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; To whom the grave Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight Of day or the warm light, A place of thought where we in waiting lie; 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 realized, 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.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

537. Desideria

SURPRISED by joy—impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport—O! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recall'd thee to my mind— But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss?—That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

538. Valedictory Sonnet to the River Duddon

I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide, As being pass'd away.—Vain sympathies! For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes, I see what was, and is, and will abide; Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide; The Form remains, the Function never dies; While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, We Men, who in our morn of youth defied The elements, must vanish;—be it so! Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour; And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

539. Mutability

FROM low to high doth dissolution climb, And sink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail; A musical but melancholy chime, Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear The longest date do melt like frosty rime, That in the morning whiten'd hill and plain And is no more; drop like the tower sublime Of yesterday, which royally did wear His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain Some casual shout that broke the silent air, Or the unimaginable touch of Time.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

540. The Trosachs

THERE 's not a nook within this solemn Pass, But were an apt confessional for one Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouch'd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

541. Speak!

WHY art thou silent! Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant— Bound to thy service with unceasing care, The mind's least generous wish a mendicant For nought but what thy happiness could spare. Speak—though this soft warm heart, once free to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine— Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

542. Proud Maisie

PROUD Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely.

'Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?' —'When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.'

'Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?' —'The grey-headed sexton That delves the grave duly.

'The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady!'

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

543. Brignall Banks

O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there, Would grace a summer queen: And as I rode by Dalton Hall, Beneath the turrets high, A Maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily:—

'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green! I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English Queen.'

'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we, That dwell by dale and down: And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed As blithe as Queen of May.'

Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green! I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English Queen.

'I read you by your bugle horn And by your palfrey good, I read you for a Ranger sworn To keep the King's green-wood.' 'A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light; His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night.'

Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay! I would I were with Edmund there, To reign his Queen of May!

'With burnish'd brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold Dragoon, That lists the tuck of drum.' 'I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear.

'And O! though Brignall banks be fair, And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare, Would reign my Queen of May!

'Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die; The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I! And when I'm with my comrades met Beneath the green-wood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now.'

Chorus. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather flowers there Would grace a summer queen.

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

544. Lucy Ashton's Song

LOOK not thou on beauty's charming; Sit thou still when kings are arming; Taste not when the wine-cup glistens; Speak not when the people listens; Stop thine ear against the singer; From the red gold keep thy finger; Vacant heart and hand and eye, Easy live and quiet die.

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

545. Answer

SOUND, sound the clarion, fill the fife! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

546. The Rover's Adieu

A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green— No more of me ye knew, My Love! No more of me ye knew.

'This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again.' —He turn'd his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said 'Adieu for evermore, My Love! And adieu for evermore.'

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

547. Patriotism 1. Innominatus

BREATHES there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, 'This is my own, my native land!' Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd As home his footsteps he hath turn'd From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

548. Patriotism 2. Nelson, Pitt, Fox

TO mute and to material things New life revolving summer brings; The genial call dead Nature hears, And in her glory reappears. But oh, my Country's wintry state What second spring shall renovate? What powerful call shall bid arise The buried warlike and the wise;

The mind that thought for Britain's weal, The hand that grasp'd the victor steel? The vernal sun new life bestows Even on the meanest flower that blows; But vainly, vainly may he shine Where glory weeps o'er NELSON'S shrine; And vainly pierce the solemn gloom That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb!

Deep graved in every British heart, O never let those names depart! Say to your sons,—Lo, here his grave, Who victor died on Gadite wave! To him, as to the burning levin, Short, bright, resistless course was given. Where'er his country's foes were found Was heard the fated thunder's sound, Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd—and was no more.

Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth, Who bade the conqueror go forth, And launch'd that thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar; Who, born to guide such high emprise, For Britain's weal was early wise; Alas! to whom the Almighty gave, For Britain's sins, an early grave! —His worth, who in his mightiest hour A bauble held the pride of power, Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf, And served his Albion for herself; Who, when the frantic crowd amain Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein, O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd, The pride he would not crush, restrain'd, Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause, And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws.

