PART VII

The Hermit of the Wood.

'This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve— He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat near'd: I heard them talk, "Why, this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?"

Approacheth the ship with wonder.

"Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said— "And they answer'd not our cheer! The planks looked warp'd! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That eats the she-wolf's young."

"Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look— (The Pilot made reply) I am a-fear'd"—"Push on, push on!" Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirr'd; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard.

The ship suddenly sinketh.

Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread: It reach'd the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead.

The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.

Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drown'd My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat.

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound.

I moved my lips—the Pilot shriek'd And fell down in a fit; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And pray'd where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see The Devil knows how to row."

And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand.

The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.

"O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" The Hermit cross'd his brow. "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say— What manner of man art thou?"

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free.

And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land;

Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach.

What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer!

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea: So lonely 'twas, that God Himself Scarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!—

To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay!

And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.'

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turn'd from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunn'd, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

550. Kubla Khan

IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced; Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she play'd, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me, Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

551. Love

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 Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the armed man, The statue of the armed Knight; She stood and listen'd to my lay, 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.

I play'd 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 listen'd with a flitting blush, 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; And that for ten long years he woo'd 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, Interpreted my own.

She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade—

There came and look'd him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!

And that, unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land;—

And how she wept and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vain— And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;—

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 reach'd That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturb'd her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; 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, Subdued and cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight, She blush'd with love and virgin shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved—she stepp'd 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, She press'd me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, look'd up, And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see. The swelling of her heart.

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

552. Youth and Age

VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee— Both were mine! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young! When I was young?—Ah, woful When! Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flash'd along— Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide! Naught cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in 't together.

Flowers are lovely! Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree; O the joys, that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old! Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth 's no longer here! O Youth! for years so many and sweet, 'Tis known that thou and I were one; I'll think it but a fond conceit— It cannot be that thou art gone! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd— And thou wert aye a masker bold! What strange disguise hast now put on, To make believe that thou art gone? I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this alter'd size: But springtide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! Life is but thought: so think I will That Youth and I are housemates still.

Dewdrops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve! Where no hope is, life 's a warning That only serves to make us grieve, When we are old! That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest That may not rudely be dismist. Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

553. Time, Real and Imaginary AN ALLEGORY

ON the wide level of a mountain's head (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place), Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, Two lovely children run an endless race, A sister and a brother! This far outstripp'd the other; Yet ever runs she with reverted face, And looks and listens for the boy behind: For he, alas! is blind! O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd, And knows not whether he be first or last.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

554. Work without Hope

ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair— The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing— And Winter, slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll: And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

555. Glycine's Song

A SUNNY shaft did I behold, From sky to earth it slanted: And poised therein a bird so bold— Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted!

He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he troll'd Within that shaft of sunny mist; His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, All else of amethyst!

And thus he sang: 'Adieu! adieu! Love's dreams prove seldom true. The blossoms, they make no delay: The sparking dew-drops will not stay. Sweet month of May, We must away; Far, far away! To-day! to-day!'

Robert Southey. 1774-1843

556. His Books

MY days among the Dead are past; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old: My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead; with them I live in long-past years, Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears; And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on Through all Futurity; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

557. The Maid's Lament

I LOVED him not; and yet now he is gone, I feel I am alone. I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, Alas! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him; I now would give My love, could he but live Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death. I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, And this lorn bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears. 'Merciful God!' such was his latest prayer, 'These may she never share!' Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Than daisies in the mould, Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, And, O, pray too for me!

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

558. Rose Aylmer

AH, what avails the sceptred race! Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

559. Ianthe

FROM you, Ianthe, little troubles pass Like little ripples down a sunny river; Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

560. Twenty Years hence

TWENTY years hence my eyes may grow, If not quite dim, yet rather so; Yet yours from others they shall know, Twenty years hence.

Twenty years hence, though it may hap That I be call'd to take a nap In a cool cell where thunder-clap Was never heard,

There breathe but o'er my arch of grass A not too sadly sigh'd 'Alas!' And I shall catch, ere you can pass, That winged word.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

561. Verse

PAST ruin'd Ilion Helen lives, Alcestis rises from the shades; Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives Immortal youth to mortal maids.

Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil Hide all the peopled hills you see, The gay, the proud, while lovers hail These many summers you and me.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

562. Proud Word you never spoke

PROUD word you never spoke, but you will speak Four not exempt from pride some future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek, Over my open volume you will say, 'This man loved me'—then rise and trip away.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

563. Resignation

WHY, why repine, my pensive friend, At pleasures slipp'd away? Some the stern Fates will never lend, And all refuse to stay.

I see the rainbow in the sky, The dew upon the grass; I see them, and I ask not why They glimmer or they pass.

With folded arms I linger not To call them back; 'twere vain: In this, or in some other spot, I know they'll shine again.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

564. Mother, I cannot mind my Wheel

MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry: O, if you felt the pain I feel! But O, who ever felt as I?

No longer could I doubt him true— All other men may use deceit; He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

565. Autumn

MILD is the parting year, and sweet The odour of the falling spray; Life passes on more rudely fleet, And balmless is its closing day.

I wait its close, I court its gloom, But mourn that never must there fall Or on my breast or on my tomb The tear that would have soothed it all.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

566. Remain!

REMAIN, ah not in youth alone! —Tho' youth, where you are, long will stay— But when my summer days are gone, And my autumnal haste away. 'Can I be always by your side?' No; but the hours you can, you must, Nor rise at Death's approaching stride, Nor go when dust is gone to dust.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

567. Absence

HERE, ever since you went abroad, If there be change no change I see: I only walk our wonted road, The road is only walk'd by me.

Yes; I forgot; a change there is— Was it of that you bade me tell? I catch at times, at times I miss The sight, the tone, I know so well.

Only two months since you stood here? Two shortest months? Then tell me why Voices are harsher than they were, And tears are longer ere they dry.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

568. Of Clementina

IN Clementina's artless mien Lucilla asks me what I see, And are the roses of sixteen Enough for me?

Lucilla asks, if that be all, Have I not cull'd as sweet before: Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall I still deplore.

I now behold another scene, Where Pleasure beams with Heaven's own light, More pure, more constant, more serene, And not less bright.

Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose, Whose chain of flowers no force can sever, And Modesty who, when she goes, Is gone for ever.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

569. Ianthe's Question

'DO you remember me? or are you proud?' Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, Ianthe said, and look'd into my eyes. 'A yes, a yes to both: for Memory Where you but once have been must ever be, And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise.'

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

570. On Catullus

TELL me not what too well I know About the bard of Sirmio. Yes, in Thalia's son Such stains there are—as when a Grace Sprinkles another's laughing face With nectar, and runs on.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

571. Dirce

STAND close around, ye Stygian set, With Dirce in one boat convey'd! Or Charon, seeing, may forget That he is old and she a shade.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

572. Alciphron and Leucippe

AN ancient chestnut's blossoms threw Their heavy odour over two: Leucippe, it is said, was one; The other, then, was Alciphron. 'Come, come! why should we stand beneath This hollow tree's unwholesome breath?' Said Alciphron, 'here 's not a blade Of grass or moss, and scanty shade. Come; it is just the hour to rove In the lone dingle shepherds love; There, straight and tall, the hazel twig Divides the crooked rock-held fig, O'er the blue pebbles where the rill In winter runs and may run still. Come then, while fresh and calm the air, And while the shepherds are not there.'

Leucippe. But I would rather go when they Sit round about and sing and play. Then why so hurry me? for you Like play and song, and shepherds too.

Alciphron. I like the shepherds very well, And song and play, as you can tell. But there is play, I sadly fear, And song I would not have you hear.

Leucippe. What can it be? What can it be?

Alciphron. To you may none of them repeat The play that you have play'd with me, The song that made your bosom beat.

Leucippe. Don't keep your arm about my waist.

Alciphron. Might you not stumble?

Leucippe. Well then, do. But why are we in all this haste?

Alciphron. To sing.

Leucippe. Alas! and not play too?

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

573. Years

YEARS, many parti-colour'd years, Some have crept on, and some have flown Since first before me fell those tears I never could see fall alone.

Years, not so many, are to come, Years not so varied, when from you One more will fall: when, carried home, I see it not, nor hear Adieu.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

574. Separation

THERE is a mountain and a wood between us, Where the lone shepherd and late bird have seen us Morning and noon and eventide repass. Between us now the mountain and the wood Seem standing darker than last year they stood, And say we must not cross—alas! alas!

