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Samuel Taylor Coleridge - The Garden Of Boccaccio
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[exerpt]
Of late, in one of those most weary hours,
When life seems emptied of all genial powers,
A dready mood, which he who ne`er has known
May bless his happy lot, I sate alone ;
And, from the numbing spell to win relief,
Call`d on the Past for thought of glee or grief.
In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee,
I sate and cow`r`d o`er my own vacancy !
And as I watch`d the dull continuous ache,
Which, all else slumb`ring, seem`d alone to wake ;
O Friend ! long wont to notice yet conceal,
And soothe by silence what words cannot heal,
I but half saw that quiet hand of thine
Place on my desk this exquisite design.
Boccaccio`s Garden and its faery,
The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry !
An Idyll, with Boccaccio`s spirit warm,
Framed in the silent poesy of form.

Like flocks adown a newly-bathéd steep
     Emerging from a mist : or like a stream
Of music soft that not dispels the sleep,
     But casts in happier moulds the slumberer`s dream,
Gazed by an idle eye with silent might
The picture stole upon my inward sight.
A tremulous warmth crept gradual o`er my chest,
As though an infant`s finger touch`d my breast.
And one by one (I know not whence) were brought
All spirits of power that most had stirr`d my thought
In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost
Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost ;
Or charm`d my youth, that, kindled from above,
Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ;
Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan
Of manhood, musing what and whence is man !
…
And many a verse which to myself I sang,
That woke the tear, yet stole away the pang,
Of hopes, which in lamenting I renew`d :
…

Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry
Thy fair creation with a mastering eye,
And all awake ! And now in fix`d gaze stand,
Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ;
…
I see no longer ! I myself am there,
Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.
`Tis I, that sweep that lute`s love-echoing strings,
And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings :
Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells
From the high tower, and think that there she dwells.
With old Boccaccio`s soul I stand possest,
And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.
…

Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,
…
With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves !
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