SUMMARY. (continued 2)

244. 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-wingéd 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-delvéd 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-stainéd 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 gray 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 embalméd 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 muséd 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 oft-times 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? J. KEATS.

245. UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. Sept. 3, 1802. Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! W. WORDSWORTH.

246. OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT. I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. P.B. SHELLEY.

247. COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY, 1803. Degenerate Douglas! O the unworthy lord! Whom mere despite of heart could so far please And love of havoc (for with such disease Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word To level with the dust a noble horde, A brotherhood of venerable trees, Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these Beggar'd and outraged!—Many hearts deplored The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain The traveller at this day will stop and gaze On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed: For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed, And the green silent pastures, yet remain. W. WORDSWORTH.

248. ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER. Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! —The lovely cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky! But covet not the abode—O do not sigh As many do, repining while they look; Intruders who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf with harsh impiety: —Think what the home would be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants!—Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the porch which they entwine: Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touch'd would melt away! W. WORDSWORTH.

249. TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE. Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head: And these grey rocks, this household lawn, These trees—a veil just half withdrawn, This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake, This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode; In truth together ye do seem Like something fashion'd in a dream; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! But, O fair Creature! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright, I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart; God shield thee to thy latest years! I neither know thee nor thy peers: And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away; For never saw I mien or face In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scatter'd like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need The embarrass'd look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness: Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread, Soft smiles, by human kindness bred; And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind. What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea: and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder brother I would be, Thy father, anything to thee. Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old As fair before me shall behold As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And Thee, the spirit of them all! W. WORDSWORTH.

250. THE REAPER. Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: No sweeter voice was ever heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending; I listen'd till I had my fill; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more. W. WORDSWORTH.

251. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes! W. WORDSWORTH.

252. TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR. Ariel to Miranda:—Take This slave of music, for the sake Of him who is the slave of thee; And teach it all the harmony In which thou canst, and only thou, Make the delighted spirit glow, Till joy denies itself again And, too intense, is turn'd to pain; For by permission and command Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, Poor Ariel sends this silent token Of more than ever can be spoken; Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who From life to life, must still pursue Your happiness, for thus alone Can Ariel ever find his own; From Prospero's enchanted cell, As the mighty verses tell, To the throne of Naples he Lit you o'er the trackless sea, Flitting on, your prow before, Like a living meteor. When you die, the silent Moon, In her interlunar swoon Is not sadder in her cell Than deserted Ariel; When you live again on earth, Like an unseen Star of birth Ariel guides you o'er the sea Of life from your nativity:— Many changes have been run Since Ferdinand and you begun Your course of love, and Ariel still Has track'd your steps and served your will. Now in humbler, happier lot, This is all remember'd not; And now, alas! the poor sprite is Imprison'd for some fault of his In a body like a grave— From you he only dares to crave For his service and his sorrow A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. The artist who this viol wrought To echo all harmonious thought, Fell'd a tree, while on the steep The woods were in their winter sleep, Rock'd in that repose divine On the wind-swept Apennine; And dreaming, some of autumn past, And some of spring approaching fast, And some of April buds and showers, And some of songs in July bowers, And all of love; and so this tree,— O that such our death may be!— Died in sleep, and felt no pain, To live in happier form again: From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star, The artist wrought this loved Guitar; And taught it justly to reply To all who question skilfully In language gentle as thine own; Whispering in enamour'd tone Sweet oracles of woods and dells, And summer winds in sylvan cells; —For it had learnt all harmonies Of the plains and of the skies, Of the forests and the mountains, And the many-voicéd fountains; The clearest echoes of the hills, The softest notes of falling rills, The melodies of birds and bees, The murmuring of summer seas, And pattering rain, and breathing dew, And airs of evening; and it knew That seldom-heard mysterious sound Which, driven on its diurnal round, As it floats through boundless day, Our world enkindles on its way: —All this it knows, but will not tell To those who cannot question well The spirit that inhabits it; It talks according to the wit Of its companions; and no more Is heard than has been felt before By those who tempt it to betray These secrets of an elder day: But, sweetly as its answers will Flatter hands of perfect skill, It keeps its highest holiest tone For one beloved Friend alone. P.B. SHELLEY.

