Book 2 — LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM[324:1]

Nor cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast, In intricacies of laborious song. These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign 5 To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint; But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain Bursts in a squall—they gape for wonderment. Hark! the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate! Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer 10 My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest, Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. O give me, from this heartless scene released, To hear our old Musician, blind and grey, 15 (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kissed,) His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play, By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night, The while I dance amid the tedded hay With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light. 20 [325]Or lies the purple evening on the bay Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees, For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied, On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, 25 And while the lazy boat sways to and fro, Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, And the gust pelting on the out-house shed 30 Makes the cock shrilly in the rainstorm crow, To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, Ballad of ship-wreck'd sailor floating dead, Whom his own true-love buried in the sands! Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures 35 Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures The things of Nature utter; birds or trees, Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 40

Dear Maid! whose form in solitude I seek, Such songs in such a mood to hear thee sing, It were a deep delight!—But thou shalt fling Thy white arm round my neck, and kiss my cheek, And love the brightness of my gladder eye 45 The while I tell thee what a holier joy

It were in proud and stately step to go, With trump and timbrel clang, and popular shout, To celebrate the shame and absolute rout Unhealable of Freedom's latest foe, 50 Whose tower'd might shall to its centre nod.

When human feelings, sudden, deep and vast, As all good spirits of all ages past Were armied in the hearts of living men, Shall purge the earth, and violently sweep 55 These vile and painted locusts to the deep, Leaving un—— undebas'd A —— world made worthy of its God.