PART THE FOURTH.

O blithe new-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice: O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass, 5 Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near. Though babbling only to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers, 10 Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, 15 A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. 20 To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen! And I can listen to thee yet; 25 Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessèd bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be 30 An unsubstantial, fairy place That is fit home for thee! William Wordsworth.

Triumphal arch that fill’st the sky, When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art. Still seem, as to my childhood’s sight, 5 A mid-way station given For happy spirits to alight, Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all that optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so, 10 As when I dreamed of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow? When Science from Creation’s face Enchantment’s veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place 15 To cold material laws! And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky. 20 When o’er the green undeluged earth, Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine, How came the world’s gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign! And when its yellow lustre smiled 25 O’er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God. Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first-made anthem rang 30 On earth, delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye, Unraptured, greet thy beam; Theme of primeval prophecy, 35 Be still the poet’s theme! The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When, glittering in the freshened fields, The snowy mushroom springs. 40 How glorious is thy girdle cast O’er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down! As fresh in yon horizon dark, 45 As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 50 Nor lets the type grow pale with age, That first spoke peace to man. Thomas Campbell.

Once, in the flight of ages past, There lived a man:—and WHO was HE?— Mortal! howe’er thy lot be cast, That Man resembled thee. Unknown the region of his birth, 5 The land in which he died unknown: His name has perished from the earth; This truth survives alone:— That joy and grief, and hope and fear, Alternate triumphed in his breast; 10 His bliss and woe,—a smile, a tear!— Oblivion hides the rest. The bounding pulse, the languid limb, The changing spirits’ rise and fall, We know that these were felt by him, 15 For these are felt by all. He suffered,—but his pangs are o’er; Enjoyed,—but his delights are fled; Had friends,—his friends are now no more; And foes,—his foes are dead. 20 He loved,—but whom he loved, the grave Hath lost in its unconscious womb: Oh she was fair!—but nought could save Her beauty from the tomb. He saw whatever thou hast seen; 25 Encountered all that troubles thee: He was—whatever thou hast been; He is—what thou shalt be. The rolling seasons, day and night, Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 30 Erewhile his portion, life, and light, To him exist in vain. The clouds and sunbeams, o’er his eye That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky 35 No vestige where they flew. The annals of the human race, Their ruins since the world began, Of HIM afford no other trace Than this,—THERE LIVED A MAN! 40 James Montgomery.

O Reader! hast thou ever stood to see The Holly Tree? The eye that contemplates it well perceives Its glossy leaves Ordered by an Intelligence so wise, 5 As might confound the atheist’s sophistries. Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen Wrinkled and keen; No grazing cattle through their prickly round Can reach to wound; 10 But, as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. I love to view these things with curious eyes, And moralize; And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree 15 Can emblems see, Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time. Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear Harsh and austere; 20 To those who on my leisure would intrude, Reserved and rude;— Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be, Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, 25 Some harshness show, All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 30 And as when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green, The Holly leaves a sober hue display Less bright than they; But when the bare and wintry woods we see, 35 What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree? So serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng; So would I seem amid the young and gay More grave than they; 40 That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the Holly Tree. Robert Southey.

A slanting ray of evening light Shoots through the yellow pane: It makes the faded crimson bright, And gilds the fringe again; The window’s gothic framework falls 5 In oblique shadows on the walls. And since those trappings first were new, How many a cloudless day, To rob the velvet of its hue, Has come and passed away! 10 How many a setting sun hath made That curious lattice-work of shade! Crumbled beneath the hillock green The cunning hand must be, That carved this fretted door, I ween, 15 Acorn and fleur-de-lis; And now the worm hath done her part In mimicking the chisel’s art. In days of yore (as now we call) When the First James was king, 20 The courtly knight from yonder Hall His train did hither bring, All seated round in order due, With broidered suit and buckled shoe. On damask cushions decked with fringe, 25 All reverently they knelt; Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hinge, In ancient English spelt, Each holding in a lily hand, Responsive to the priest’s command. 30 Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle, The sunbeam, long and lone, Illumes the characters awhile Of their inscription-stone: And there, in marble hard and cold, 35 The knight with all his train behold. Outstretched together are exprest He and my lady fair, With hands uplifted on the breast, In attitude of prayer: 40 Long-visaged, clad in armour, he— With ruffled arm and bodice she. Set forth in order as they died, Their numerous offspring bend, Devoutly kneeling side by side, 45 As if they did intend For past omissions to atone By saying endless prayers in stone. Those mellow days are past and dim, But generations new 50 In regular descent from him Have filled the stately pew, And in the same succession go To occupy the vaults below. And now the polished modern Squire 55 And his gay train appear, Who duly to the Hall retire A season every year, And fill the seats with belle and beau, As ’twas so many years ago; 60 Perchance, all thoughtless, as they tread The hollow-sounding floor, Of that dark house of kindred dead, Which shall, as heretofore, In turn receive to silent rest 65 Another and another guest: The feathered hearse and sable train, In all their wonted state, Shall wind along the village lane, And stand before the gate, 70 Brought many a distant county through, To join the final rendezvous. And when the race is swept away, All to their dusty beds, Still shall the mellow evening ray 75 Shine gaily o’er their heads; While other faces, fresh and new, Shall fill the Squire’s deserted pew. Jane Taylor.