Hadst thou but lived, though stripp'd of power, A watchman on the lonely tower, Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, When fraud or danger were at hand; By thee, as by the beacon-light, Our pilots had kept course aright; As some proud column, though alone, Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne. Now is the stately column broke, The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke, The trumpet's silver voice is still, The warder silent on the hill!

O think, how to his latest day, When Death, just hovering, claim'd his prey, With Palinure's unalter'd mood Firm at his dangerous post he stood; Each call for needful rest repell'd, With dying hand the rudder held, Till in his fall with fateful sway The steerage of the realm gave way. Then—while on Britain's thousand plains One polluted church remains, Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, But still upon the hallow'd day Convoke the swains to praise and pray; While faith and civil peace are dear, Grace this cold marble with a tear:— He who preserved them, PITT, lies here!

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, Because his rival slumbers nigh; Nor be thy Requiescat dumb Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. For talents mourn, untimely lost, When best employ'd, and wanted most; Mourn genius high, and lore profound, And wit that loved to play, not wound; And all the reasoning powers divine To penetrate, resolve, combine; And feelings keen, and fancy's glow— They sleep with him who sleeps below: And, if thou mourn'st they could not save From error him who owns this grave, Be every harsher thought suppress'd, And sacred be the last long rest. Here, where the end of earthly things Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung; Here, where the fretted vaults prolong The distant notes of holy song, As if some angel spoke agen, 'All peace on earth, good-will to men'; If ever from an English heart, O, here let prejudice depart, And, partial feeling cast aside, Record that Fox a Briton died! When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke, And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, And the firm Russian's purpose brave Was barter'd by a timorous slave— Even then dishonour's peace he spurn'd, The sullied olive-branch return'd, Stood for his country's glory fast, And nail'd her colours to the mast! Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave A portion in this honour'd grave; And ne'er held marble in its trust Of two such wondrous men the dust.

With more than mortal powers endow'd, How high they soar'd above the crowd! Theirs was no common party race, Jostling by dark intrigue for place; Like fabled gods, their mighty war Shook realms and nations in its jar; Beneath each banner proud to stand, Look'd up the noblest of the land, Till through the British world were known The names of PITT and Fox alone. Spells of such force no wizard grave E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave, Though his could drain the ocean dry, And force the planets from the sky. These spells are spent, and, spent with these, The wine of life is on the lees. Genius, and taste, and talent gone, For ever tomb'd beneath the stone, Where—taming thought to human pride!— The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 'Twill trickle to his rival's bier; O'er PITT'S the mournful requiem sound, And Fox's shall the notes rebound. The solemn echo seems to cry, 'Here let their discord with them die. Speak not for those a separate doom Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb; But search the land of living men, Where wilt thou find their like agen?'

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

549. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

PART I An ancient Mariner meeteth three gallants bidden to a wedding feast, and detaineth one.

IT is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his skinny hand, 'There was a ship,' quoth he. 'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.

He holds him with his glittering eye— The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child: The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner.

'The ship was cheer'd, the harbour clear'd, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top.

The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the Line.

The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon——' The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon.

The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner continueth his tale.

The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner.

The ship drawn by a storm toward the South Pole.

'And now the Storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast, The southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald.

The land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd, Like noises in a swound!

Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.

At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hail'd it in God's name.

It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steer'd us through!

And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward through fog and floating ice.

And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariners' hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perch'd for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmer'd the white moonshine.'

The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.

'God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus!— Why look'st thou so?'—'With my crossbow I shot the Albatross.

PART II

'The Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariners' hollo!

His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner for killing the bird of good luck.

And I had done an hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe: For all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow!

But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make themselves accomplices in the crime.

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist: Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails northward, even till it reaches the Line.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow follow'd free; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea.

The ship hath been suddenly becalmed.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.

And the Albatross begins to be avenged.

Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue, and white.

A Spirit had followed them; one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.

And some in dreams assured were Of the Spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought, Was wither'd at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot.

The shipmates in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.

PART III

'There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parch'd, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye! When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky.

The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off.

At first it seem'd a little speck, And then it seem'd a mist; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it near'd and near'd: As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged, and tack'd, and veer'd.

At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood, And cried, A sail! a sail!

A flash of joy;

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call: Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all.

And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes onward without wind or tide?