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

575. Late Leaves

THE leaves are falling; so am I; The few late flowers have moisture in the eye; So have I too. Scarcely on any bough is heard Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird The whole wood through.

Winter may come: he brings but nigher His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire Where old friends meet. Let him; now heaven is overcast, And spring and summer both are past, And all things sweet.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

576. Finis

I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife. Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art: I warm'd both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

Charles Lamb. 1775-1834

577. The Old Familiar Faces

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a Love once, fairest among women: Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces—

How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

Charles Lamb. 1775-1834

578. Hester

WHEN maidens such as Hester die Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try With vain endeavour.

A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And her together.

A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flush'd her spirit:

I know not by what name beside I shall it call: if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool; But she was train'd in Nature's school; Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind; A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind; Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour! gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning—

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning?

Charles Lamb. 1775-1834

579. On an Infant dying as soon as born

I SAW where in the shroud did lurk A curious frame of Nature's work; A floweret crush'd in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying; Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb For darker closets of the tomb! She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then straight up shut For the long dark: ne'er more to see Through glasses of mortality. Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below? Shall we say that Nature blind Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, Just when she had exactly wrought A finish'd pattern without fault? Could she flag, or could she tire, Or lack'd she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) That should thy little limbs have quicken'd? Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure Life of health, and days mature: Woman's self in miniature! Limbs so fair, they might supply (Themselves now but cold imagery) The sculptor to make Beauty by. Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry That babe or mother, one must die; So in mercy left the stock And cut the branch; to save the shock Of young years widow'd, and the pain When single state comes back again To the lone man who, reft of wife, Thenceforward drags a maimed life? The economy of Heaven is dark, And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, Why human buds, like this, should fall, More brief than fly ephemeral That has his day; while shrivell'd crones Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; And crabbed use the conscience sears In sinners of an hundred years. Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss: Rites, which custom does impose, Silver bells, and baby clothes; Coral redder than those lips Which pale death did late eclipse; Music framed for infants' glee, Whistle never tuned for thee; Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them. Let not one be missing; nurse, See them laid upon the hearse Of infant slain by doom perverse. Why should kings and nobles have Pictured trophies to their grave, And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie— A more harmless vanity?

Thomas Campbell. 1774-1844

580. Ye Mariners of England

YE Mariners of England That guard our native seas! Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe; And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow! While the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave— For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow! While the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. The thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow! When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger's troubled night depart And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow! When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

Thomas Campbell. 1774-1844

581. The Battle of the Baltic

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; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat 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 There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time.

But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd 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, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;— Their shots along the deep slowly boom:— Then ceased—and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail, Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then As he hail'd them o'er the wave: 'Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save:— 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.'…

Now joy, old England, raise! 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 Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Thomas Moore. 1779-1852

582. The Young May Moon

THE young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love; How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove, When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear; And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star More glorious far Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear, The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, Or in watching the flight Of bodies of light He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!

Thomas Moore. 1779-1852

583. The Irish Peasant to His Mistress

THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way, Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd: Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd; Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd; She woo'd me to temples, whilst thou lay'st hid in caves; Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves; Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail— Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale! They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains, That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains: O, foul is the slander!—no chain could that soul subdue— Where shineth thy spirit, there Liberty shineth too!

Thomas Moore. 1779-1852

584. The Light of Other Days

OFT, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

When I remember all The friends, so link'd together, I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me. Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

Thomas Moore. 1779-1852

585. At the Mid Hour of Night

AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear, When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear; And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

Edward Thurlow, Lord Thurlow. 1781-1829

586. May

MAY! queen of blossoms, And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music Shall we charm the hours? Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead? Or to the lute give heed In the green bowers?

Thou hast no need of us, Or pipe or wire; Thou hast the golden bee Ripen'd with fire; And many thousand more Songsters, that thee adore, Filling earth's grassy floor With new desire.

Thou hast thy mighty herds, Tame and free-livers; Doubt not, thy music too In the deep rivers; And the whole plumy flight Warbling the day and night— Up at the gates of light, See, the lark quivers!

