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

Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

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

What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet, if we could scorn Hate and pride and fear, If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know; Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

609. The Moon

I

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

II

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

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

610. Ode to the West Wind

I

O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill;

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!

II

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might

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

III

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

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

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

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

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seem'd a vision—I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.

V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own? The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

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

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

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

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

611. The Indian Serenade

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

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

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

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

612. Night

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

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

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

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

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

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

613. From the Arabic AN IMITATION

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

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

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

614. Lines

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

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

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

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

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

615. To ——

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

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

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

616. The Question

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

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

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

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

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

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

617. Remorse

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

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

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

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

618. Music, when Soft Voices die

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

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

Hew Ainslie. 1792-1878

619. Willie and Helen

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

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

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

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

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

cleedin'] clothing.

John Keble. 1792-1866

620. Burial of the Dead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John Clare. 1793-1864

621. Written in Northampton County Asylum

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

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

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

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 1793-1835

622. Dirge

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

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

John Keats. 1795-1821

623. Song of the Indian Maid FROM 'ENDYMION'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sea-spry] sea-spray.

John Keats. 1795-1821

624. Ode to a Nightingale

MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness, That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

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

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?

John Keats. 1795-1821

625. Ode on a Grecian Urn

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

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

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

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

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

John Keats. 1795-1821

626. Ode to Psyche

O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung Even into thine own soft-conched ear: Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: The winged boy I knew; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? His Psyche true!

O latest-born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heap'd with flowers; Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

O brightest! though too late for antique vows, Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, When holy were the haunted forest boughs, Holy the air, the water, and the fire; Yet even in these days so far retired From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Fluttering among the faint Olympians, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming: Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same; And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!

John Keats. 1795-1821

627. To Autumn

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

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

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

John Keats. 1795-1821

628. Ode on Melancholy

NO, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

John Keats. 1795-1821

629. Fragment of an Ode to Maia (Written on May-Day, 1818)

MOTHER of Hermes! and still youthful Maia! May I sing to thee As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae? Or may I woo thee In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles, By bards who died content on pleasant sward, Leaving great verse unto a little clan? O give me their old vigour! and unheard Save of the quiet primrose, and the span Of heaven, and few ears, Rounded by thee, my song should die away Content as theirs, Rich in the simple worship of a day.

John Keats. 1795-1821

630. Bards of Passion and of Mirth Written on the Blank Page before Beaumont and Fletcher's Tragi-Comedy 'The Fair Maid of the Inn'

BARDS of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Have ye souls in heaven too, Doubled-lived in regions new? Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon; With the noise of fountains wondrous, And the parle of voices thund'rous; With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, in soft ease Seated on Elysian lawns Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth; Philosophic numbers smooth; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away.

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new!

John Keats. 1795-1821

631. Fancy

EVER let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home: At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Then let winged Fancy wander Through the thought still spread beyond her: Open wide the mind's cage-door, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Summer's joys are spoilt by use, And the enjoying of the Spring Fades as does its blossoming; Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, Blushing through the mist and dew, Cloys with tasting: What do then? Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear faggot blazes bright, Spirit of a winter's night; When the soundless earth is muffled, And the caked snow is shuffled From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; When the Night doth meet the Noon In a dark conspiracy To banish Even from her sky. Sit thee there, and send abroad, With a mind self-overawed, Fancy, high-commission'd:—send her! She has vassals to attend her: She will bring, in spite of frost, Beauties that the earth hath lost; She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather; All the buds and bells of May, From dewy sward or thorny spray; All the heaped Autumn's wealth, With a still, mysterious stealth: She will mix these pleasures up Like three fit wines in a cup, And thou shalt quaff it:—thou shalt hear Distant harvest-carols clear; Rustle of the reaped corn; Sweet birds antheming the morn: And, in the same moment—hark! 'Tis the early April lark, Or the rooks, with busy caw, Foraging for sticks and straw. Thou shalt, at one glance, behold The daisy and the marigold; White-plumed lilies, and the first Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; Shaded hyacinth, alway Sapphire queen of the mid-May; And every leaf, and every flower Pearled with the self-same shower. Thou shalt see the fieldmouse peep Meagre from its celled sleep; And the snake all winter-thin Cast on sunny bank its skin; Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, When the hen-bird's wing doth rest Quiet on her mossy nest; Then the hurry and alarm When the beehive casts its swarm; Acorns ripe down-pattering While the autumn breezes sing.