Once a dream did weave a shade O’er my angel-guarded bed, That an emmet lost its way Where on grass methought I lay. Troubled, ’wildered, and forlorn, 5 Dark, benighted, travel-worn, Over many a tangled spray, All heart-broke, I heard her say: ‘Oh, my children! do they cry, Do they hear their father sigh? 10 Now they look abroad to see, Now return and weep for me.’ Pitying, I dropped a tear: But I saw a glowworm near, Who replied, ‘What wailing wight 15 Calls the watchman of the night? ‘I am set to light the ground, While the beetle goes his round. Follow now the beetle’s hum, Little wanderer, hie thee home!’ 20 William Blake.

I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light, Winter’s pale dawn; and as warm fires illume, And cheerful tapers shine around the room, Through misty windows bend my musing sight, Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white 5 With shutters closed peer faintly through the gloom, That slow recedes; while yon grey spires assume, Rising from their dark pile, an added height By indistinctness given—Then to decree The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold 10 To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee Wisdom’s rich page. O hours more worth than gold, By whose blest use we lengthen life, and, free From drear decays of age, outlive the old! Anna Seward.

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound With joy—and oft, an unintruding guest, 5 I watched her secret toils from day to day; How true she warped the moss to form her nest, And modelled it within with wood and clay. And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, 10 Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue: And there I witnessed in the summer hours A brood of nature’s minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. John Clare.

O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence, Lulling to sad repose the weary sense, The faint pang stealest unperceived away; On thee I rest my only hope at last, 5 And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile; As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour, 10 Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while; Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure. William Lisle Bowles.

Oh, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease, Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, To make the shifting clouds be what you please, Or let the easily-persuaded eyes Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 5 Of a friend’s fancy; or, with head bent low, And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold, ’Twixt crimson banks; and then a traveller go From mount to mount, through Cloudland, gorgeous land! Or, listening to the tide with closèd sight, 10 Be that blind Bard, who on the Chian strand, By those deep sounds possessed with inward light, Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven is on the sea: 5 Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder—everlastingly. Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear’st untouched by solemn thought, 10 Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year; And worshipp’st at the temple’s inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. William Wordsworth.

I will not praise the often-flattered rose, Or, virgin-like, with blushing charms half seen, Or when, in dazzling splendour, like a queen, All her magnificence of state she shows; No, nor that nun-like lily which but blows 5 Beneath the valley’s cool and shady screen; Nor yet the sun-flower, that with warrior mien Still eyes the orb of glory where it glows; But thou, neglected Wall-flower! to my breast And Muse art dearest, wildest, sweetest flower! 10 To whom alone the privilege is given Proudly to root thyself above the rest; As Genius does, and from thy rocky tower Lend fragrance to the purest breath of heaven. Thomas Doubleday.

Hardly we breathe, although the air be free: How massively doth awful Nature pile The living rock, like some cathedral aisle, Sacred to Silence and the solemn Sea. How that clear pool lies sleeping tranquilly, 5 And under its glassed waters seems to smile, With many hues, a mimic grove the while Of foliage submarine, shrub, flower, and tree. Beautiful scene! and fitted to allure The printless footsteps of some sea-born maid, 10 Who here, with her green tresses disarrayed, ’Mid the clear bath, unfearing and secure, May sport at noontide in the caverned shade— Cold as the shadow—as the waters pure. Thomas Doubleday.

’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green; Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul’s, they like Thames’ waters flow. O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town, 5 Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own: The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, 9 Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. William Blake.

This was the ruler of the land, When Athens was the land of fame; This was the light that led the band, When each was like a living flame; The centre of earth’s noblest ring— 5 Of more than men the more than king! Yet not by fetter, nor by spear, His sovereignty was held or won: Feared—but alone as freemen fear, Loved—but as freemen love alone, 10 He waved the sceptre o’er his kind By nature’s first great title—mind! Resistless words were on his tongue— Then eloquence first flashed below; Full armed to life the portent sprung— 15 Minerva from the Thunderer’s brow! And his the sole, the sacred hand That shook her ægis o’er the land. And throned immortal by his side, A woman sits with eye sublime,— 20 Aspasia, all his spirit’s bride; But, if their solemn love were crime, Pity the Beauty and the Sage— Their crime was in their darkened age. He perished, but his wreath was won— 25 He perished in his height of fame; Then sunk the cloud on Athens’ sun, Yet still she conquered in his name. Filled with his soul, she could not die; Her conquest was posterity 30 George Croly.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I 5 Live o’er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine stealing o’er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; 10 And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She leaned against the armèd man, The statue of the armèd knight; She stood and listened to my lay, 15 Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene’er I sing The songs that make her grieve. 20 I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story— An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush, 25 With downcast eyes, and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; 30 And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land. I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another’s love, 35 Interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face. 40 But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night; That sometimes from the savage den, 45 And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade,— There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; 50 And that he knew it was a fiend, This miserable Knight! And that unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death 55 The Lady of the Land;— And how she wept, and clasped his knees, And how she tended him in vain; And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;— 60 And that she nursed him in a cave; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay;— His dying words—but when I reached 65 That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; 70 The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, 75 Subdued and cherished long! She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. 80 Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside, As conscious of my look she stept— Then suddenly, with timorous eye, She fled to me and wept She half enclosed me with her arms, 85 She pressed me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face. ’Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly ’twas a bashful art, 90 That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, 95 My bright and beauteous Bride. Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light 5 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace, Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; 10 Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 15 But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! Lord Byron.