Ebenezer Elliott. 1781-1849

587. Battle Song

DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark; What then? 'Tis day! We sleep no more; the cock crows—hark! To arms! away! They come! they come! the knell is rung Of us or them; Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung Of gold and gem. What collar'd hound of lawless sway, To famine dear— What pension'd slave of Attila, Leads in the rear? Come they from Scythian wilds afar, Our blood to spill? Wear they the livery of the Czar? They do his will. Nor tassell'd silk, nor epaulet, Nor plume, nor torse— No splendour gilds, all sternly met, Our foot and horse. But, dark and still, we inly glow, Condensed in ire! Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know Our gloom is fire. In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, Insults the land; Wrongs, vengeance, and the Cause are ours, And God's right hand! Madmen! they trample into snakes The wormy clod! Like fire, beneath their feet awakes The sword of God! Behind, before, above, below, They rouse the brave; Where'er they go, they make a foe, Or find a grave.

Ebenezer Elliott. 1781-1849

588. Plaint

DARK, deep, and cold the current flows Unto the sea where no wind blows, Seeking the land which no one knows.

O'er its sad gloom still comes and goes The mingled wail of friends and foes, Borne to the land which no one knows.

Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goes With millions, from a world of woes, Unto the land which no one knows?

Though myriads go with him who goes, Alone he goes where no wind blows, Unto the land which no one knows.

For all must go where no wind blows, And none can go for him who goes; None, none return whence no one knows.

Yet why should he who shrieking goes With millions, from a world of woes, Reunion seek with it or those?

Alone with God, where no wind blows, And Death, his shadow—doom'd, he goes. That God is there the shadow shows.

O shoreless Deep, where no wind blows! And thou, O Land which no one knows! That God is All, His shadow shows.

Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842

589. The Sun rises bright in France

THE sun rises bright in France, And fair sets he; But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countree.

O, it 's nae my ain ruin That saddens aye my e'e, But the dear Marie I left behin' Wi' sweet bairnies three.

My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie, And smiled my ain Marie; I've left a' my heart behin' In my ain countree.

The bud comes back to summer, And the blossom to the bee; But I'll win back, O never, To my ain countree.

O, I am leal to high Heaven, Where soon I hope to be, An' there I'll meet ye a' soon Frae my ain countree!

tint] lost.

Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842

590. Hame, Hame, Hame

HAME, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be— O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countree; Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be— O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for to fa', The bonnie White Rose it is withering an' a'; But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, An' green it will graw in my ain countree.

O, there 's nocht now frae ruin my country can save, But the keys o' kind heaven, to open the grave; That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie May rise again an' fight for their ain countree.

The great now are gane, a' wha ventured to save, The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave; But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, 'I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.'

Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be— O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842

591. The Spring of the Year

GONE were but the winter cold, And gone were but the snow, I could sleep in the wild woods Where primroses blow.

Cold 's the snow at my head, And cold at my feet; And the finger of death 's at my e'en, Closing them to sleep.

Let none tell my father Or my mother so dear,— I'll meet them both in heaven At the spring of the year.

Leigh Hunt. 1784-1859

592. Jenny kiss'd Me

JENNY kiss'd me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in! Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, Say that health and wealth have miss'd me, Say I'm growing old, but add, Jenny kiss'd me.

Thomas Love Peacock. 1785-1866

593. Love and Age

I PLAY'D with you 'mid cowslips blowing, When I was six and you were four; When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more. Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, With little playmates, to and fro, We wander'd hand in hand together; But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden, And still our early love was strong; Still with no care our days were laden, They glided joyously along; And I did love you very dearly, How dearly words want power to show; I thought your heart was touch'd as nearly; But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you, Your beauty grew from year to year, And many a splendid circle found you The centre of its glimmering sphere. I saw you then, first vows forsaking, On rank and wealth your hand bestow; O, then I thought my heart was breaking!— But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on, to wed another: No cause she gave me to repine; And when I heard you were a mother, I did not wish the children mine. My own young flock, in fair progression, Made up a pleasant Christmas row: My joy in them was past expression; But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely, You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze; My earthly lot was far more homely; But I too had my festal days. No merrier eyes have ever glisten'd Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christen'd; But that was twenty years ago.

Time pass'd. My eldest girl was married, And I am now a grandsire gray; One pet of four years old I've carried Among the wild-flower'd meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure, Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, She fills her basket's ample measure; And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love's impassion'd blindness Has pass'd away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last good-night. The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago.