O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Every thing is spoilt by use: Where 's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at? Where 's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new? Where 's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where 's the face One would meet in every place? Where 's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft? At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. Let, then, winged Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind: Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, Ere the God of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's, when her zone Slipt its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid.—Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash; Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she'll bring.— Let the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.

John Keats. 1795-1821

632. Stanzas

IN a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them, With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy! But were there ever any Writhed not at passed joy? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steal it, Was never said in rhyme.

John Keats. 1795-1821

633. Las Belle Dame sans Merci

'O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.

'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest 's done.

'I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.'

'I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

'I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

'I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song.

'She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna dew, And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true!"

'She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sigh'd fill sore; And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four.

'And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side.

'I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!"

'I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill's side.

'And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.'

John Keats. 1795-1821

634. On first looking into Chapman's Homer

MUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific—and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

John Keats. 1795-1821

635. When I have Fears that I may cease to be

WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high pil`d books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And feel that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think, Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

John Keats. 1795-1821

636. To Sleep

O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight! Shutting with careful fingers and benign Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine; O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws Around my bed its lulling charities; Then save me, or the passed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

John Keats. 1795-1821

637. Last Sonnet

BRIGHT Star, would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priest-like task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors— No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

Jeremiah Joseph Callanan. 1795-1839

638. The Outlaw of Loch Lene FROM THE IRISH

O MANY a day have I made good ale in the glen, That came not of stream or malt, like the brewing of men: My bed was the ground; my roof, the green-wood above; And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my Love.

Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field, That I was not near from terror my angel to shield! She stretch'd forth her arms; her mantle she flung to the wind, And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlaw'd lover to find.

O would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep, And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep; I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or a pinnace, to save— With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave.

'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides, The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides: I think, as at eve she wanders its mazes among, The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.

William Sidney Walker. 1795-1846

639. Too solemn for day, too sweet for night

TOO solemn for day, too sweet for night, Come not in darkness, come not in light; But come in some twilight interim, When the gloom is soft, and the light is dim.

George Darley. 1795-1846

640. Song

SWEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above: O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, I too could glide to the bower of my love!

Ah! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far away.

Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest, Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me— Come—this fond bosom, O faithfullest and fairest, Bleeds with its death-wound, its wound of love for thee!

George Darley. 1795-1846

641. To Helene On a Gift-ring carelessly lost

I SENT a ring—a little band Of emerald and ruby stone, And bade it, sparkling on thy hand, Tell thee sweet tales of one Whose constant memory Was full of loveliness, and thee.

A shell was graven on its gold,— 'Twas Cupid fix'd without his wings— To Helene once it would have told More than was ever told by rings: But now all 's past and gone, Her love is buried with that stone.

Thou shalt not see the tears that start From eyes by thoughts like these beguiled; Thou shalt not know the beating heart, Ever a victim and a child: Yet Helene, love, believe The heart that never could deceive.

I'll hear thy voice of melody In the sweet whispers of the air; I'll see the brightness of thine eye In the blue evening's dewy star; In crystal streams thy purity; And look on Heaven to look on thee.

George Darley. 1795-1846

642. The Fallen Star

A STAR is gone! a star is gone! There is a blank in Heaven; One of the cherub choir has done His airy course this even.

He sat upon the orb of fire That hung for ages there, And lent his music to the choir That haunts the nightly air.

But when his thousand years are pass'd, With a cherubic sigh He vanish'd with his car at last, For even cherubs die!

Hear how his angel-brothers mourn— The minstrels of the spheres— Each chiming sadly in his turn And dropping splendid tears.

The planetary sisters all Join in the fatal song, And weep this hapless brother's fall, Who sang with them so long.

But deepest of the choral band The Lunar Spirit sings, And with a bass-according hand Sweeps all her sullen strings.

From the deep chambers of the dome Where sleepless Uriel lies, His rude harmonic thunders come Mingled with mighty sighs.

The thousand car-bourne cherubim, The wandering eleven, All join to chant the dirge of him Who fell just now from Heaven.

