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To Wordsworth by Walter Savage Landor

 

      Those who have laid the harp aside
        And turn'd to idler things,
      From very restlessness have tried
        The loose and dusty strings.
      And, catching back some favourite strain,
      Run with it o'er the chords again.

      But Memory is not a Muse,
        O Wordsworth! though 'tis said
      They all descend from her, and use
        To haunt her fountain-head:
      That other men should work for me
      In the rich mines of Poesie,
      Pleases me better than the toil
        Of smoothing under hardened hand,
      With Attic emery and oil,
        The shining point for Wisdom's wand,
      Like those thou temperest 'mid the rills
      Descending from thy native hills.

      Without his governance, in vain
        Manhood is strong, and Youth is bold
      If oftentimes the o'er-piled strain
        Clogs in the furnace, and grows cold
      Beneath his pinions deep and frore,
      And swells and melts and flows no more,
      That is because the heat beneath
        Pants in its cavern poorly fed.
      Life springs not from the couch of Death,
        Nor Muse nor Grace can raise the dead;
      Unturn'd then let the mass remain,
      Intractable to sun or rain.

      A marsh, where only flat leaves lie,
      And showing but the broken sky,
      Too surely is the sweetest lay
      That wins the ear and wastes the day,
      Where youthful Fancy pouts alone
      And lets not Wisdom touch her zone.

      He who would build his fame up high,
      The rule and plummet must apply,
      Nor say, 'I'll do what I have plann'd,'
      Before he try if loam or sand
      Be still remaining in the place
      Delved for each polisht pillar's base.
      With skilful eye and fit device
      Thou raisest every edifice,
      Whether in sheltered vale it stand
      Or overlook the Dardan strand,
      Amid the cypresses that mourn
      Laodameia's love forlorn.

      We both have run o'er half the space
      Listed for mortal's earthly race;
      We both have crost life's fervid line,
      And other stars before us shine:
      May they be bright and prosperous
      As those that have been stars for us!
      Our course by Milton's light was sped,
      And Shakespeare shining overhead:
      Chatting on deck was Dryden too,
      The Bacon of the rhyming crew;
      None ever crost our mystic sea
      More richly stored with thought than he;
      Tho' never tender nor sublime,
      He wrestles with and conquers Time.
      To learn my lore on Chaucer's knee,
      I left much prouder company;
      Thee gentle Spenser fondly led,
      But me he mostly sent to bed.

      I wish them every joy above
      That highly blessed spirits prove,
      Save one: and that too shall be theirs,
      But after many rolling years,
      When 'mid their light thy light appears.

 
 
 

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