Thomas Love Peacock. 1785-1866

594. The Grave of Love

I DUG, beneath the cypress shade, What well might seem an elfin's grave; And every pledge in earth I laid, That erst thy false affection gave.

I press'd them down the sod beneath; I placed one mossy stone above; And twined the rose's fading wreath Around the sepulchre of love.

Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead Ere yet the evening sun was set: But years shall see the cypress spread, Immutable as my regret.

Thomas Love Peacock. 1785-1866

595. Three Men of Gotham

SEAMEN three! What men be ye? Gotham's three wise men we be. Whither in your bowl so free? To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine.— And your ballast is old wine.

Who art thou, so fast adrift? I am he they call Old Care. Here on board we will thee lift. No: I may not enter there. Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree, In a bowl Care may not be.— In a bowl Care may not be.

Fear ye not the waves that roll? No: in charmed bowl we swim. What the charm that floats the bowl? Water may not pass the brim. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine.— And your ballast is old wine.

Caroline Southey. 1787-1854

596. To Death

COME not in terrors clad, to claim An unresisting prey: Come like an evening shadow, Death! So stealthily, so silently! And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath; Then willingly, O willingly, With thee I'll go away!

What need to clutch with iron grasp What gentlest touch may take? What need with aspect dark to scare, So awfully, so terribly, The weary soul would hardly care, Call'd quietly, call'd tenderly, From thy dread power to break?

'Tis not as when thou markest out The young, the blest, the gay, The loved, the loving—they who dream So happily, so hopefully; Then harsh thy kindest call may seem, And shrinkingly, reluctantly, The summon'd may obey.

But I have drunk enough of life— The cup assign'd to me Dash'd with a little sweet at best, So scantily, so scantily— To know full well that all the rest More bitterly, more bitterly, Drugg'd to the last will be.

And I may live to pain some heart That kindly cares for me: To pain, but not to bless. O Death! Come quietly—come lovingly— And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath; Then willingly, O willingly, I'll go away with thee!

George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824

597. When we Two parted

WHEN we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow— It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.

They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me— Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met— In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears.

George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824

598. For Music

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824

599. We'll go no more a-roving

SO, we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.

George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824

600. She walks in Beauty

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 mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; 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, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824

601. The Isles of Greece

THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.

The mountains look on Marathon— And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;—all were his! He counted them at break of day— And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now— The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush?—Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae!

What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;—the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, 'Let one living head, But one, arise,—we come, we come!' 'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain—in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine: Hark! rising to the ignoble call— How answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave— Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine: He served—but served Polycrates— A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! O that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks— They have a king who buys and sells; In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwells: But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade— I see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine— Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

Sir Aubrey De Vere. 1788-1846

602. The Children Band

ALL holy influences dwell within The breast of Childhood: instincts fresh from God Inspire it, ere the heart beneath the rod Of grief hath bled, or caught the plague of sin. How mighty was that fervour which could win Its way to infant souls!—and was the sod Of Palestine by infant Croises trod? Like Joseph went they forth, or Benjamin, In all their touching beauty to redeem? And did their soft lips kiss the Sepulchre? Alas! the lovely pageant as a dream Faded! They sank not through ignoble fear; They felt not Moslem steel. By mountain, stream, In sands, in fens, they died—no mother near!

Charles Wolfe. 1791-1823

603. The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse 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, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; 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 steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

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 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; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

Charles Wolfe. 1791-1823

604. To Mary

IF I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had past The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain. But when I speak—thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, All cold and all serene— I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been. While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; But there—I lay thee in thy grave, And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart In thinking too of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore!

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

605. Hymn of Pan

FROM the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb, Listening to my sweet pipings. The wind in the reeds and the rushes, The bees on the bells of thyme, The birds on the myrtle bushes, The cicale above in the lime, And the lizards below in the grass, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing The light of the dying day, Speeded by my sweet pipings. The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns, And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow, Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the daedal earth, And of heaven, and the giant wars, And love, and death, and birth. And then I changed my pipings— Singing how down the vale of Maenalus I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed: Gods and men, we are all deluded thus! It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed. All wept—as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood— At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

606. The Invitation

BEST and brightest, come away! Fairer far than this fair Day, Which, like thee to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough Year just awake In its cradle on the brake. The brightest hour of unborn Spring, Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn To hoar February born. Bending from heaven, in azure mirth, It kiss'd the forehead of the Earth; And smiled upon the silent sea; And bade the frozen streams be free; And waked to music all their fountains; And breathed upon the frozen mountains; And like a prophetess of May Strew'd flowers upon the barren way, Making the wintry world appear Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.

Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs— To the silent wilderness Where the soul need not repress Its music lest it should not find An echo in another's mind, While the touch of Nature's art Harmonizes heart to heart. I leave this notice on my door For each accustom'd visitor:— 'I am gone into the fields To take what this sweet hour yields. Reflection, you may come to-morrow; Sit by the fireside with Sorrow. You with the unpaid bill, Despair,— You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,— I will pay you in the grave,— Death will listen to your stave. Expectation too, be off! To-day is for itself enough. Hope, in pity mock not Woe With smiles, nor follow where I go; Long having lived on your sweet food, At length I find one moment's good After long pain: with all your love, This you never told me of.'

Radiant Sister of the Day, Awake! arise! and come away! To the wild woods and the plains; And the pools where winter rains Image all their roof of leaves; Where the pine its garland weaves Of sapless green and ivy dun Round stems that never kiss the sun; Where the lawns and pastures be, And the sandhills of the sea; Where the melting hoar-frost wets The daisy-star that never sets, And wind-flowers, and violets Which yet join not scent to hue, Crown the pale year weak and new; When the night is left behind In the deep east, dun and blind, And the blue noon is over us, And the multitudinous Billows murmur at our feet Where the earth and ocean meet, And all things seem only one In the universal sun.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

607. Hellas

THE world's great age begins anew, The golden years return, The earth doth like a snake renew Her winter weeds outworn; Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains From waves serener far; A new Peneus rolls his fountains Against the morning star; Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.

A loftier Argo cleaves the main, Fraught with a later prize; Another Orpheus sings again, And loves, and weeps, and dies; A new Ulysses leaves once more Calypso for his native shore.

O write no more the tale of Troy, If earth Death's scroll must be— Nor mix with Laian rage the joy Which dawns upon the free, Although a subtler Sphinx renew Riddles of death Thebes never knew.

Another Athens shall arise, And to remoter time Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, The splendour of its prime; And leave, if naught so bright may live, All earth can take or Heaven can give.

Saturn and Love their long repose Shall burst, more bright and good Than all who fell, than One who rose, Than many unsubdued: Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers, But votive tears and symbol flowers.

O cease! must hate and death return? Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy! The world is weary of the past— O might it die or rest at last!

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

608. To a Skylark

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.

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.

In the golden light'ning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

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—

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.

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 overflow'd.

What thou art we know not; 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:—

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:

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:

Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embower'd In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower'd, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves.

Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers— All that ever was Joyous and clear and fresh—thy music doth surpass.

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.

Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt— A thin wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

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?

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.

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?

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 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.

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!

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.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

609. The Moon

I

AND, like a dying lady lean and pale, Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil, Out of her chamber, led by the insane And feeble wanderings of her fading brain, The mood arose up in the murky east, A white and shapeless mass.

II

Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth, And ever changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy?

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

610. Ode to the West Wind

I

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 Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged 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 (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!

II

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, 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

Of some fierce Maenad, even 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, Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!

III

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 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

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV

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

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 thy skiey speed Scarce seem'd 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 chain'd and bow'd One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.

V

Make me thy lyre, even 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, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

611. The Indian Serenade

I ARISE from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Hath led me—who knows how? To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream— And the champak's odours [pine] Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must on thine, O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass! I die! I faint! I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast: O press it to thine own again, Where it will break at last!

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

612. Night

SWIFTLY walk o'er the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave,— Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear Which make thee terrible and dear,— Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, Star-inwrought! Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; Kiss her until she be wearied out. Then wander o'er city and sea and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand— Come, long-sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sigh'd for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 'Wouldst thou me?' Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmur'd like a noontide bee, 'Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me?'—And I replied, 'No, not thee!'

Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon— Sleep will come when thou art fled. Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night— Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon!