Hartley Coleridge. 1796-1849

643. The Solitary-Hearted

SHE was a queen of noble Nature's crowning, A smile of hers was like an act of grace; She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning, Like daily beauties of the vulgar race: But if she smiled, a light was on her face, A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam Of peaceful radiance, silvering o'er the stream Of human thought with unabiding glory; Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream, A visitation, bright and transitory.

But she is changed,—hath felt the touch of sorrow, No love hath she, no understanding friend; O grief! when Heaven is forced of earth to borrow What the poor niggard earth has not to lend; But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend. The tallest flower that skyward rears its head Grows from the common ground, and there must shed Its delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely, That they should find so base a bridal bed, Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely.

She had a brother, and a tender father, And she was loved, but not as others are From whom we ask return of love,—but rather As one might love a dream; a phantom fair Of something exquisitely strange and rare, Which all were glad to look on, men and maids, Yet no one claim'd—as oft, in dewy glades, The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness, Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;— The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness.

'Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is only The common lot, which all the world have known; To her 'tis more, because her heart is lonely, And yet she hath no strength to stand alone,— Once she had playmates, fancies of her own, And she did love them. They are past away As Fairies vanish at the break of day; And like a spectre of an age departed, Or unsphered Angel wofully astray, She glides along—the solitary-hearted.

Hartley Coleridge. 1796-1849

644. Song

SHE is not fair to outward view As many maidens be, Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me; O, then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light!

But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye: Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are.

Hartley Coleridge. 1796-1849

645. Early Death

SHE pass'd away like morning dew Before the sun was high; So brief her time, she scarcely knew The meaning of a sigh.

As round the rose its soft perfume, Sweet love around her floated; Admired she grew—while mortal doom Crept on, unfear'd, unnoted.

Love was her guardian Angel here, But Love to Death resign'd her; Tho' Love was kind, why should we fear But holy Death is kinder?

Hartley Coleridge. 1796-1849

646. Friendship

WHEN we were idlers with the loitering rills, The need of human love we little noted: Our love was nature; and the peace that floated On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills, To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills: One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted, That, wisely doting, ask'd not why it doted, And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills. But now I find how dear thou wert to me; That man is more than half of nature's treasure, Of that fair beauty which no eye can see, Of that sweet music which no ear can measure; And now the streams may sing for others' pleasure, The hills sleep on in their eternity.

Thomas Hood. 1798-1845

647. Autumn

I SAW old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like Silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;— Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun, Oping the dusky eyelids of the south, Till shade and silence waken up as one, And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. Where are the merry birds?—Away, away, On panting wings through the inclement skies, Lest owls should prey Undazzled at noonday, And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west, Blushing their last to the last sunny hours, When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs To a most gloomy breast. Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime,— The many, many leaves all twinkling?—Three On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime Trembling,—and one upon the old oak-tree! Where is the Dryad's immortality?— Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through In the smooth holly's green eternity.

The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard, The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain, And honey bees have stored The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells; The swallows all have wing'd across the main; But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, And sighs her tearful spells Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. Alone, alone, Upon a mossy stone, She sits and reckons up the dead and gone With the last leaves for a love-rosary, Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily, Like a dim picture of the drowned past In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away, Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded Under the languid downfall of her hair: She wears a coronal of flowers faded Upon her forehead, and a face of care;— There is enough of wither'd everywhere To make her bower,—and enough of gloom; There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died, whose doom Is Beauty's,—she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light: There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,— Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl; Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

Thomas Hood. 1798-1845

648. Silence

THERE is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be, In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea, Or in wide desert where no life is found, Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound; No voice is hush'd—no life treads silently, But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, That never spoke, over the idle ground: But in green ruins, in the desolate walls Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, Though the dun fox or wild hyaena calls, And owls, that flit continually between, Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan— There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

Thomas Hood. 1798-1845

649. Death

IT is not death, that sometime in a sigh This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight; That sometime these bright stars, that now reply In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night; That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow; That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below; It is not death to know this—but to know That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go So duly and so oft—and when grass waves Over the pass'd-away, there may be then No resurrection in the minds of men.

Thomas Hood. 1798-1845

650. Fair Ines

O SAW ye not fair Ines? She 's gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest: She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast.