253. THE DAFFODILS. I wander'd lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:— A Poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company! I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought; For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. W. WORDSWORTH.

254. TO THE DAISY. With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace, Which love makes for thee! Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit and play with similes, Loose types of things through all degrees, Thoughts of thy raising; And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame, As is the humour of the game, While I am gazing. A nun demure, of lowly port; Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations; A queen in crown of rubies drest; A starveling in a scanty vest; Are all, as seem to suit thee best, Thy appellations. A little Cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy, That thought comes next—and instantly The freak is over, The shape will vanish, and behold! A silver shield with boss of gold That spreads itself, some fairy bold In fight to cover. I see thee glittering from afar— And then thou art a pretty star, Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;— May peace come never to his nest, Who shall reprove thee! Sweet Flower! for by that name at last When all my reveries are past I call thee and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent Creature! That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature! W. WORDSWORTH.

255. ODE 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'erbrimm'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 twinéd flowers; And sometime 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. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them,—thou hast thy music too, While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. J. KEATS.

256. ODE TO WINTER. Germany, December, 1800. When first the fiery mantled Sun His heavenly race began to run, Round the earth and ocean blue His children four the Seasons flew:— First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel-grace; Rosy Summer next advancing, Rush'd into her sire's embrace— Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep For ever nearest to his smiles, On Calpe's olive-shaded steep Or India's citron-cover'd isles. More remote and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone. But howling Winter fled afar To hills that prop the polar star; And loves on deer-borne car to ride With barren darkness at his side Round the shore where loud Lofoden Whirls to death the roaring whale, Round the hall where Runic Odin Howls his war-song to the gale— Save when adown the ravaged globe He travels on his native storm, Deflowering Nature's grassy robe And trampling on her faded form; Till light's returning Lord assume The shaft that drives him to his northern fields, Of power to pierce his raven plume And crystal-cover'd shield. O sire of storms! whose savage ear The Lapland drum delights to hear, When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye Implores thy dreadful deity— Archangel! Power of desolation! Fast descending as thou art, Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart: Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruin'd year; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear: To shuddering Want's unmantled bed Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, And gently on the orphan head Of Innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! The sailor on his airy shrouds, When wrecks and beacons strew the deep And spectres walk along the deep. Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, Or the dark-brown Danube roars. O winds of Winter! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan? Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own? Alas! e'en your unhallow'd breath May spare the victim fallen low; But Man will ask no truce to death, No bounds to human woe. T. CAMPBELL.

257. YARROW UNVISITED. 1803. From Stirling castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravell'd, Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, And with the Tweed had travell'd; And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my "winsome Marrow." "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, And see the Braes of Yarrow." "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, Who have been buying, selling, Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own, Each maiden to her dwelling! On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, Hares couch, and rabbits burrow, But we will downward with the Tweed, Nor turn aside to Yarrow. "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us; And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus; There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land Made blythe with plough and harrow: Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow? "What's Yarrow but a river bare That glides the dark hills under? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder." —Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn; My true-love sighed for sorrow, And look'd me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow! "O green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path, and open strath, We'll wander Scotland thorough; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow! We will not see them; will not go To-day, nor yet to-morrow; Enough if in our hearts we know There's such a place as Yarrow. "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown; It must, or we shall rue it: We have a vision of our own; Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past, We'll keep them, winsome Marrow! For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 'Twill be another Yarrow. "If care with freezing years should come And wandering seem but folly,— Should we be loth to stir from home, And yet be melancholy; Should life be dull, and spirits low, 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow That earth has something yet to show, The bonny Holms of Yarrow!" W. WORDSWORTH.

