[The lines following "nor do words" were written with Lord Byron's character as a poet before me, and that of others his contemporaries who wrote under like influences.--I. F.] One of the "Evening Voluntaries."--ED. Not in the lucid intervals of life That come but as a curse to party-strife; Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh Of languor puts his rosy garland by; Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave 5 Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave-- Is Nature felt, or can be; nor do words, Which practised talent[993] readily affords, Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords; Nor has her gentle beauty power to move 10 With genuine rapture and with fervent love The soul of Genius, if he dare[994] to take Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake; Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent Of all the truly great and all the innocent. 15 But who _is_ innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise, O Nature! we are thine, Through good and evil thine, in just degree Of rational and manly sympathy. 19 To all that Earth from pensive hearts is stealing, And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing, Add every charm the Universe can show Through every change its aspects undergo-- Care may be respited, but not repealed; No perfect cure grows on that bounded field. 25 Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace, If He, through whom alone our conflicts cease, Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance, Come not to speed the Soul's deliverance; To the distempered Intellect refuse 30 His gracious help, or give what we abuse. FOOTNOTES: [993] See the Fenwick note.--ED. [994] 1837. ... dares ... 1835. BY THE SIDE OF RYDAL MERE Composed 1834.--Published 1835 One of the "Evening Voluntaries."--ED. The linnet's warble, sinking towards a close, Hints to the thrush 'tis time for their repose; The shrill-voiced thrush is heedless, and again The monitor revives his own sweet strain; But both will soon be mastered, and the copse 5 Be left as silent as the mountain-tops, Ere some commanding star[995] dismiss to rest The throng of rooks, that now, from twig or nest, (After a steady flight on home-bound wings, And a last game of mazy hoverings 10 Around their ancient grove) with cawing noise Disturb the liquid music's equipoise.