O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the Moon should shine alone, And stars unrivall'd bright; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whisper'd thee so near! Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore: It would have been a beauteous dream,— If it had been no more!

Alas, alas! fair Ines, She went away with song, With Music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng; But some were sad, and felt no mirth, But only Music's wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell, To her you've loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! That vessel never bore So fair a lady on its deck, Nor danced so light before,— Alas for pleasure on the sea, And sorrow on the shore! The smile that bless'd one lover's heart Has broken many more!

Thomas Hood. 1798-1845

651. Time of Roses

IT was not in the Winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses— We pluck'd them as we pass'd!

That churlish season never frown'd On early lovers yet: O no—the world was newly crown'd With flowers when first we met!

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast; It was the time of roses— We pluck'd them as we pass'd!

Thomas Hood. 1798-1845

652. Ruth

SHE stood breast-high amid the corn, Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripen'd;—such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veil'd a light, That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim; Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks:—

Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home.

Thomas Hood. 1798-1845

653. The Death-bed

WE watch'd her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seem'd to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied— We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed—she had Another morn than ours.

Thomas Hood. 1798-1845

654. The Bridge of Sighs

ONE more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonour, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family— Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?

Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! O, it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurl'd— Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly— No matter how coldly The rough river ran— Over the brink of it, Picture it—think of it, Dissolute Man! Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring Thro' muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fix'd on futurity.

Perishing gloomily, Spurr'd by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest.— Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly, Over her breast!

Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!

William Thom. 1798-1848

655. The Blind Boy's Pranks

MEN grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind, Love kentna whaur to stay: Wi' fient an arrow, bow, or string— Wi' droopin' heart an' drizzled wing, He faught his lonely way.

'Is there nae mair in Garioch fair Ae spotless hame for me? Hae politics an' corn an' kye Ilk bosom stappit? Fie, O fie! I'll swithe me o'er the sea.'

He launch'd a leaf o' jessamine, On whilk he daur'd to swim, An' pillow'd his head on a wee rosebud, Syne laithfu', lanely, Love 'gan scud Down Ury's waefu' stream.

The birds sang bonnie as Love drew near, But dowie when he gaed by; Till lull'd wi' the sough o' monie a sang, He sleepit fu' soun' and sail'd alang 'Neath Heaven's gowden sky.

'Twas just whaur creeping Ury greets Its mountain cousin Don, There wander'd forth a weelfaur'd dame, Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream, As it flirted an' play'd with a sunny beam That flicker'd its bosom upon.

Love happit his head, I trow, that time The jessamine bark drew nigh, The lassie espied the wee rosebud, An' aye her heart gae thud for thud, An' quiet it wadna lie.

'O gin I but had yon wearie wee flower That floats on the Ury sae fair!'— She lootit her hand for the silly rose-leaf, But little wist she o' the pawkie thief That was lurkin' an' laughin' there!

Love glower'd when he saw her bonnie dark e'e, An' swore by Heaven's grace He ne'er had seen nor thought to see, Since e'er he left the Paphian lea, Sae lovely a dwallin'-place.

Syne first of a' in her blythesome breast He built a bower, I ween; An' what did the waefu' devilick neist? But kindled a gleam like the rosy east, That sparkled frae baith her e'en.

An' then beneath ilk high e'e-bree He placed a quiver there; His bow? What but her shinin' brow? An' O sic deadly strings he drew Frae out her silken hair!

Guid be our guard! Sic deeds waur deen Roun' a' our countrie then; An' monie a hangin' lug was seen 'Mang farmers fat, an' lawyers lean, An' herds o' common men!

kentna] knew not. wi' fient an arrow] i. q. with deuce an arrow. swithe] hie quickly. laithfu'] regretful. dowie] dejectedly. weelfaur'd] well-favoured, comely. happit] covered up. lootit] lowered. pawkie] sly. glower'd] stared. e'e-bree] eyebrow. lug] ear.

Sir Henry Taylor. 1800-1866

656. Elena's Song

QUOTH tongue of neither maid nor wife To heart of neither wife nor maid— Lead we not here a jolly life Betwixt the shine and shade?

Quoth heart of neither maid nor wife To tongue of neither wife nor maid— Thou wagg'st, but I am worn with strife, And feel like flowers that fade.