258. YARROW VISITED. September, 1814. And is this—Yarrow?—This is the Stream Of which my fancy cherish'd So faithfully, a waking dream, An image that hath perish'd? O that some minstrel's harp were near To utter notes of gladness And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness! Yet why?—a silvery current flows With uncontroll'd meanderings; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness; Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection. Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding: And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning, The water-Wraith ascended thrice, And gave his doleful warning. Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of happy lovers, The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers: And pity sanctifies the verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow! But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation: Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy: The grace of forest charms decay'd, And pastoral melancholy. That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated Nature; And rising from those lofty groves Behold a ruin hoary, The shatter'd front of Newark's Towers, Renown'd in Border story. Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in, For manhood to enjoy his strength, And age to wear away in! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of studious ease and generous cares, And every chaste affection! How sweet on this autumnal day The wild-wood fruits to gather, And on my true-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather! And what if I enwreathed my own? 'Twere no offence to reason; The sober hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season. I see—but not by sight alone Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; A ray of Fancy still survives— Her sunshine plays upon thee! Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure; And gladsome notes my lips can breathe Accordant to the measure. The vapours linger round the heights, They melt, and soon must vanish; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine— Sad thought! which I would banish, But that I know, where'er I go, Thy genuine image, Yarrow! Will dwell with me, to heighten joy And cheer my mind in sorrow. W. WORDSWORTH.

259. 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 Harmonises heart to heart. 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, dim 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. P.B. SHELLEY.

260. THE RECOLLECTION. Now the last day of many days All beautiful and bright as thou, The loveliest and the last, is dead, Rise, Memory, and write its praise! Up, do thy wonted work! come, trace The epitaph of glory fled, For now the Earth has changed its face, A frown is on the Heaven's brow. We wander'd to the Pine Forest That skirts the Ocean's foam; The lightest wind was in its nest, The tempest in its home. The whispering waves were half asleep, The clouds were gone to play, And on the bosom of the deep The smile of Heaven lay; It seem'd as if the hour were one Sent from beyond the skies Which scatter'd from above the sun A light of Paradise! We paused amid the pines that stood The giants of the waste, Tortured by storms to shapes as rude As serpents interlaced,— And soothed by every azure breath That under heaven is blown To harmonies and hues beneath, As tender as its own: Now all the tree-tops lay asleep Like green waves on the sea, As still as in the silent deep The ocean-woods may be. How calm it was!—the silence there By such a chain was bound, That even the busy woodpecker Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness; The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less The calm that round us grew. There seem'd from the remotest seat Of the wide mountain waste To the soft flower beneath our feet A magic circle traced A spirit interfused around, A thrilling silent life; To momentary peace it bound Our mortal nature's strife;— And still I felt the centre of The magic circle there Was one fair Form that fill'd with love The lifeless atmosphere. We paused beside the pools that lie Under the forest bough; Each seemed as 'twere a little sky Gulf'd in a world below; A firmament of purple light Which in the dark earth lay, More boundless than the depth of night And purer than the day— In which the lovely forests grew As in the upper air, More perfect both in shape and hue Than any spreading there. There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, And through the dark green wood The white sun twinkling like the dawn Out of a speckled cloud. Sweet views which in our world above Can never well be seen Were imaged by the water's love Of that fair forest green: And all was interfused beneath With an Elysian glow, An atmosphere without a breath, A softer day below. Like one beloved the scene had lent To the dark water's breast Its very leaf and lineament With more than truth exprest; Until an envious wind crept by, Like an unwelcome thought Which from the mind's too faithful eye Blots one dear image out. —Though Thou art ever fair and kind, The forests ever green, Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind, Than calm in waters seen! P.B. SHELLEY.

261. BY THE SEA. 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: 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 untouch'd by solemn thought 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. W. WORDSWORTH.

262. TO THE EVENING STAR. Star that bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary labourer free! If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou That send'st it from above, Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow Are sweet as hers we love. Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst the landscape's odours rise, Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard And songs when toil is done, From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd Curls yellow in the sun. Star of love's soft interviews, Parted lovers on thee muse; Their remembrancer in Heaven Of thrilling vows thou art, Too delicious to be riven By absence from the heart. T. CAMPBELL.