Oh welcome, bat and owlet gray, Thus winging low your airy way! And welcome, moth and drowsy fly, That to mine ear come humming by! And welcome, shadows dim and deep, 5 And stars that through the pale sky peep! O welcome all! to me ye say, My woodland Love is on her way. Upon the soft wind floats her hair; Her breath is in the dewy air; 10 Her steps are in the whispered sound, That steals along the stilly ground. O dawn of day, in rosy bower, What art thou to this witching hour? O noon of day, in sunshine bright, 15 What art thou to the fall of night? Joanna Baillie.

She was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning, A smile of her’s was like an act of grace; She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning, Like daily beauties of the vulgar race; But if she smiled, a light was on her face, 5 A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam Of peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the stream Of human thought with unabiding glory; Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream, A visitation, bright and transitory. 10 But she is changed,—hath felt the touch of sorrow; No love hath she, no understanding friend; Oh grief! when heaven is forced of earth to borrow What the poor niggard earth has not to lend; But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend. 15 The tallest flower that skyward rears its head, Grows from the common ground, and there must shed Its delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely, That they should find so base a bridal bed, Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely! 20 She had a brother, and a tender father; And she was loved, but not as others are, From whom we ask return of love,—but rather As one might love a dream; a phantom-fair Of something exquisitely strange and rare, 25 Which all were glad to look on, men and maids, Yet no one claimed—as oft, in dewy glades The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness, Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;— The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness. 30 ’Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is only The common lot, which all the world have known; To her ’tis more, because her heart is lonely, And yet she hath no strength to stand alone;— Once she had playmates, fancies of her own, 35 And she did love them. They are past away, As fairies vanish at the break of day; And like a spectre of an age departed, Or unsphered angel wofully astray, She glides along—the solitary-hearted. Hartley Coleridge.

Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely. ‘Tell me, thou bonny bird, 5 When shall I marry me?’ —‘When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.’ ‘Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?’ 10 —‘The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. ‘The glowworm o’er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing, 15 Welcome, proud lady.’ Sir Walter Scott.

An hour with thee!—When earliest day Dapples with gold the eastern gray, Oh, what can frame my mind to bear The toil and turmoil, cark and care, New griefs, which coming hours unfold, 5 And sad remembrance of the old?— One hour with thee. One hour with thee!—When burning June Waves his red flag at pitch of noon; What shall repay the faithful swain 10 His labour on the sultry plain; And more than cave or sheltering bough, Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow?— One hour with thee. One hour with thee!—When sun is set, 15 Oh, what can teach me to forget The thankless labours of the day, The hopes, the wishes, flung away, The increasing wants, and lessening gains, The master’s pride, who scorns my pains?— 20 One hour with thee. Sir Walter Scott.

The waters are flashing, The white hail is dashing, The lightnings are glancing, The hoar-spray is dancing— Away! 5 The whirlwind is rolling, The thunder is tolling, The forest is swinging, The minster bells ringing— Come away! 10 The earth is like ocean, Wreck-strewn and in motion: Bird, beast, man, and worm, Have crept out of the storm— Come away! 15 ‘Our boat has one sail, And the helmsman is pale;—A bold pilot I trow, Who should follow us now,’ Shouted He— 20 And She cried: ‘Ply the oar, Put off gaily from shore!’ As she spoke bolts of death, Mixed with hail, specked their path O’er the sea. 25 And from isle, tower, and rock, The blue beacon-cloud broke, Though dumb in the blast, The red cannon flashed fast From the lee. 30 ‘And fear’st thou, and fear’st thou? And see’st thou, and hear’st thou? And drive we not free O’er the terrible sea, I and thou?’ 35 One boat-cloak did cover The loved and the lover— Their blood beats one measure, They murmur proud pleasure Soft and low;— 40 While around the lashed ocean, Like mountains in motion, Is withdrawn and uplifted, Sunk, shattered, and shifted, To and fro. 45 In the court of the fortress, Beside the pale portress, Like a bloodhound well beaten The bridegroom stands, eaten By shame: 50 On the topmost watch turret, As a death-boding spirit, Stands the gray tyrant father, To his voice the mad weather Seems tame; 55 And with curses as wild As e’er clung to child, He devotes to the blast The best, loveliest, and last, Of his name! 60 Percy Bysshe Shelley.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove; A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone 5 Half-hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; 10 But she is in her grave, and oh! The difference to me! William Wordsworth.