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

613. From the Arabic AN IMITATION

MY faint spirit was sitting in the light Of thy looks, my love; It panted for thee like the hind at noon For the brooks, my love. Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight, Bore thee far from me; My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, Did companion thee.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, Or the death they bear, The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove With the wings of care; In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, Shall mine cling to thee, Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, It may bring to thee.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

614. Lines

WHEN the lamp is shatter'd, The light in the dust lies dead; When the cloud is scatter'd, The rainbow's glory is shed; When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remember'd not When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute— No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruin'd cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possest. O Love, who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee, As the storms rock the ravens on high: Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

615. To ——

ONE word is too often profaned For me to profane it; One feeling too falsely disdain'd For thee to disdain it; One hope is too like despair For prudence to smother; And pity from thee more dear Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love: But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the heavens reject not, The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow?

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

616. The Question

I DREAM'D that, as I wander'd by the way, Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring; And gentle odours led my steps astray, Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kiss'd it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets; Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets— Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth— Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cowbind and the moonlight-colour'd May, And cherry-blossoms, and white cups whose wine Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray; And flowers, azure, black, and streak'd with gold, Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues which in their natural bowers Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours Within my hand;—and then, elate and gay, I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it—O! to whom?

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

617. Remorse

AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon, Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even: Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven. Pause not! the time is past! Every voice cries, 'Away!' Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood: Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay: Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away! to thy sad and silent home; Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come, And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth. The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head, The blooms of dewy Spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace, may meet.

The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep; Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows; Whatever moves or toils or grieves hath its appointed sleep. Thou in the grave shalt rest:—yet, till the phantoms flee, Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile, Thy remembrance and repentance and deep musings are not free From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

618. Music, when Soft Voices die

MUSIC, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

Hew Ainslie. 1792-1878

619. Willie and Helen

'WHAREFORE sou'd ye talk o' love, Unless it be to pain us? Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love Whan ye say the sea maun twain us?'

'It 's no because my love is light, Nor for your angry deddy; It 's a' to buy ye pearlins bright, An' to busk ye like a leddy.'

'O Willy, I can caird an' spin, Se ne'er can want for cleedin'; An' gin I hae my Willy's heart, I hae a' the pearls I'm heedin'.

'Will it be time to praise this cheek Whan years an' tears has blench'd it? Will it be time to talk o' love Whan cauld an' care has quench'd it?'

He's laid ae han' about her waist— The ither 's held to heaven; An' his luik was like the luik o' man Wha's heart in twa is riven.

cleedin'] clothing.

John Keble. 1792-1866

620. Burial of the Dead

I THOUGHT to meet no more, so dreary seem'd Death's interposing veil, and thou so pure, Thy place in Paradise Beyond where I could soar;

Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts Spring like unbidden violets from the sod, Where patiently thou tak'st Thy sweet and sure repose.

The shadows fall more soothing: the soft air Is full of cheering whispers like thine own; While Memory, by thy grave, Lives o'er thy funeral day;

The deep knell dying down, the mourners' pause, Waiting their Saviour's welcome at the gate.— Sure with the words of Heaven Thy spirit met us there,

And sought with us along th' accustom'd way The hallow'd porch, and entering in, beheld The pageant of sad joy So dear to Faith and Hope.

O! hadst thou brought a strain from Paradise To cheer us, happy soul, thou hadst not touch'd The sacred springs of grief More tenderly and true,

Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low, Low as the grave, high as th' Eternal Throne, Guiding through light and gloom Our mourning fancies wild,

Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve Around the western twilight, all subside Into a placid faith, That even with beaming eye

Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall; So many relics of a frail love lost, So many tokens dear Of endless love begun.

Listen! it is no dream: th' Apostles' trump Gives earnest of th' Archangel's;—calmly now, Our hearts yet beating high To that victorious lay

(Most like a warrior's, to the martial dirge Of a true comrade), in the grave we trust Our treasure for awhile: And if a tear steal down,

If human anguish o'er the shaded brow Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth Touches the coffin-lid; If at our brother's name,

Once and again the thought, 'for ever gone,' Come o'er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright, Thou turnest not away, Thou know'st us calm at heart.

One look, and we have seen our last of thee, Till we too sleep and our long sleep be o'er. O cleanse us, ere we view That countenance pure again,

Thou, who canst change the heart, and raise the dead! As Thou art by to soothe our parting hour, Be ready when we meet, With Thy dear pardoning words.

