That smooths foregone distress, the lines
Of lingering care subdues, 10
Long-vanished happiness refines,
And clothes in brighter hues;
Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works
Those Spectres to dilate
That startle Conscience, as she lurks 15
Within her lonely seat.
O! that our lives, which flee so fast,
In purity were such,
That not an image of the past
Should fear that pencil's touch! 20
Retirement then might hourly look
Upon a soothing scene,
Age steal to his allotted nook
Contented and serene;
With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 25
In frosty moonlight glistening;
Or mountain rivers, where they creep
Along a channel smooth and deep,
To their own far-off murmurs listening.
["NOT LOVE, NOT WAR, NOR THE TUMULTUOUS SWELL"]
Composed 1823.—Published 1827
One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.
Not Love, not[366] War, nor the tumultuous swell
Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,
Nor[367] Duty struggling with afflictions strange—
Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;
But where untroubled peace and concord dwell, 5
There also is the Muse not loth to range,
Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange,[368]
Skyward ascending from a woody dell.[369][370]
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour,
And sage content, and placid melancholy; 10
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river—
Diaphanous because it travels slowly;[371]
Soft is the music that would charm for ever;[372]
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.