Thomas Babington Macaulay, Lord Macaulay. 1800-1859

657. A Jacobite's Epitaph

TO my true king I offer'd free from stain Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. For him I languish'd in a foreign clime, Gray-hair'd with sorrow in my manhood's prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; Beheld each night my home in fever'd sleep, Each morning started from the dream to weep; Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting-place I ask'd, an early grave. O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was once mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must see, By that dear language which I spake like thee, Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

William Barnes. 1801-1886

658. Mater Dolorosa

I'D a dream to-night As I fell asleep, O! the touching sight Makes me still to weep: Of my little lad, Gone to leave me sad, Ay, the child I had, But was not to keep.

As in heaven high, I my child did seek, There in train came by Children fair and meek, Each in lily white, With a lamp alight; Each was clear to sight, But they did not speak.

Then, a little sad, Came my child in turn, But the lamp he had, O it did not burn! He, to clear my doubt, Said, half turn'd about, 'Your tears put it out; Mother, never mourn.'

William Barnes. 1801-1886

659. The Wife a-lost

SINCE I noo mwore do zee your fece, Up sters or down below, I'll zit me in the lwonesome plece, Where flat-bough'd beech do grow; Below the beeches' bough, my love, Where you did never come, An' I don't look to meet ye now, As I do look at hwome.

Since you noo mwore be at my zide, In walks in zummer het, I'll goo alwone where mist do ride, Droo trees a-drippen wet; Below the ran-wet bough, my love, Where you did never come, An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, As I do grieve at hwome.

Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard Your vace do never sound, I'll eat the bit I can avword A-vield upon the ground; Below the darksome bough, my love, Where you did never dine, An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, As I at hwome do pine.

Since I do miss your vace an' fece In prayer at eventide, I'll pray wi' woone sad vace vor grece To goo where you do bide; Above the tree an' bough, my love, Where you be gone avore, An' be a-waten vor me now, To come vor evermwore.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed. 1802-1839

660. Fairy Song

HE has conn'd the lesson now; He has read the book of pain: There are furrows on his brow; I must make it smooth again.

Lo! I knock the spurs away; Lo! I loosen belt and brand; Hark! I hear the courser neigh For his stall in Fairy-land.

Bring the cap, and bring the vest; Buckle on his sandal shoon; Fetch his memory from the chest In the treasury of the moon.

I have taught him to be wise For a little maiden's sake;— Lo! he opens his glad eyes, Softly, slowly: Minstrel, wake!

Sara Coleridge. 1802-1850

661. O sleep, my Babe

O SLEEP, my babe, hear not the rippling wave, Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling'ring strays To drink thy balmy breath, And sigh one long farewell.

Soon shall it mourn above thy wat'ry bed, And whisper to me, on the wave-beat shore, Deep murm'ring in reproach, Thy sad untimely fate.

Ere those dear eyes had open'd on the light, In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold, O waken'd but to sleep, Whence it can wake no more!

A thousand and a thousand silken leaves The tufted beech unfolds in early spring, All clad in tenderest green, All of the self-same shape:

A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet, Each year sends forth, yet every mother views Her last not least beloved Like its dear self alone.

No musing mind hath ever yet foreshaped The face to-morrow's sun shall first reveal, No heart hath e'er conceived What love that face will bring.

O sleep, my babe, nor heed how mourns the gale To part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath, As when it deeply sighs O'er autumn's latest bloom.

Sara Coleridge. 1802-1850

662. The Child

SEE yon blithe child that dances in our sight! Can gloomy shadows fall from one so bright? Fond mother, whence these fears? While buoyantly he rushes o'er the lawn, Dream not of clouds to stain his manhood's dawn, Nor dim that sight with tears.

No cloud he spies in brightly glowing hours, But feels as if the newly vested bowers For him could never fade: Too well we know that vernal pleasures fleet, But having him, so gladsome, fair, and sweet, Our loss is overpaid.

Amid the balmiest flowers that earth can give Some bitter drops distil, and all that live A mingled portion share; But, while he learns these truths which we lament, Such fortitude as ours will sure be sent, Such solace to his care.