O Goddess, hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung, Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 5 The wingèd Psyche with awakened eyes? I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof 10 Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: ’Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; 15 Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too; Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: 20 The wingèd Boy I knew; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? His Psyche true! O latest-born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy! 25 Fairer than Phœbe’s sapphire-regioned star! Or Vesper, amorous glowworm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heaped with flowers; Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan 30 Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. 35 O brightest! though too late for antique vows, Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, When holy were the haunted forest boughs, Holy the air, the water, and the fire; Yet even in these days so far retired 40 From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Fluttering among the faint Olympians, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; 45 Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swingèd censer teeming: Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 50 In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branchèd thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep; 55 And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreathed trellis of a working brain, 60 With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, 65 A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in! John Keats.

Ah Sunflower! weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun; Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller’s journey is done; Where the Youth pined away with desire, 5 And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow, Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my Sunflower wishes to go. William Blake.

Too true it is, my time of power was spent In idly watering weeds of casual growth, That wasted energy to desperate sloth Declined, and fond self-seeking discontent; That the huge debt for all that Nature lent 5 I sought to cancel, and was nothing loth To deem myself an outlaw, severed both From duty and from hope,—yea, blindly sent Without an errand, where I would to stray:— Too true it is, that, knowing now my state, 10 I weakly mourn the sin I ought to hate, Nor love the law I yet would fain obey: But true it is, above all law and fate Is Faith, abiding the appointed day. Hartley Coleridge.

Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries, Nor seen thy girlish, sweet vicissitude, Thy mazy motions, striving to elude, Yet wooing still a parents watchful eyes, Thy humours, many as the opal’s dyes, 5 And lovely all;—methinks thy scornful mood, And bearing high of stately womanhood,— Thy brow, where Beauty sits to tyrannize O’er humble love, had made me sadly fear thee; For never sure was seen a royal bride, 10 Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride— My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee: But when I see thee at thy father’s side, Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee. Hartley Coleridge.

Green little vaulter on the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that’s heard amidst the lazy noon, When ev’n the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 5 With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, One to the fields, the other to the hearth, 10 Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong At your clear hearts, and both seem given to earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song, In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth. Leigh Hunt.

O melancholy bird!—a winter’s day Thou standest by the margin of the pool, And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school To patience, which all evil can allay; God has appointed thee the fish thy prey; 5 And given thyself a lesson to the fool Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. There need not schools, nor the professor’s chair, Though these be good, true wisdom to impart; 10 He, who has not enough for these to spare Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair; Nature is always wise in every part. Lord Thurlow.

When in the woods I wander all alone, The woods that are my solace and delight, Which I more covet than a prince’s throne, My toil by day and canopy by night; (Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, 5 These lights shall light me to old age’s gate, While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright, Heavy with fear, death’s fearful summons wait;) Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone, Weighing in thought the world’s no-happiness, 10 I cannot choose but wonder at its moan, Since so plain joys the woody life can bless: Then live who may where honied words prevail, I with the deer, and with the nightingale! Lord Thurlow.

Again the violet of our early days Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, And kindles into fragrance at his blaze; The streams, rejoiced that winter’s work is done, Talk of to-morrow’s cowslips, as they run. 5 Wild apple! thou art bursting into bloom; Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn! Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb; And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born. 9 Then haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn, Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly light Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands From sea to sea, while daisies infinite Uplift in praise their little glowing hands O’er every hill that under heaven expands. 15 Ebenezer Elliot.

The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the grasshopper’s—he takes the lead 5 In summer luxury,—he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost 10 Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The grasshopper’s among some grassy hills. John Keats.

Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome, Ringing with echoes of Italian song: Henceforth to thee these magic halls belong, And all the pleasant place is like a home. Hark, on the right with full piano tone 5 Old Dante’s voice encircles all the air: Hark yet again, like flute-tones mingling rare, Comes the keen sweetness of Petrarca’s moan. Pass thou the lintel freely; without fear Feast on the music. I do better know thee, 10 Than to suspect this pleasure thou dost owe me Will wrong thy gentle spirit, or make less dear That element whence thou must draw thy life— An English maiden, and an English wife. Arthur Henry Hallam.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 5 That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown: For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; 10 And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 15 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf, And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown: 20 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! Lord Byron.

Is this the spot where Rome’s eternal foe Into his snares the mighty legions drew, Whence from the carnage, spiritless and few, A remnant scarcely reached her gates of woe? Is this the stream, thus gliding soft and slow, 5 That, from the gushing wounds of thousands, grew So fierce a flood, that waves of crimson hue Rushed on the bosom of the lake below? The mountains that gave back the battle-cry Are silent now;—perchance yon hillocks green 10 Mark where the bones of those old warriors lie! Heaven never gladdened a more peaceful scene; Never left softer breeze a fairer sky To sport upon thy waters, Thrasymene. Charles Strong.

Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North, With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread? Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 5 And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God. It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 9 That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine, And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair, And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine. Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, The General rode along us to form us to the fight, When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout, 15 Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s right. And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging line! For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws! For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine! 20 The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks; For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! 25 Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast, O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! Stand back to back, in God’s name, and fight it to the last. Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground: Hark! hark!—What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear? 30 Whose banner do I see, boys? ’Tis he, thank God, ’tis he, boys. Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here. Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, 35 And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar: And he—he turns, he flies:—shame on those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war. 40 Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make your search secure, Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets, The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, 45 When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day; And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks, Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate, And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, 50 Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades? Down, down, for ever down with the Mitre and the Crown, With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope; There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham’s Stalls: 55 The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope. And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children’s ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England’s sword; And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word. 60 Lord Macaulay.

