!

  Fearless of humid air and gathering rains

  Forth steps the man — an emblem of myself!

  More delicate his timorous mate retires.

  When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet,

  Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,

  Or ford the rivulets, are best at home,

  The task of new discoveries falls on me.

  At such a season and with such a charge

  Once went I forth, and found, till then unknown,

  A cottage, whither oft we since repair:

  ’Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but close

  Environed with a ring of branching elms

  That overhang the thatch, itself unseen

  Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset

  With foliage of such dark redundant growth,

  I called the low-roofed lodge the PEASANT’S NEST.

  And hidden as it is, and far remote

  From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear

  In village or in town, the bay of curs

  Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,

  And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained,

  Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine.

  Here, I have said, at least I should possess

  The poet’s treasure, silence, and indulge

  The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.

  Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat

  Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.

  Its elevated site forbids the wretch

  To drink sweet waters of the crystal well;

  He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,

  And heavy-laden brings his beverage home,

  Far-fetched and little worth: nor seldom waits

  Dependent on the baker’s punctual call,

  To hear his creaking panniers at the door,

  Angry and sad and his last crust consumed.

  So farewell envy of the PEASANT’S NEST.

  If solitude make scant the means of life,

  Society for me! Thou seeming sweet,

  Be still a pleasing object in my view,

  My visit still, but never mine abode.

  Not distant far, a length of colonnade

  Invites us; monument of ancient taste,

  Now scorned, but worthy of a better fate.

  Our fathers knew the value of a screen

  From sultry suns, and, in their shaded walks

  And long-protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon

  The gloom and coolness of declining day.

  We bear our shades about us; self-deprived

  Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread,

  And range an Indian waste without a tree.

  Thanks to Benevolus — he spares me yet

  These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines,

  And, though himself so polished, still reprieves

  The obsolete prolixity of shade.

  Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast)

  A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge

  We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip

  Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.

  Hence ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme

  We mount again, and feel at every step

  Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft,

  Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil.

  He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,

  Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark

  Toils much to earn a monumental pile,

  That may record the mischiefs he has done.

  The summit gained, behold the proud alcove

  That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures

  The grand retreat from injuries impressed

  By rural carvers, who with knives deface

  The panels, leaving an obscure rude name

  In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.

  So strong the zeal to immortalise himself

  Beats in the breast of man, that even a few

  Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorred

  Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize,

  And even to a clown. Now roves the eye,

  And posted on this speculative height

  Exults in its command. The sheepfold here

  Pours out its fleecy tenants o’er the glebe.

  At first, progressive as a stream, they seek

  The middle field; but scattered by degrees,

  Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land.

  There, from the sunburnt hay-field homeward creeps

  The loaded wain; while, lightened of its charge,

  The wain that meets it passes swiftly by,

  The boorish driver leaning o’er his team,

  Vociferous, and impatient of delay.

  Nor less attractive is the woodland scene

  Diversified with trees of every growth,

  Alike yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks

  Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine,

  Within the twilight of their distant shades;

  There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood

  Seems sunk, and shortened to its topmost boughs.

  No tree in all the grove but has its charms,

  Though each its hue peculiar; paler some,

  And of a wannish gray; the willow such,

  And poplar that with silver lines his leaf,

  And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm;

  Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still,

  Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak.

  Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun,

  The maple, and the beech of oily nuts

  Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve

  Diffusing odours; nor unnoted pass

  The sycamore, capricious in attire,

  Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet

  Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright.

  O’er these, but far beyond (a spacious map

  Of hill and valley interposed between),

  The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land,

  Now glitters in the sun, and now retires,

  As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.

  Hence the declivity is sharp and short,

  And such the re-ascent; between them weeps

  A little Naiad her impoverished urn,

  All summer long, which winter fills again.

  The folded gates would bar my progress now,

  But that the lord of this enclosed demesne,

  Communicative of the good he owns,

  Admits me to a share: the guiltless eye

  Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys.

  Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun?

  By shor
t transition we have lost his glare,

  And stepped at once into a cooler clime.

  Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn

  Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice

  That yet a remnant of your race survives.

  How airy and how light the graceful arch,

  Yet awful as the consecrated roof

  Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath,

  The chequered earth seems restless as a flood

  Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the light

  Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance,

  Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,

  And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves

  Play wanton, every moment, every spot.

  And now, with nerves new-braced and spirits cheered,

  We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks,

  With curvature of slow and easy sweep —

  Deception innocent — give ample space

  To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;

  Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms

  We may discern the thresher at his task.

  Thump after thump resounds the constant flail,

  That seems to swing uncertain and yet falls

  Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff,

  The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist

  Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam.

  Come hither, ye that press your beds of down

  And sleep not: see him sweating o’er his bread

  Before he eats it.— ’Tis the primal curse,

  But softened into mercy; made the pledge

  Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan.

  By ceaseless action, all that is subsists.

  Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel

  That Nature rides upon, maintains her health,

  Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads

  An instant’s pause, and lives but while she moves.

  Its own revolvency upholds the world.

  Winds from all quarters agitate the air,

  And fit the limpid element for use,

  Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams

  All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed

  By restless undulation: even the oak

  Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm:

  He seems indeed indignant, and to feel

  The impression of the blast with proud disdain,

  Frowning as if in his unconscious arm

  He held the thunder. But the monarch owes

  His firm stability to what he scorns,

  More fixed below, the more disturbed above.

  The law, by which all creatures else are bound,

  Binds man the lord of all. Himself derives

  No mean advantage from a kindred cause,