263. DATUR HORA QUIETI. The sun upon the lake is low, The wild birds hush their song, The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long. Now all whom varied toil and care From home and love divide, In the calm sunset may repair Each to the loved one's side. The noble dame on turret high, Who waits her gallant knight, Looks to the western beam to spy The flash of armour bright. The village maid, with hand on brow The level ray to shade, Upon the footpath watches now For Colin's darkening plaid. Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart, And to the thicket wanders slow The hind beside the hart. The woodlark at his partner's side Twitters his closing song— All meet whom day and care divide, But Leonard tarries long! SIR W. SCOTT.

264. TO THE MOON. 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? P.B. SHELLEY.

265. A widow bird sate mourning for her Love Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below. There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound. P.B. SHELLEY.

266. TO SLEEP. A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;— I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blesséd barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! W. WORDSWORTH.

267. THE SOLDIERS DREAM. Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw; And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track: 'Twas Autumn,—and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. "Stay—stay with us!—rest!—thou art weary and worn!"— And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;— But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. T. CAMPBELL.

268. A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN. 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 blue-bells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets 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 cow-bind 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 rivers trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt 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? P.B. SHELLEY.

269. THE INNER VISION. Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path there be or none, While a fair region round the Traveller lies Which he forbears again to look upon; Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene The work of Fancy, or some happy tone Of meditation, slipping in between The beauty coming and the beauty gone. —If Thought and Love desert us, from that day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse: With Thought and Love companions of our way— Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,— The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews Of inspiration on the humblest lay. W. WORDSWORTH.

270. THE REALM OF FANCY. Ever let the Fancy roam! Pleasure never is at home: At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Then let wingéd Fancy wander Through the thought still spread beyond her: Open wide the mind's cage-door, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Summer's joys are spoilt by use, And the enjoying of the Spring Fades as does its blossoming: Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too Blushing through the mist and dew Cloys with tasting: What do then? Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear faggot blazes bright, Spirit of a winter's night; When the soundless earth is muffled, And the cakéd snow is shuffled From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; When the Night doth meet the Noon In dark conspiracy To banish Even from her sky. —Sit thee there, and send abroad With a mind self-overawed Fancy, high-commission'd:—send her! She has vassals to attend her; She will bring, in spite of frost, Beauties that the earth hath lost; She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather; All the buds and bells of May, From dewy sward or thorny spray; All the heapéd Autumn's wealth, With a still, mysterious stealth: She will mix these pleasures up Like three fit wines in a cup, And thou shalt quaff it;—thou shalt hear Distant harvest-carols clear; Rustle of the reapéd corn; Sweet birds antheming the morn: And in the same moment—hark! 'Tis the early April lark, Or the rooks, with busy caw, Foraging for sticks and straw. Thou shalt, at one glance, behold The daisy and the marigold; White-plumed lilies, and the first Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; Shaded hyacinth, alway Sapphire queen of the mid-May; And every leaf, and every flower Pearléd with the self-same shower. Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep Meagre from its celléd sleep; And the snake all winter-thin Cast on sunny bank its skin; Freckled nest eggs thou shalt see Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, When the hen-bird's wing doth rest Quiet on her mossy nest; Then the hurry and alarm When the bee-hive casts its swarm; Acorns ripe down-pattering While the autumn breezes sing. O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Everything is spoilt by use: Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new? Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where's the face One would meet in every place? Where's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft? At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. Let then wingéd Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind: Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, Ere the God of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's, when her zone Slipt its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid.—Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash; Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she'll bring: —Let the wingéd Fancy roam! Pleasure never is at home. J. KEATS.

271. HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF NATURE. Life of Life! Thy lips enkindle With their love the breath between them; And thy smiles before they dwindle Make the cold air fire; then screen them In those locks, where whoso gazes Faints, entangled in their mazes. Child of Light! Thy limbs are burning Through the veil which seems to hide them, As the radiant lines of morning Through thin clouds, ere they divide them; And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. Fair are others; none beholds Thee; But thy voice sounds low and tender Like the fairest, for it folds thee From the sight, that liquid splendour; And all feel, yet see thee never,— As I feel now, lost for ever! Lamp of Earth! Where'er thou movest Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, And the souls of whom thou lovest Walk upon the winds with lightness Till they fail, as I am failing, Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing! P. B. SHELLEY.

272. WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I heard a thousand blended notes While in a grove I sat reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What Man has made of Man. Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopp'd and play'd, Their thoughts I cannot measure— But the least motion which they made It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What Man has made of Man? W. WORDSWORTH.

273. RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE. When Ruth was left half desolate, Her father took another mate; And Ruth, not seven years old, A slighted child, at her own will Went wandering over dale and hill, In thoughtless freedom bold. And she had made a pipe of straw, And music from that pipe could draw Like sounds of winds and floods; Had built a bower upon the green, As if she from her birth had been An infant of the woods. Beneath her father's roof, alone She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own; Herself her own delight: Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay, She pass'd her time; and in this way Grew up to woman's height. There came a youth from Georgia's shore— A military casque he wore With splendid feathers drest; He brought them from the Cherokees; The feathers nodded in the breeze And made a gallant crest. From Indian blood you deem him sprung: But no! he spake the English tongue And bore a soldier's name; And, when America was free From battle and from jeopardy, He 'cross the ocean came. With hues of genius on his cheek, In finest tones the youth could speak: —While he was yet a boy The moon, the glory of the sun, And streams that murmur as they run Had been his dearest joy. He was a lovely youth! I guess The panther in the wilderness Was not so fair as he; And when he chose to sport and play, No dolphin ever was so gay Upon the tropic sea. Among the Indians he had fought, And with him many tales he brought Of pleasure and of fear; Such tales as, told to any maid By such a youth, in the green shade, Were perilous to hear. He told of girls, a happy rout! Who quit their fold with dance and shout, Their pleasant Indian town, To gather strawberries all day long; Returning with a choral song When daylight is gone down. He spake of plants that hourly change Their blossoms, through a boundless range Of intermingling hues; With budding, fading, faded flowers, They stand the wonder of the bowers From morn to evening dews, He told of the Magnolia, spread High as a cloud, high over head! The cypress and her spire; —Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam Cover a hundred leagues, and seem To set the hills on fire. The youth of green savannahs spake, And many an endless, endless lake, With all its fairy crowds Of islands, that together lie As quietly as spots of sky Among the evening clouds. And then he said, "How sweet it were A fisher or a hunter there, In sunshine or in shade To wander with an easy mind, And build a household fire, and find A home in every glade! "What days and what bright years! Ah me! Our life were life indeed, with Thee So pass'd in quiet bliss; And all the while," said he, "to know That we were in a world of woe, On such an earth as this!" And then he sometimes interwove Fond thoughts about a father's love, "For there," said he, "are spun Around the heart such tender ties, That our own children to our eyes Are dearer than the sun. "Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me My helpmate in the woods to be, Our shed at night to rear; Or run, my own adopted bride, A sylvan huntress at my side, And drive the flying deer! "Beloved Ruth!"—No more he said. The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed A solitary tear: She thought again—and did agree With him to sail across the sea, And drive the flying deer. "And now, as fitting is and right, We in the church our faith will plight, A husband and a wife." Even so they did; and I may say That to sweet Ruth that happy day Was more than human life. Through dream and vision did she sink, Delighted all the while to think That, on those lonesome floods, And green savannahs, she should share His board with lawful joy, and bear His name in the wild woods. But, as you have before been told, This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, And with his dancing crest So beautiful, through savage lands Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands Of Indians in the West. The wind, the tempest roaring high, The tumult of a tropic sky Might well be dangerous food For him, a youth to whom was given So much of earth—so much of heaven, And such impetuous blood. Whatever in those climes he found Irregular in sight or sound Did to his mind impart A kindred impulse, seem'd allied To his own powers, and justified The workings of his heart. Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,— Fair trees and gorgeous flowers; The breezes their own languor lent; The stars had feelings, which they sent Into those favour'd bowers. Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween That sometimes there did intervene Pure hopes of high intent: For passions link'd to forms so fair And stately, needs must have their share Of noble sentiment. But ill he lived, much evil saw, With men to whom no better law Nor better life was known; Deliberately and undeceived, Those wild men's vices he received, And gave them back his own. His genius and his moral frame Were thus impair'd, and he became The slave of low desires: A man who without self-control Would seek what the degraded soul Unworthily admires. And yet he with no feign'd delight Had woo'd the maiden, day and night Had loved her, night and morn: What could he less than love a maid Whose heart with so much nature play'd— So kind and so forlorn? Sometimes most earnestly he said, "O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain Encompass'd me on every side When I, in confidence and pride, Had cross'd the Atlantic main. "Before me shone a glorious world Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd To music suddenly: I look'd upon those hills and plains, And seem'd as if let loose from chains To live at liberty! "No more of this—for now, by thee, Dear Ruth! more happily set free With nobler zeal I burn; My soul from darkness is released Like the whole sky when to the east The morning doth return." Full soon that better mind was gone; No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,— They stirr'd him now no more; New objects did new pleasure give, And once again he wish'd to live As lawless as before. Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, They for the voyage were prepared, And went to the sea-shore, But, when they thither came, the youth Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth Could never find him more. God help thee, Ruth!—Such pains she had That she in half a year was mad And in a prison housed; And there, exulting in her wrongs, Among the music of her songs She fearfully caroused. Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, Nor pastimes of the May; —They all were with her in her cell; And a clear brook with cheerful knell Did o'er the pebbles play. When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, There came a respite to her pain; She from her prison fled; But of the vagrant none took thought; And where it liked her best she sought Her shelter and her bread. Among the fields she breathed again: The master-current of her brain Ran permanent and free; And, coming to the banks of Tone, There did she rest; and dwell alone Under the greenwood tree. The engines of her pain, the tools That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, And airs that gently stir The vernal leaves—she loved them still, Nor ever tax'd them with the ill Which had been done to her. A barn her Winter bed supplies; But, till the warmth of Summer skies And Summer days is gone, (And all do in this tale agree) She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none. An innocent life, yet far astray! And Ruth will, long before her day, Be broken down and old: Sore aches she needs must have! but less Of mind, than body's wretchedness, From damp, and rain, and cold. If she is prest by want of food She from her dwelling in the wood Repairs to a road-side; And there she begs at one steep place Where up and down with easy pace The horsemen-travellers ride. That oaten pipe of hers is mute Or thrown away; but with a flute Her loneliness she cheers; This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, At evening in his homeward walk The Quantock woodman hears. I, too, have pass'd her on the hills Setting her little water-mills By spouts and fountains wild— Such small machinery as she turn'd Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd, A young and happy child! Farewell! and when thy days are told, Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould Thy corpse shall buried be; For thee a funeral bell shall ring, And all the congregation sing A Christian psalm for thee. W. WORDSWORTH.