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, My true love has mounted his steed and away, Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down; Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown! He has doffed the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear, 5 He has placed the steel-cap o’er his long-flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,— Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown! For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws, Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause; 10 His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,— God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown! They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall; But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town, 15 That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown. There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There’s Erin’s high Ormond and Scotland’s Montrose! Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown, With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown? 20 Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier! Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear, Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown In a pledge to Fair England, her Church, and her Crown. Sir Walter Scott.

Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day’s renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark’s crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 5 By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat 10 Lay their bulwarks on the brine, While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime; As they drifted on their path, 15 There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time. But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene; 20 And her van the fleeter rushed O’er the deadly space between. ‘Hearts of oak!’ our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, 25 Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane 30 To our cheering sent us back;— Their shots along the deep slowly boom:— Then ceased—and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail, Or, in conflagration pale, 35 Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o’er the wave: ‘Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save: 40 So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England’s feet, And make submission meet To our King.’ 45 Then Denmark blessed our chief That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day; 50 While the sun looked smiling bright O’er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, Old England, raise 55 For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities’ blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep 60 Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore! Brave hearts! to Britain’s pride Once so faithful and so true, 65 On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant good Riou: Soft sigh the winds of heaven o’er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid’s song condoles, 70 Singing glory to the souls Of the brave! Thomas Campbell.

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, 5 When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 10 And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills, with thunder riven; Then rushed the steed, to battle driven; And louder than the bolts of Heaven 15 Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 20 ’Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 25 Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few shall part, where many meet; The snow shall be their winding-sheet; 30 And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre. Thomas Campbell.

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee, And was the safeguard of the West; the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest child of liberty. She was a maiden City, bright and free; 5 No guile seduced, no force could violate; And when she took unto herself a mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,— 10 Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reached its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great has passed away. William Wordsworth.

Fair Star of Evening, Splendour of the West, Star of my country!—on the horizon’s brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink On England’s bosom; yet well pleased to rest, Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest, 5 Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, Should’st be my Country’s emblem; and should’st wink, Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot Beneath thee, that is England; there it lies. 10 Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot, One life, one glory! I with many a fear For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, Among men who do not love her, linger here. William Wordsworth.

Another year!—another deadly blow! Another mighty empire overthrown! And we are left, or shall be left, alone; The last that dare to struggle with the foe. ’Tis well! from this day forward we shall know 5 That in ourselves our safety must be sought; That by our own right hands it must be wrought; That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low. O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer! We shall exult, if they who rule the land 10 Be men who hold its many blessings dear, Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band, Who are to judge of danger which they fear, And honour which they do not understand. William Wordsworth.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O’er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5 The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast. Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; 10 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we stedfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, And we far away on the billow! 20 Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone, And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,— But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, 25 When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 30 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone— But we left him alone with his glory. Charles Wolfe.

’Tis done—but yesterday a King! And armed with Kings to strive— And now thou art a nameless thing: So abject—yet alive! Is this the man of thousand thrones, 5 Who strewed our earth with hostile bones, And can he thus survive? Since he, miscalled the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fall’n so far. Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind 10 Who bowed so low the knee? By gazing on thyself grown blind, Thou taught’st the rest to see. With might unquestioned,—power to save,— Thine only gift hath been the grave, 15 To those that worshipped thee; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambition’s less than littleness! Thanks for that lesson—it will teach To after-warriors more 20 Than high Philosophy can preach, And vainly preached before. That spell upon the minds of men Breaks, never to unite again, That led them to adore 25 Those Pagod things of sabre sway, With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. The triumph, and the vanity, The rapture of the strife— The earthquake voice of Victory, 30 To thee the breath of life; The sword, the sceptre, and that sway Which man seemed made but to obey, Wherewith renown was rife— All quelled!—Dark Spirit! what must be 35 The madness of thy memory! The Desolator desolate! The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others’ fate A suppliant for his own! 40 Is it some yet imperial hope, That with such change can calmly cope? Or dread of death alone? To die a prince—or live a slave— Thy choice is most ignobly brave! 45 He who of old would rend the oak, Dreamed not of the rebound: Chained by the trunk he vainly broke— Alone—how looked he round? Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 50 An equal deed hast done at length, And darker fate hast found: He fell, the forest prowlers’ prey; But thou must eat thy heart away! The Roman, when his burning heart 55 Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger—dared depart, In savage grandeur, home— He dared depart in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne, 60 Yet left him such a doom! His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandoned power. The Spaniard, when the lust of sway Had lost its quickening spell, 65 Cast crowns for rosaries away, An empire for a cell; A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds, His dotage trifled well: 70 Yet better had he neither known A bigot’s shrine, nor despot’s throne. But thou—from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung— Too late thou leav’st the high command 75 To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart, To see thine own unstrung; To think that God’s fair world hath been 80 The footstool of a thing so mean! And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, Who thus can hoard his own! And Monarchs bowed the trembling limb, And thanked him for a throne! 85 Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, When thus thy mightiest foes their fear In humblest guise have shown. Oh! ne’er may tyrant leave behind A brighter name to lure mankind! 90 Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, Nor written thus in vain— Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, Or deepen every stain: If thou hadst died as honour dies, 95 Some new Napoleon might arise, To shame the world again— But who would soar the solar height, To set in such a starless night? Weighed in the balance, hero dust 100 Is vile as vulgar clay: Thy scales, Mortality, are just To all that pass away: But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate, 105 To dazzle and dismay: Nor deemed Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the conquerors of the earth. And she, proud Austria’s mournful flower, Thy still imperial bride, 110 How bears her breast the torturing hour? Still clings she to thy side? Must she too bend, must she too share Thy late repentance, long despair, Thou throneless Homicide? 115 If still she loves thee, hoard that gem; ’Tis worth thy vanished diadem! Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, And gaze upon the sea; That element may meet thy smile— 120 It ne’er was ruled by thee! Or trace with thine all-idle hand, In loitering mood upon the sand, That Earth is now as free, That Corinth’s pedagogue hath now 125 Transferred his by-word to thy brow. Thou Timour! in his captive’s cage— What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prisoned rage? But one—‘The world was mine!’ 130 Unless, like he of Babylon, All sense is with thy sceptre gone, Life will not long confine That spirit poured so widely forth— So long obeyed—so little worth! 135 Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, Wilt thou withstand the shock? And share with him, the unforgiven, His vulture and his rock! Foredoomed by God—by man accurst, 140 And that last act, though not thy worst, The very Fiend’s arch-mock; He in his fall preserved his pride, And, if a mortal, had as proudly died! Lord Byron.