Gerald Griffin. 1803-1840

663. Eileen Aroon

WHEN like the early rose, Eileen Aroon! Beauty in childhood blows, Eileen Aroon! When, like a diadem, Buds blush around the stem, Which is the fairest gem?— Eileen Aroon!

Is it the laughing eye, Eileen Aroon! Is it the timid sigh, Eileen Aroon! Is it the tender tone, Soft as the string'd harp's moan? O, it is truth alone,— Eileen Aroon!

When like the rising day, Eileen Aroon! Love sends his early ray, Eileen Aroon! What makes his dawning glow, Changeless through joy or woe? Only the constant know:— Eileen Aroon!

I know a valley fair, Eileen Aroon! I knew a cottage there, Eileen Aroon! Far in that valley's shade I knew a gentle maid, Flower of a hazel glade,— Eileen Aroon!

Who in the song so sweet? Eileen Aroon! Who in the dance so fleet? Eileen Aroon! Dear were her charms to me, Dearer her laughter free, Dearest her constancy,— Eileen Aroon!

Were she no longer true, Eileen Aroon! What should her lover do? Eileen Aroon! Fly with his broken chain Far o'er the sounding main, Never to love again,— Eileen Aroon!

Youth must with time decay, Eileen Aroon! Beauty must fade away, Eileen Aroon! Castles are sack'd in war, Chieftains are scatter'd far, Truth is a fixed star,— Eileen Aroon!

James Clarence Mangan. 1803-1849

664. Dark Rosaleen

O MY Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the deep. There 's wine from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My Dark Rosaleen!

Over hills, and thro' dales, Have I roam'd for your sake; All yesterday I sail'd with sails On river and on lake. The Erne, at its highest flood, I dash'd across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! O, there was lightning in my blood, Red lightning lighten'd thro' my blood. My Dark Rosaleen!

All day long, in unrest, To and fro, do I move. The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen!

Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon. But yet will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen; 'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! 'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen!

Over dews, over sands, Will I fly, for your weal: Your holy delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home, in your emerald bowers, From morning's dawn till e'en, You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My Dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! You'll think of me through daylight hours, My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, My Dark Rosaleen!

I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, O, I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills! And one beamy smile from you Would float like light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My Dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew, My Dark Rosaleen!

O, the Erne shall run red, With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood, And gun-peal and slogan-cry Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! The Judgement Hour must first be nigh, Ere you can fade, ere you can die, My Dark Rosaleen!

James Clarence Mangan. 1803-1849

665. The Nameless One

ROLL forth, my song, like the rushing river, That sweeps along to the mighty sea; God will inspire me while I deliver My soul of thee!

Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening Amid the last homes of youth and eld, That once there was one whose veins ran lightning No eye beheld.

Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour, How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom, No star of all heaven sends to light our Path to the tomb.

Roll on, my song, and to after ages Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages, The way to live.

And tell how trampled, derided, hated, And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong, He fled for shelter to God, who mated His soul with song.

—With song which alway, sublime or vapid, Flow'd like a rill in the morning beam, Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid— A mountain stream.

Tell how this Nameless, condemn'd for years long To herd with demons from hell beneath, Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long For even death.

Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, Betray'd in friendship, befool'd in love, With spirit shipwreck'd, and young hopes blasted, He still, still strove;

Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others (And some whose hands should have wrought for him, If children live not for sires and mothers), His mind grew dim;

And he fell far through that pit abysmal, The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, And pawn'd his soul for the devil's dismal Stock of returns.

But yet redeem'd it in days of darkness, And shapes and signs of the final wrath, When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, Stood on his path.

And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, And want, and sickness, and houseless nights, He bides in calmness the silent morrow, That no ray lights.

And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, He lives, enduring what future story Will never know.

Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell! He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble, Here and in hell.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 1803-1849

666. Wolfram's Dirge

IF thou wilt ease thine heart Of love and all its smart, Then sleep, dear, sleep; And not a sorrow Hang any tear on your eyelashes; Lie still and deep, Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes The rim o' the sun to-morrow, In eastern sky.

