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 more
Is shifted round, the first seen shades return ;
And they were strange to me, as may betide
With 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 plot
To steal away, and leave without a task
My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;
The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
Benumb'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 sense
Unhaunted quite of all but — nothingness ?

A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd
Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd
And ach'd 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 blame
Is 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 springs
From 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'er
With 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-leav'd vine,
Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay;
O Shadows ! 'twas a time to bid farewell !
Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.

So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
My 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 more
In 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 never more return!