O dread was the time, and more dreadful the omen, When the brave on Marengo lay slaughtered in vain, And beholding broad Europe bowed down by her foemen, Pitt closed in his anguish the map of her reign! Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave spirit 5 To take for his country the safety of shame; O then in her triumph remember his merit, And hallow the goblet that flows to his name. Round the husbandman’s head, while he traces the furrow, The mists of the winter may mingle with rain, 10 He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow, And sigh while he fears he has sowed it in vain; He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness, But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim; And their jubilee-shout shall be softened with sadness, 15 While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name. Though anxious and timeless his life was expended, In foils for our Country preserved by his care, Though he died ere one ray o’er the nations ascended, To light the long darkness of doubt and despair; 20 The storms he endured in our Britain’s December, The perils his wisdom foresaw and o’ercame, For her glory’s rich harvest shall Britain remember And hallow the goblet that flows to his name. Nor forget this gray head, who, all dark in affliction, 25 Is deaf to the tale of our victories won, And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection, The shout of his people applauding his son; By his firmness unmoved in success or disaster, By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim! 30 With our tribute to Pitt join the praise of his Master, Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his name. Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure, The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid, To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright treasure, 35 The wisdom that planned, and the zeal that obeyed! Fill Wellington’s cup till it beam like his glory, Forget not our own brave Dalhousie and Græme, A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story, And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame. 40 Sir Walter Scott.

Beside the covered grave Linger the exiles, though their task is done. Yes, brethren; from your band one more is gone, A good man and a brave. Scanty the rites, and train; 5 How many’ of all the storied marbles, set In all thy churches, City of La Valette, Hide nobler heart and brain? Ah! had his soul been cold, Tempered to make a sycophant or spy, 10 To love hard truth less than an easy lie, His country less than gold,— Then, not the spirit’s strife, Nor sickening pangs at sight of conquering crime, Nor anxious watching of an evil time, 15 Had worn his chords of life: Nor here, nor thus with tears Untimely shed, but there whence o’er the sea The great Volcano looks, his rest might be, The close of prosperous years. 20 No! Different hearts are bribed; And therefore, in his cause’s sad eclipse, Here died he, with ‘Palermo’ on his lips, A poor man, and proscribed. Wrecked all thy hopes, O friend,— 25 Hopes for thyself, thine Italy, thine own,— High gifts defeated of their due renown,— Long toil—and this the end! The end? not ours to scan: Yet grieve not, children, for your father’s worth; 30 Oh! never wish that in his native earth He lay, a baser man. What to the dead avail The chance success, the blundering praise of fame? Oh! rather trust, somewhere the noble aim 35 Is crowned, though here it fail. Kind, generous, true wert thou: This meed at least to goodness must belong, That such it was. Farewell; the world’s great wrong Is righted for thee now. 40 Rest in thy foreign grave, Sicilian! whom our English hearts have loved,— Italian! such as Dante had approved,— An exile—not a slave! Henry Lushington.