But wilt thou cure thine heart Of love and all its smart, Then die, dear, die; 'Tis deeper, sweeter, Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming With folded eye; And there alone, amid the beaming Of Love's stars, thou'lt meet her In eastern sky.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 1803-1849

667. Dream-Pedlary

IF there were dreams to sell, What would you buy? Some cost a passing bell; Some a light sigh, That shakes from Life's fresh crown Only a rose-leaf down. If there were dreams to sell, Merry and sad to tell, And the crier rang the bell, What would you buy?

A cottage lone and still, With bowers nigh, Shadowy, my woes to still, Until I die. Such pearl from Life's fresh crown Fain would I shake me down. Were dreams to have at will, This would best heal my ill, This would I buy.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 1803-1849

668. Song

HOW many times do I love thee, dear? Tell me how many thoughts there be In the atmosphere Of a new-fall'n year, Whose white and sable hours appear The latest flake of Eternity: So many times do I love thee, dear.

How many times do I love again? Tell me how many beads there are In a silver chain Of evening rain, Unravell'd from the tumbling main, And threading the eye of a yellow star: So many times do I love again.

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 1803-1882

669. Give All to Love

GIVE all to love; Obey thy heart; Friends, kindred, days, Estate, good fame, Plans, credit, and the Muse— Nothing refuse.

'Tis a brave master; Let it have scope: Follow it utterly, Hope beyond hope: High and more high It dives into noon, With wing unspent, Untold intent; But it is a god, Knows its own path, And the outlets of the sky.

It was never for the mean; It requireth courage stout, Souls above doubt, Valour unbending: Such 'twill reward;— They shall return More than they were, And ever ascending.

Leave all for love; Yet, hear me, yet, One word more thy heart behoved, One pulse more of firm endeavour— Keep thee to-day, To-morrow, for ever, Free as an Arab Of thy beloved.

Cling with life to the maid; But when the surprise, First vague shadow of surmise, Flits across her bosom young, Of a joy apart from thee, Free be she, fancy-free; Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem.

Though thou loved her as thyself, As a self of purer clay; Though her parting dims the day, Stealing grace from all alive; Heartily know, When half-gods go The gods arrive.

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 1803-1882

670. Uriel

IT fell in the ancient periods Which the brooding soul surveys, Or ever the wild Time coin'd itself Into calendar months and days.

This was the lapse of Uriel, Which in Paradise befell. Once, among the Pleiads walking, Sayd overheard the young gods talking; And the treason, too long pent, To his ears was evident. The young deities discuss'd Laws of form, and metre just, Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams, What subsisteth, and what seems. One, with low tones that decide, And doubt and reverend use defied, With a look that solved the sphere, And stirr'd the devils everywhere, Gave his sentiment divine Against the being of a line. 'Line in nature is not found; Unit and universe are round; In vain produced, all rays return; Evil will bless, and ice will burn.' As Uriel spoke with piercing eye, A shudder ran around the sky; The stern old war-gods shook their heads; The seraphs frown'd from myrtle-beds; Seem'd to the holy festival The rash word boded ill to all; The balance-beam of Fate was bent; The bounds of good and ill were rent; Strong Hades could not keep his own, But all slid to confusion.

A sad self-knowledge withering fell On the beauty of Uriel; In heaven once eminent, the god Withdrew that hour into his cloud; Whether doom'd to long gyration In the sea of generation, Or by knowledge grown too bright To hit the nerve of feebler sight. Straightway a forgetting wind Stole over the celestial kind, And their lips the secret kept, If in ashes the fire-seed slept. But, now and then, truth-speaking things Shamed the angels' veiling wings; And, shrilling from the solar course, Or from fruit of chemic force, Procession of a soul in matter, Or the speeding change of water, Or out of the good of evil born, Came Uriel's voice of cherub scorn, And a blush tinged the upper sky, And the gods shook, they knew not why.

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 1803-1882

671. Bacchus

BRING me wine, but wine which never grew In the belly of the grape, Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through Under the Andes to the Cape, Suffer'd no savour of the earth to 'scape.

Let its grapes the morn salute From a nocturnal root, Which feels the acrid juice Of Styx and Erebus; And turns the woe of Night, By its own craft, to a more rich delight.

