LAWRENCE! — although the Muse and I have parted, |
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(She to her airy heights, and I to toil, |
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Not discontent, nor wroth, nor gloomy-hearted, |
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Because I now must till a rugged soil,) — |
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Although self-banished from the peerless Muse, |
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Banish'd from Art's gay groups and blending hues, |
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I still gaze on thy lines, where Beauty reigns, |
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With pleasure which rewards mine errant pains. |
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Thus, though I con no more the common page, |
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With learned Milton still and Shakespeare sage |
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I commune, when the labouring day is over, |
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Filled with a deep delight; like some true lover, |
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Whom frowning fate may not entirely sever |
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From her whose love, perhaps, is lost for ever! |
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Even now thy potent art witches my sight. |
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I see thee again, (with all my old delight,) — |
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With rainbows o'er thy beaming figures flung, |
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Still bright, and like Lyaeus, "ever young." |
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For thou, as Raffaelle and Correggio smiled |
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On beauty in the bud, and made the child |
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Immortal as the man of thoughtful brow, |
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By dint of their sweet power, — so dost thou. |
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And who, whilst those fair matchless children1 are, |
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Which, with thy radiant pencil, like a star, |
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Thou broughtest into light and pictured grace, |
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Shall dare assign to thee a second place? |
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Yet,—thou so lov'st the art thou dost profess, |
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(I know,) that thou would'st rather be deemed less |
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Than thine own stature, so that they who first |
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Gave art nobility, and burst |
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Like dawn upon the world to shine and reign, |
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Sole homage of mens' souls may still retain. |
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— With whom dost thou now commune, — night by night, |
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When Nature, lady thine, withdraws her light, |
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And even thou must cease to charm all time? |
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Is it with Michael and his stern-sublime? |
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With Rembrandt's riddles dark, — a "mighty maze?" |
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Caracci's learned lines? — or Rubens' blaze? |
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With hoary Leonardo, great and wise? |
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With Parma's painters and their angel eyes? |
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Or Raffaelle sent us down from out the sunny skies? |
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Or, leav'st thou these to their immortal rest, |
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Turning unto some youthful artist guest? |
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Or with some high mind or accomplished friend |
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Dost thou delight the evening hours to spend |
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By thine own fire, where proud shapes stand around, |
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Deathless and eloquent, though without sound, — |
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All in the poet's dreams and fancies born, |
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But wrought by sculptor-poets like the morn? |
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Dost thou with Ottley talk, a spirit learn'd, |
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In whom so long the smother'd fire has burned, — |
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Who should have been what many hope to be, |
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A painter stamp'd with immortality? |
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Speak! — or is't all enough that thou canst dream |
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Of ages when thyself must be the theme |
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Of praise unmixed, from rival envy free, |
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(If rival envy ever aimed at thee — )? |
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— Not that all those around thee (thou the sun) |
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perish when their beauteous toil is done: |
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For some there are whose works are wrought for time, |
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For future wonder, and eternal rhyme; — |
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Good Stothard, — old, but in his youth of fame; |
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Who is, and must survive — a potent name! |
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Chantrey, — and Flemish Wilkie, — Landseer young, |
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(Whose skill hath given the very beast a tongue — |
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Life — motion — till it chains the admiring eyes;) |
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And Turner, famous for his Claudian skies; |
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Hilton, Dewint, (rare brothers) formed to last; |
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And Collins, with his landscapes unsurpassed; |
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Callcott, whom river gods should all adore; |
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Westall, — and Leslie, — perhaps many more, |
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Who now expand their wings, and strive and hope to soar. |
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Where warfare frets the heart, and shrinks the soul, |
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Which else all grandly might itself unroll |
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Like morning in the east, when summer skies |
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Grow bright with beauty as the darkness dies. |
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Though near them wars and tempests shake the clime, |
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They live unvanquished through the storms of Time, |
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Like the centurion oak, whose tower of grey |
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Endureth age, but scarcely owns decay! |
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Thus free dost thou live, Lawrence! — and thus free |
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From hate, from wrong, envy and calumny, |
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Free from the pain thou giv'st not — may thy life |
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Glide onwards without taint of care, or strife! |
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Meantime, with every grace, and many a friend, |
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Continue still thy evening time to spend, |
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Feeding on lovely scenes and lofty shapes, — |
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Pondering on thoughts, while not a charm escapes, — |
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Sitting 'midst all the gods whom painters own, |
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Each standing on his pale and sculptured throne; — |
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Sitting and sharing all: — No miser thou, |
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Who hoard'st the wealth which may be useful now, |
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But to the artist young and yet unrefined, |
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Unbaring thoughts of many a master mind, — |
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Tracing the learned lines, — and sweetening all |
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With graceful converse, never known to pall. |
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Even I, deserter from the Muse's bowers, |
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Have shared with thee some pleasant, pleasant hours! |
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Since when — (those winter evenings fair and few!) |
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I see the spells have raised sweet shadows new. |
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— How long is't Lawrence, since this2 creature young, |
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Out of thy sportive mood so bravely sprung |
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Into bright life, and took his stand in joy |
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With things that Time shall never dare destroy? — |
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— What matter? — he is here, and here shall be, |
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A shape to speak, in far futurity, |
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Of thy rare merits to the Muse of Song, |
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When I and all these rhymes have vanished long! |
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