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arvé and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! 5 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it As with a wedge! But when I look again, 10 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity! O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer 15 I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life’s own secret joy, 20 Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing—there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! Awake my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, 25 Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale! Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night, 30 And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink: Companion of the morning star at dawn, Thyself Earth’s rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald: wake, oh wake, and utter praise! 35 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light; Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, 40 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, For ever shattered and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 45 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? And who commanded (and the silence came,) Here let the billows stiffen and have rest? Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain— 50 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 55 Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?— God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! 59 God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle’s nest! 65 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements, Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 71 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast— Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou, That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 75 In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, To rise before me—rise, oh, ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth! 80 Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 85 Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Between two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie Sacred to flowerets of the hills, And sacred to the sky. And in this smooth and open dell 5 There is a tempest-stricken tree; A corner-stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a lonely hut; And in this dell you see A thing no storm can e’er destroy, 10 The shadow of a Danish boy. In clouds above the lark is heard, But drops not here to earth for rest; Within this lonesome nook the bird Did never build her nest. 15 No beast, no bird hath here his home; Bees, wafted on the breezy air, Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers; to other dells Their burdens do they bear. 20 The Danish boy walks here alone: The lovely dell is all his own. A Spirit of noonday is he, Yet seems a form of flesh and blood; Nor piping shepherd shall he be, 25 Nor herd-boy of the wood. A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven’s wing; It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; But in the storm ’tis fresh and blue 30 As budding pines in Spring; His helmet has a vernal grace, Fresh as the bloom upon his face. A harp is from his shoulder slung; Resting the harp upon his knee, 35 To words of a forgotten tongue He suits its melody. Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills He is the darling and the joy; And often, when no cause appears, 40 The mountain ponies prick their ears, —They hear the Danish boy, While in the dell he sings alone Beside the tree and corner-stone. There sits he: in his face you spy 45 No trace of a ferocious air; Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair. The lovely Danish boy is blest, And happy in his flowery cove: 50 From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war, That seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead boy he is serene. 55 William Wordsworth.

Five years have passed; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain springs With a soft inland murmur.—Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 5 Which on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 These plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts, Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 15 Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees With some uncertain notice, as might seem, Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20 Or of some hermit’s cave, where by his fire The hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms Through a long absence have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye: 25 But oft, in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind 30 With tranquil restoration:—feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man’s life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts 35 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessèd mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight 40 Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened:—that serene and blessèd mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,— Until, the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood, 45 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. 50 If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 55 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, 60 With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 65 That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides 70 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever Nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 75 And their glad animal movements all gone by,) To me was all in all.—I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 80 Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite: a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past, 85 And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned 90 To look on Nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 95 A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, 100 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, 105 And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye and ear, both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In Nature and the language of the sense, 110 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more 115 Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me, here, upon the banks Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read 120 My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray 125 The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed 130 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb 135 Our cheerful faith that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, 140 When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, 145 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance, If I should be where I no more can hear 150 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence, wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came, 155 Unwearied in that service; rather say With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 160 And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake. William Wordsworth.

