Ode to Memory

Thou who stealest fire,

From the fountains of the past,

To glorify the present; oh, haste,

Visit my low desire!

Strengthen me, enlighten me!

I faint in this obscurity,

Thou dewy dawn of memory.

Come not as thou cam'st of late,

Flinging the gloom of yesternight

On the white day; but robed in softened light

Of orient state.

Whilome thou camest with the morning mist,

Even as a maid, whose stately brow

The dewimpearléd winds of dawn have kist,

When she, as thou,

Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight

Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots

Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits,

Which in wintertide shall star

The black earth with brilliance rare.

Whilome thou camest with the morning mist,

And with the evening cloud,

Showering thy gleanéd wealth into my open breast,

(Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind

Never grow sere,

When rooted in the garden of the mind,

Because they are the earliest of the year).

Nor was the night thy shroud.

In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest

Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope,

The eddying of her garments caught from thee

The light of thy great presence; and the cope

Of the half attained futurity,

Though deep not fathomless,

Was cloven with the million stars which tremble

O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy.

Small thought was there of life's distress,

For sure she deemed no mist of earth could dull

Those spiritthrilling eyes so keen and beautiful:

Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres,

Listening the lordly music flowing from

The illimitable years.

Oh strengthen me, enlighten me!

I faint in this obscurity,

Thou dewy dawn of memory.

Come forth I charge thee, arise,

Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes!

Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines

Unto mine inner eye,

Divinest memory!

Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall

Which ever sounds and shines

A pillar of white light upon the wall

Of purple cliffs, aloof descried,

Come from the woods that belt the gray hillside,

The seven elms, the poplars four

That stand beside my father's door,

And chiefly from the brook that loves

To purl o'er matted cress and ribbéd sand,

Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves,

Drawing into his narrow earthen urn,

In every elbow and turn,

The filtered tribute of the rough woodland.

O! hither lead thy feet!

Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat

Of the thickfleecéd sheep from wattled folds,

Upon the ridgéd wolds,

When the first matinsong hath wakéd loud

Over the dark dewy earth forlorn,

What time the amber morn

Forth gushes from beneath a lowhung cloud.

Large dowries doth the raptured eye

To the young spirit present

When first she is wed;

And like a bride of old

In triumph led,

With music and sweet showers

Of festal flowers,

Unto the dwelling she must sway.

Well hast thou done, great artist Memory,

In setting round thy first experiment

With royal framework of wrought gold;

Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay,

And foremost in thy various gallery

Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls

Upon the storied walls,

For the discovery

And newness of thine art so pleased thee,

That all which thou hast drawn of fairest

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs

With thee unto the love thou bearest

The firstborn of thy genius. Artistlike,

Ever retiring thou dost gaze

On the prime labour of thine early days:

No matter what the sketch might be;

Whether the high field on the bushless Pike,

Or even a sandbuilt ridge

Of heapéd hills that mound the sea,

Overblown with murmurs harsh,

Or even a lowly cottage whence we see

Stretched wide and wild the waste enormous marsh,

Where from the frequent bridge,

Emblems or glimpses of eternity,

The trenchéd waters run from sky to sky;

Or a garden bowered close

With pleachéd alleys of the trailing rose,

Long alleys falling down to twilight grots,

Or opening upon level plots

Of crownéd lilies, standing near

Purplespikéd lavender:

Whither in after life retired

From brawling storms,

From weary wind,

With youthful fancy reinspired,

We may hold converse with all forms

Of the manysided mind,

The few whom passion hath not blinded,

Subtlethoughted, myriadminded.

My friend, with thee to live alone,

Methinks were better than to own

A crown, a sceptre, and a throne.

O strengthen me, enlighten me!

I faint in this obscurity,

Thou dewy dawn of memory.