| 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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