274. WRITTEN IN THE EUGANEAN HILLS, NORTH ITALY. Many a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on Day and night, and night and day, Drifting on his dreary way, With the solid darkness black Closing round his vessel's track; Whilst above, the sunless sky Big with clouds, hangs heavily, And behind the tempest fleet Hurries on with lightning feet, Riving sail, and cord, and plank, Till the ship has almost drank Death from the o'er-brimming deep; And sinks down, down, like that sleep When the dreamer seems to be Weltering through eternity; And the dim low line before Of a dark and distant shore Still recedes, as ever still Longing with divided will, But no power to seek or shun, He is ever drifted on O'er the unreposing wave, To the haven of the grave. Ah, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide agony: To such a one this morn was led My bark, by soft winds piloted. —'Mid the mountains Euganean I stood listening to the paean With which the legion'd rooks did hail The Sun's uprise majestical: Gathering round with wings all hoar, Through the dewy mist they soar Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven Bursts, and then,—as clouds of even Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie In the unfathomable sky,— So their plumes of purple grain Starr'd with drops of golden rain Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes On the morning's fitful gale Through the broken mist they sail; And the vapours cloven and gleaming Follow down the dark steep streaming, Till all is bright, and clear, and still Round the solitary hill. Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair; Underneath day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,— A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves. Lo! the sun upsprings behind, Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined On the level quivering line Of the waters crystalline; And before that chasm of light, As within a furnace bright, Column, tower, and dome, and spire, Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies; As the flames of sacrifice From the marble shrines did rise As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old. Sun-girt City! thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier. A less drear ruin then than now With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne among the waves, Wilt thou be,—when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate, And all is in its ancient state, Save where many a palace-gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of ocean's own, Topples o'er the abandon'd sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way Wandering at the close of day, Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore, Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep, Lead a rapid masque of death O'er the waters of his path. Noon descends around me now: 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, When a soft and purple mist Like a vaporous amethyst, Or an air-dissolvéd star Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound To the point of heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky: And the plains that silent lie Underneath; the leaves unsodden Where the infant frost has trodden With his morning-wingéd feet Whose bright print is gleaming yet; And the red and golden vines Piercing with their trellised lines The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; The dun and bladed grass no less, Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air; the flower Glimmering at my feet; the line Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine In the south dimly islanded; And the Alps, whose snows are spread High between the clouds and sun; And of living things each one; And my spirit, which so long Darken'd this swift stream of song,— Interpenetrated lie By the glory of the sky; Be it love, light, harmony, Odour, or the soul of all Which from Heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe. Noon descends, and after noon Autumn's evening meets me soon, Leading the infantine moon And that one star, which to her Almost seems to minister Half the crimson light she brings From the sunset's radiant springs: And the soft dreams of the morn (Which like wingéd winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies 'Mid remember'd agonies, The frail bark of this lone being), Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, And its ancient pilot, Pain, Sits beside the helm again. Other flowering isles must be In the sea of life and agony: Other spirits float and flee O'er that gulf: ev'n now, perhaps, On some rock the wild wave wraps, With folding wings they waiting sit For my bark, to pilot it To some calm and blooming cove, Where for me, and those I love, May a windless bower be built, Far from passion, pain, and guilt, In a dell 'mid lawny hills Which the wild sea-murmur fills, And soft sunshine, and the sound Of old forests echoing round, And the light and smell divine Of all flowers that breathe and shine. —We may live so happy there, That the spirits of the air, Envying us, may even entice To our healing paradise The polluting multitude; But their rage would be subdued By that clime divine and calm, And the winds whose wings rain balm On the uplifted soul, and leaves Under which the bright sea heaves; While each breathless interval In their whisperings musical The inspired soul supplies With its own deep melodies; And the Love which heals all strife Circling, like the breath of life, All things in that sweet abode With its own mild brotherhood. They, not it, would change; and soon Every sprite beneath the moon Would repent its envy vain, And the Earth grow young again! P.B. SHELLEY.

