The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Tasso's Ode to the Golden Age
It is to be borne in mind, that the opinions expressed in this famous ode of Tasso's, are only so expressed on the supposition of their compatibility with a state of innocence.
O lovely age of gold!Not that the rivers roll'dWith milk, or that the woods wept honey-dew;Not that the ready groundProduc'd without a wound,Or the mild serpent had no tooth that slew;Not that a cloudless blueFor ever was in sight,Or that the heaven which burns,And now is cold by turns,Look'd out in glad and everlasting light;No, nor that even the insolent ships from far Brought war to no new lands, nor riches worse than war:
But solely that that vainAnd breath-invented pain,That idol of mistake, that worshipped cheat,That Honour,—since so call'dBy vulgar minds appall'd,Play'd not the tyrant with our nature yet.It had not come to fret The sweet and happy foldOf gentle human-kind;Nor did its hard law bindSouls nurs'd in freedom; but that law of gold,That glad and golden law, all free, all fitted,Which Nature's own hand wrote—What pleases, is permitted.
Then among streams and flowers,The little winged PowersWent singing carols without toren or bow;The nymphs and shepherds satMingling with innocent chatSports and low whispers; and with whispers low,Kisses that would not go.The maid, her childhood o'er,Kept not her bloom uneyed,Which now a veil must hide,Nor the crisp apples which her bosom bore;And oftentimes, in river or in lake,The lover and his love their merry bath would take.
'Twas thou, thou, Honour, firstThat didst deny our thirstIts drink, and on the fount thy covering set;Thou bad'st kind eyes withdrawInto constrained awe,And keep the secret for their tears to wet;Thou gathered'st in a netThe tresses from the air,And mad'st the sports and playsTurn all to sullen ways,And putt'st on speech a rein, in steps a care.Thy work it is,—thou shade that wilt not move,That what was once the gift, is now the theft of Love.
Our sorrows and our pains,These are thy noble gains. But oh, thou Love's and Nature's masterer,Thou conqueror of the crown'd,What dost thou on this ground,Too small a circle for thy mighty sphere?Go, and make slumber dearTo the renown'd and high;We here, a lowly race,Can live without thy grace,After the use of mild antiquity.Go, let us love; since yearsNo truce allow, and life soon disappears;Go, let us love; the daylight dies, is born;But unto us the lightDies once for all, and sleep brings on eternal night.