SURPRISED by joy—impatient as the wind— I turned to share the transport—O! with whom But thee—deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind— But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more; That neither present time nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. TO TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men! Whether the all-cheering sun be free to shed His beams around thee, or thou rest thy head Pillowed in some dark dungeon’s noisome den— O miserable chieftain! where and when Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow: Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, Live and take comfort. Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee: air, earth, and skies; There’s not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man’s unconquerable mind. WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED WITH ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed; Some lying fast at anchor in the road, Some veering up and down, one knew not why. A goodly vessel did I then espy Come like a giant from a haven broad; And lustily along the bay she strode, ‘Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.’ This ship was naught to me, nor I to her, Yet I pursued her with a lover’s look; This ship to all the rest did I prefer: When will she turn, and whither? She will brook No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir: On went she—and due north her journey took. THE WORLD THE World is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,— For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,— So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802