John Clare. 1793-1864

621. Written in Northampton County Asylum

I AM! yet what I am who cares, or knows? My friends forsake me like a memory lost. I am the self-consumer of my woes; They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. And yet I am—I live—though I am toss'd

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dream, Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys, But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem And all that 's dear. Even those I loved the best Are strange—nay, they are stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod— For scenes where woman never smiled or wept— There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,— The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 1793-1835

622. Dirge

CALM on the bosom of thy God, Fair spirit, rest thee now! E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod, His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath! Soul, to its place on high! They that have seen thy look in death No more may fear to die.

John Keats. 1795-1821

623. Song of the Indian Maid FROM 'ENDYMION'

O SORROW! Why dost borrow The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?— To give maiden blushes To the white rose bushes? Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?

O Sorrow! Why dost borrow The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?— To give the glow-worm light? Or, on a moonless night, To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?

O Sorrow! Why dost borrow The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?— To give at evening pale Unto the nightingale, That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?

O Sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?— A lover would not tread A cowslip on the head, Though he should dance from eve till peep of day— Nor any drooping flower Held sacred for thy bower, Wherever he may sport himself and play.

To Sorrow I bade good morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly; She is so constant to me, and so kind: I would deceive her And so leave her, But ah! she is so constant and so kind.

Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, I sat a-weeping: in the whole world wide There was no one to ask me why I wept,— And so I kept Brimming the water-lily cups with tears Cold as my fears.

Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, I sat a-weeping: what enamour'd bride, Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, But hides and shrouds Beneath dark palm-trees by a river side?

And as I sat, over the light blue hills There came a noise of revellers: the rills Into the wide stream came of purple hue— 'Twas Bacchus and his crew! The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills From kissing cymbals made a merry din— 'Twas Bacchus and his kin! Like to a moving vintage down they came, Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame; All madly dancing through the pleasant valley, To scare thee, Melancholy! O then, O then, thou wast a simple name! And I forgot thee, as the berried holly By shepherds is forgotten, when in June Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon:— I rush'd into the folly!

Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood, Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, With sidelong laughing; And little rills of crimson wine imbrued His plump white arms and shoulders, enough white For Venus' pearly bite; And near him rode Silenus on his ass, Pelted with flowers as he on did pass Tipsily quaffing.

'Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye, So many, and so many, and such glee? Why have ye left your bowers desolate, Your lutes, and gentler fate?'— 'We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing, A-conquering! Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide, We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:— Come hither, lady fair, and joined be To our wild minstrelsy!'

'Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye, So many, and so many, and such glee? Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left Your nuts in oak-tree cleft?'— 'For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree; For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms, And cold mushrooms; For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth; Great god of breathless cups and chirping mirth! Come hither, lady fair, and joined be To our mad minstrelsy!'

Over wide streams and mountains great we went, And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, Onward the tiger and the leopard pants, With Asian elephants: Onward these myriads—with song and dance, With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance, Web-footed alligators, crocodiles, Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files, Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil: With toying oars and silken sails they glide, Nor care for wind and tide.

Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes, From rear to van they scour about the plains; A three days' journey in a moment done; And always, at the rising of the sun, About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn, On spleenful unicorn.

I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown Before the vine-wreath crown! I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing To the silver cymbals' ring! I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce Old Tartary the fierce! The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail, And from their treasures scatter pearled hail; Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans, And all his priesthood moans, Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale. Into these regions came I, following him, Sick-hearted, weary—so I took a whim To stray away into these forests drear, Alone, without a peer: And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.

Young Stranger! I've been a ranger In search of pleasure throughout every clime; Alas! 'tis not for me! Bewitch'd I sure must be, To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.

Come then, Sorrow, Sweetest Sorrow! Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast: I thought to leave thee, And deceive thee, But now of all the world I love thee best.

There is not one, No, no, not one But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid; Thou art her mother, And her brother, Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.

sea-spry] sea-spray.

John Keats. 1795-1821

624. Ode to a Nightingale

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, But being too happy in thine happiness, That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South! Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

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 grey hairs, 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.

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, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd 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.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets cover'd 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.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 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.

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 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

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 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?

John Keats. 1795-1821

625. Ode on a Grecian Urn

THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

John Keats. 1795-1821

626. Ode to Psyche

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-conched ear: Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: The winged 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! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heap'd with flowers; Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan 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-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

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 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; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming: Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, 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, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!

John Keats. 1795-1821

627. To Autumn

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.