So now my summer-task is ended, Mary, And I return to thee, mine own heart’s home; As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faëry, Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome; Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become 5 A star among the stars of mortal night, If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom, Its doubtful promise thus I would unite With thy belovèd name, thou Child of love and light. The toil which stole from thee so many an hour, 10 Is ended,—and the fruit is at thy feet! No longer where the woods to frame a bower With interlacèd branches mix and meet, Or where with sound like many voices sweet, Water-falls leap among wild islands green, 15 Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen: But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been. Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear Friend, when first The clouds which wrap this world from youth did pass. I do remember well the hour which burst 21 My spirit’s sleep: a fresh May-dawn it was, When I walked forth upon the glittering grass, And wept, I knew not why; until there rose From the near school-room voices, that, alas! 25 Were but one echo from a world of woes— The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes. And then I clasped my hands and looked around— But none was near to mock my streaming eyes, Which poured their warm drops on the sunny ground— So without shame I spake:—‘I will be wise, 31 And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies Such power, for I grow weary to behold The selfish and the strong still tyrannise Without reproach or check.’ I then controlled 35 My tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek and bold. And from that hour did I with earnest thought Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of lore, Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or taught I cared to learn, but from that secret store 40 Wrought linkèd armour for my soul, before It might walk forth to war among mankind; Thus power and hope were strengthened more and more Within me, till there came upon my mind A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined. 45 Alas, that love should be a blight and snare To those who seek all sympathies in one!— Such once I sought in vain; then black despair, The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone:— 50 Yet never found I one not false to me, Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone, Which crushed and withered mine, that could not be Aught but a lifeless clog, until revived by thee. Thou Friend, whose presence on my wintry heart 55 Fell, like bright spring upon some herbless plain, How beautiful and calm and free thou wert In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain Of Custom thou didst burst and rend in twain, And walked as free as light the clouds among, 60 Which many an envious slave then breathed in vain From his dim dungeon, and my spirit sprung To meet thee from the woes which had begirt it long. No more alone through the world’s wilderness, Although I trod the paths of high intent, 65 I journeyed now: no more companionless, Where solitude is like despair, I went.— There is the wisdom of a stern content, When Poverty can blight the just and good, When Infamy dares mock the innocent, 70 And cherished friends turn with the multitude To trample: this was ours, and we unshaken stood! Now has descended a serener hour, And, with inconstant fortune, friends return; Though suffering leaves the knowledge and the power 75 Which says:—Let scorn be not repaid with scorn; And from thy side two gentle babes are born To fill our home with smiles, and thus are we Most fortunate beneath life’s beaming morn; And these delights, and thou, have been to me 80 The parents of the Song I consecrate to thee. Is it, that now my inexperienced fingers But strike the prelude of a loftier strain? Or must the lyre on which my spirit lingers Soon pause in silence, ne’er to sound again, 85 Though it might shake the Anarch Custom’s reign, And charm the minds of men to Truth’s own sway, Holier than was Amphion’s? I would fain Reply in hope—but I am worn away, And Death and Love are yet contending for their prey. And what art thou? I know, but dare not speak: 91 Time may interpret to his silent years. Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful cheek, And in the light thine ample forehead wears, And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy tears, 95 And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy Is whispered, to subdue my fondest fears: And through thine eyes, even in thy soul I see A lamp of vestal fire burning internally. They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth, 100 Of glorious parents, thou aspiring Child: I wonder not—for one then left this earth, Whose life was like a setting planet mild, Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled Of its departing glory; still her fame 105 Shines on thee through the tempests dark and wild, Which shake these latter days; and thou canst claim The shelter, from thy Sire, of an immortal name. Truth’s deathless voice pauses among mankind! If there must be no response to my cry— 110 If men must rise and stamp with fury blind On his pure name who loves them—thou and I, Sweet Friend! can look from our tranquillity Like lamps into the world’s tempestuous night,— Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by 115 Which wrap them from the foundering seaman’s sight, That burn from year to year with unextinguished light. Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Ye clouds! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may control! Ye ocean-waves! that, wheresoe’er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws! Ye woods! that listen to the night-birds singing, 5 Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, Save when your own imperious branches swinging Have made a solemn music of the wind! Where, like a man beloved of God, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 10 How oft, pursuing fancies holy, My moonlight way o’er flowering weeds I wound, Inspired, beyond the guess of folly, By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! O ye loud waves! and O ye forests high! 15 And O ye clouds that far above me soared! Thou rising sun! thou blue rejoicing sky! Yea, every thing that is and will be free! Bear witness for me, wheresoe’er ye be, With what deep worship I have still adored 20 The spirit of divinest Liberty. When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared, And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, Stamped her strong foot, and said she would be free, Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared! 25 With what a joy my lofty gratulation Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band: And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, Like fiends embattled by a wizard’s wand, The Monarchs marched in evil day 30 And Britain joined the dire array; Though dear her shores and circling ocean, Though many friendships, many youthful loves Had swoln the patriot emotion And flung a magic light o’er all her hills and groves; 35 Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, And shame too long delayed and vain retreat! For ne’er, O Liberty! with partial aim I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame; 40 But blessed the pæans of delivered France, And hung my head and wept at Britain’s name. ‘And what,’ I said, ‘though Blasphemy’s loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove? Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 45 A dance more wild than e’er was maniac’s dream? Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled, The sun was rising, though ye hid his light!’ And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright; When France her front deep-scarred and gory 51 Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory; When, insupportably advancing, Her arm made mockery of the warrior’s tramp; While timid looks of fury glancing, 55 Domestic Treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; Then I reproached my fears that would not flee; ‘And soon,’ I said, ‘shall Wisdom teach her lore In the low huts of them that toil and groan! 60 And, conquering by her happiness alone, Shall France compel the nations to be free, Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own.’ Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams! I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 65 From bleak Helvetia’s icy caverns sent— I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams! Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished 70 One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes! To scatter rage and traitorous guilt, Where Peace her jealous home had built; A patriot-race to disinherit Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; 75 And with inexpiable spirit To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer— O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, And patriot only in pernicious toils, Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind? 80 To mix with kings in the low lust of sway, Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; To’ insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn? to tempt and to betray? The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 85 Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain! O Liberty! with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; 90 But thou nor swell’st the victor’s strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. Alike from all, howe’er they praise thee, (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) Alike from Priestcraft’s harpy minions, 95 And factious Blasphemy’s obscener slaves, Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves! And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff’s verge, Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, 100 Had made one murmur with the distant surge! Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there. 105 Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, 5 Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill 10 (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air,) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear! Thou on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion, 15 Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, Angels of rain and lightning; there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20 Of some fierce Mænad, ev’n from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith’s height— The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25 Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear! Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30 Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave’s intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 35 So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 40 Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45 The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed 50 Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne’er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 55 One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. Make me thy lyre, ev’n as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 60 Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! be thou me, impetuous One! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth; And, by the incantation of this verse, 65 Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If winter comes, can spring be far behind? 70 Percy Bysshe Shelley.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: ’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5 But being too happy in thy happiness,— That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 10 O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, 15 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stainèd mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 20 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 25 Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 30 Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, 35 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 40 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 45 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May’s eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 50 Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55 To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod. 60 Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 65 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70 Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 75 Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep? 80 John Keats.

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 5 Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 10 In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O’er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied Joy whose race is just begun. 15 The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: 20 Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 25 All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; 31 What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 35 Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 40 Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 45 Like a glowworm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: 50 Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. 55 Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 60 Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 65 Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chaunt, Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt— A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 70 What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 75 With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety. 80 Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 85 We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn 91 Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 95 Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 100 Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now! 105 Percy Bysshe Shelley.