275. ODE TO THE WEST WIND. 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 wingéd 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! 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, 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, 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 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! 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 the skyey 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. 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, 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? P.B. SHELLEY.

276. NATURE AND THE POET. Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by Sir George Beaumont. I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: I saw thee every day; and all the while Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea. So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! So like, so very like, was day to day! Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there; It trembled, but it never pass'd away. How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep, No mood, which season takes away, or brings: I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. Ah! then if mine had been the painter's hand To express what then I saw; and add the gleam, The light that never was on sea or land, The consecration, and the Poet's dream,— I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, Amid a world how different from this! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. A picture had it been of lasting ease, Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, Such picture would I at that time have made; And seen the soul of truth in every part, A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd. So once it would have been,—'tis so no more I have submitted to a new control: A power is gone, which nothing can restore; A deep distress hath humanised my soul. Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea, and be what I have been: The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend If he had lived, of him whom I deplore, This work of thine I blame not, but commend; This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. O 'tis a passionate work!—yet wise and well, Well chosen is the spirit that is here; That hulk which labours in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, I love to see the look with which it braves, —Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time— The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! Such happiness, wherever it be known, Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, And frequent sights of what is to be borne! Such sights, or worse, as are before me here: Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. W. WORDSWORTH.

277. THE POET'S DREAM. On a Poet's lips I slept Dreaming like a love-adept In the sound his breathing kept; Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the aerial kisses Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, Nor heed nor see, what things they be— But from these create he can Forms more real than living Man, Nurslings of immortality! P.B. SHELLEY.