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal— Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel!

The western wave was all aflame, The day was wellnigh done! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad, bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun.

It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.

And straight the Sun was fleck'd with bars (Heaven's Mother send us grace!), As if through a dungeon-grate he peer'd With broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres?

And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun. The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship. Like vessel, like crew!

Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a Death? and are there two? Is Death that Woman's mate?

Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold.

Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner.

The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; "The game is done! I've won! I've won!" Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

No twilight within the courts of the Sun.

The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: At one stride comes the dark; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listen'd and look'd sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seem'd to sip! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd white; From the sails the dew did drip— Till clomb above the eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip.

At the rising of the Moon, One after another,

One after one, by the star-dogg'd Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye.

His shipmates drop down dead.

Four times fifty living men (And I heard nor sigh nor groan), With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropp'd down one by one.

But Life-in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner.

The souls did from their bodies fly— They fled to bliss or woe! And every soul, it pass'd me by Like the whizz of my crossbow!'

PART IV

The Wedding-Guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him;

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribb'd sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand so brown.'— 'Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! This body dropt not down.

But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.

Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.

He despiseth the creatures of the calm.

The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I.

And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.

I look'd upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I look'd upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay.

I look'd to heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet.

But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they: The look with which they look'd on me Had never pass'd away.

An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.

In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest and their native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.

The moving Moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide; Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside—

Her beams bemock'd the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red.

By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great calm.

Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watch'd the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they rear'd, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship I watch'd their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coil'd and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire.

Their beauty and their happiness.

O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gush'd from my heart, And I bless'd them unaware: Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I bless'd them unaware.

He blesseth them in his heart. The spell begins to break.

The selfsame moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea.

PART V

'O sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul.

By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain.

The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remain'd, I dreamt that they were fill'd with dew; And when I awoke, it rain'd.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank.

I moved, and could not feel my limbs: I was so light—almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost.

He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element.

And soon I heard a roaring wind: It did not come anear; But with its sound it shook the sails, That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life; And a hundred fire-flags sheen; To and fro they were hurried about! And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge; And the rain pour'd down from one black cloud; The Moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side; Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide.

The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, and the ship moves on;

The loud wind never reach'd the ship, Yet now the ship moved on! Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan.

They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steer'd, the ship moved on; Yet never a breeze up-blew; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee: The body and I pull'd at one rope, But he said naught to me.'

But not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint.

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!' Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest: 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest:

For when it dawn'd—they dropp'd their arms, And cluster'd round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies pass'd.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mix'd, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the skylark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seem'd to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning!

And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the Heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sail'd on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath.

The lonesome Spirit from the South Pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.

Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The Spirit slid: and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fix'd her to the ocean: But in a minute she 'gan stir, With a short uneasy motion— Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound.

The Polar Spirit's fellow-demons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward.

How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life return'd, I heard, and in my soul discern'd Two voices in the air.

"Is it he?" quoth one, "is this the man? By Him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross.

The Spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow."

The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, "The man hath penance done, And penance more will do."

PART VI

First Voice: '"But tell me, tell me! speak again, Thy soft response renewing— What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the Ocean doing?"

Second Voice: "Still as a slave before his lord, The Ocean hath no blast; His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is cast—

If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him."

The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure.

First Voice: "But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind?"

Second Voice: "The air is cut away before, And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! Or we shall be belated: For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner's trance is abated.'

The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.

I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather: 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high; The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter: All fix'd on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never pass'd away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray.

The curse is finally expiated.

And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green, And look'd far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen—

Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turn'd round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made: Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring— It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sail'd softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— On me alone it blew.

And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.

O dream of joy! is this indeed The lighthouse top I see? Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray— O let me be awake, my God! Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn! And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the Moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less That stands above the rock: The moonlight steep'd in silentness The steady weathercock.

The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,

And the bay was white with silent light Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came.

And appear in their own forms of light.

A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: I turn'd my eyes upon the deck— O Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand: It was a heavenly sight! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light;

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart— No voice; but O, the silence sank Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot's cheer; My head was turn'd perforce away, And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast: Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third—I heard his voice: It is the Hermit good! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood.

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.