Ode on Indolence

One morn before me were three figures seen,With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;And one behind the other stepp'd serene,In placid sandals, and in white robes graced;They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn,When shifted round to see the other side;They came again; as when the urn once moreIs shifted round, the first seen shades return;And they were strange to me, as may betideWith vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.

How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?How came ye muffled in so hush a mask?Was it a silent deep-disguised plotTo steal away, and leave without a taskMy idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;The blissful cloud of summer-indolenceBenumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower:O, why did ye not melt, and leave my senseUnhaunted quite of all but—nothingness?

A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'dEach one the face a moment whiles to me;Then faded, and to follow them I burn'dAnd ached for wings, because I knew the three;The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name;The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,And ever watchful with fatigued eye;The last, whom I love more, the more of blameIs heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek,—I knew to be my demon Poesy.

They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:O folly! What is Love? and where is it?And for that poor Ambition! it springsFrom a man's little heart's short fever-fit;For Poesy!—no,—she has not a joy,—At least for me,—so sweet as drowsy noons,And evenings steep'd in honied indolence;O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy,That I may never know how change the moons,Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!

And once more came they by;—alas! wherefore?My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams;My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'erWith flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,Tho' in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;The open casement press'd a new-leaved vine,Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay;O Shadows! 't was a time to bid farewell!Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.

So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raiseMy head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;For I would not be dieted with praise,A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!Fade softly from my eyes and be once moreIn masque-like figures on the dreamy urn;Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,And for the day faint visions there is store;Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle spright,Into the clouds, and nevermore return!