278. The World is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,— So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. W. WORDSWORTH.

279. WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd (Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence! —Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more:— So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering and wandering on as loth to die— Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality. W. WORDSWORTH.

280. 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, woeful 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! Nought 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 woeful 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. Dew-drops 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 out-stay'd his welcome while, And tells the jest without a smile. S. T. COLERIDGE.

281. THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. We walk'd along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun; And Matthew stopp'd, he looked, and said, "The will of God be done!" A village schoolmaster was he, With hair of glittering gray; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass, And by the steaming rills We travel'd merrily, to pass A day among the hills. "Our work," said I, "was well begun; Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought?" A second time did Matthew stop; And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top, To me he made reply: "Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this, which I have left Full thirty years behind. "And just above yon slope of corn Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky, that April morn Of this the very brother. "With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And, to the church-yard come, stopp'd short Beside my daughter's grave. "Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang:—she would have been A very nightingale. "Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more— For so it seem'd,—than till that day I e'er had loved before. "And, turning from her grave, I met, Beside the church-yard yew, A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew. "A basket on her head she bare; Her brow was smooth and white: To see a child so very fair, It was a pure delight! "No fountain from its rocky cave E'er tripped with foot so free; She seem'd as happy as a wave That dances on the sea. "There came from me a sigh of pain Which I could ill confine; I looked at her, and looked again And did not wish her mine!" —Matthew is in his grave, yet now, Methinks I see him stand As at that moment, with a bough Of wilding in his hand. W. WORDSWORTH.

282. THE FOUNTAIN. A Conversation. We talk'd with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two. We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat; And from the turf a fountain broke And gurgled at our feet. "Now, Matthew!" said I "let us match This water's pleasant tune With some old border song, or catch That suits a summer's noon. "Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made!" In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old man replied, The gray-hair'd man of glee: "No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears, How merrily it goes! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years And flow as now it flows. "And here, on this delightful day I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink. "My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirr'd, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. "Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what Age takes away, Than what it leaves behind. "The blackbird amid leafy trees— The lark above the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will. "With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free: "But we are press'd by heavy laws; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore. "If there be one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own,— It is the man of mirth. "My days, my friend, are almost gone, My life has been approved, And many love me; but by none Am I enough beloved." "Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains: "And Matthew, for thy children dead I'll be a son to thee!" At this he grasp'd my hand and said, "Alas! that cannot be." We rose up from the fountain-side; And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide And through the wood we went; And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock, He sang those witty rhymes About the crazy old church-clock, And the bewilder'd chimes. W. WORDSWORTH.

283. THE RIVER OF LIFE. The more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages: A day to childhood seems a year, And years like passing ages. The gladsome current of our youth Ere passion yet disorders, Steals lingering like a river smooth Along its grassy borders. But as the careworn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, Ye Stars, that measure life to man, Why seem your courses quicker? When joys have lost their bloom and breath And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, Feel we its tide more rapid? It may be strange—yet who would change Time's course to lower speeding, When one by one our friends have gone And left our bosoms bleeding? Heaven gives our years of fading strength Indemnifying fleetness; And those of youth, a seeming length, Proportion'd to their sweetness. T. CAMPBELL.

284. THE HUMAN SEASONS. Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of Man: He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span: He has his summer, when luxuriously Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness—to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:— He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature. J. KEATS.

285. A LAMENT. O World! O Life! O Time! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more—O never more! Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more—O never more! P.B. SHELLEY.

286. My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began, So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man: I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. W. WORDSWORTH.

287. ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;— Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more! The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,— No more shall grief of mine the season wrong: I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;— Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd boy! Ye blesséd creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning This sweet May morning, And the children are pulling On every side In a thousand valleys far and wide Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:— I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! —But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have look'd upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness And not in utter nakedness But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy, The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learnéd art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,— Mighty prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find; In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest, Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: —Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings, Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us—cherish—and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour Nor man nor boy Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither; Can in a moment travel thither— And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be, In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering, In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquish'd one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway; I love the brooks which down their channels fret Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. W. WORDSWORTH.

288. 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. P.B. SHELLEY.