We buy ashes for bread; We buy diluted wine; Give me of the true, Whose ample leaves and tendrils curl'd Among the silver hills of heaven Draw everlasting dew; Wine of wine, Blood of the world, Form of forms, and mould of statures, That I intoxicated, And by the draught assimilated, May float at pleasure through all natures; The bird-language rightly spell, And that which roses say so well:

Wine that is shed Like the torrents of the sun Up the horizon walls, Or like the Atlantic streams, which run When the South Sea calls.

Water and bread, Food which needs no transmuting, Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting, Wine which is already man, Food which teach and reason can.

Wine which Music is,— Music and wine are one,— That I, drinking this, Shall hear far Chaos talk with me; Kings unborn shall walk with me; And the poor grass shall plot and plan What it will do when it is man. Quicken'd so, will I unlock Every crypt of every rock.

I thank the joyful juice For all I know; Winds of remembering Of the ancient being blow, And seeming-solid walls of use Open and flow.

Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine; Retrieve the loss of me and mine! Vine for vine be antidote, And the grape requite the lote! Haste to cure the old despair; Reason in Nature's lotus drench'd— The memory of ages quench'd— Give them again to shine; Let wine repair what this undid; And where the infection slid, A dazzling memory revive; Refresh the faded tints, Recut the aged prints, And write my old adventures with the pen Which on the first day drew, Upon the tablets blue, The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 1803-1882

672. Brahma

IF the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near; Shadow and sunlight are the same; The vanish'd gods to me appear; And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode, And pine in vain the sacred Seven; But thou, meek lover of the good! Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

Richard Henry Horne. 1803-1884

673. The Plough A LANDSCAPE IN BERKSHIRE

ABOVE yon sombre swell of land Thou see'st the dawn's grave orange hue, With one pale streak like yellow sand, And over that a vein of blue.

The air is cold above the woods; All silent is the earth and sky, Except with his own lonely moods The blackbird holds a colloquy.

Over the broad hill creeps a beam, Like hope that gilds a good man's brow; And now ascends the nostril-stream Of stalwart horses come to plough.

Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind Your labour is for future hours: Advance—spare not—nor look behind— Plough deep and straight with all your powers!

Robert Stephen Hawker. 1804-1875

674. King Arthur's Waes-hael

WAES-HAEL for knight and dame! O merry be their dole! Drink-hael! in Jesu's name We fill the tawny bowl; But cover down the curving crest, Mould of the Orient Lady's breast.

Waes-hael! yet lift no lid: Drain ye the reeds for wine. Drink-hael! the milk was hid That soothed that Babe divine; Hush'd, as this hollow channel flows, He drew the balsam from the rose.

Waes-hael! thus glow'd the breast Where a God yearn'd to cling; Drink-hael! so Jesu press'd Life from its mystic spring; Then hush and bend in reverent sign And breathe the thrilling reeds for wine.

Waes-hael! in shadowy scene Lo! Christmas children we: Drink-hael! behold we lean At a far Mother's knee; To dream that thus her bosom smiled, And learn the lip of Bethlehem's Child.

Robert Stephen Hawker. 1804-1875

675. Are they not all Ministering Spirits?

WE see them not—we cannot hear The music of their wing— Yet know we that they sojourn near, The Angels of the spring!

They glide along this lovely ground When the first violet grows; Their graceful hands have just unbound The zone of yonder rose.

I gather it for thy dear breast, From stain and shadow free: That which an Angel's touch hath blest Is meet, my love, for thee!

Thomas Wade. 1805-1875

676. The Half-asleep

O FOR the mighty wakening that aroused The old-time Prophets to their missions high; And to blind Homer's inward sunlike eye Show'd the heart's universe where he caroused Radiantly; the Fishers poor unhoused, And sent them forth to preach divinity; And made our Milton his great dark defy, To the light of one immortal theme espoused! But half asleep are those now most awake; And save calm-thoughted Wordsworth, we have none Who for eternity put time at stake, And hold a constant course as doth the sun: We yield but drops that no deep thirstings slake; And feebly cease ere we have well begun.

Francis Mahony. 1805-1866

677. The Bells of Shandon

WITH deep affection, And recollection, I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling around my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee.

I've heard bells chiming Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine, While at a glib rate Brass tongues would vibrate— But all their music Spoke naught like thine; For memory, dwelling On each proud swelling Of the belfry knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee.

I've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's Mole in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly— O, the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee.

There 's a bell in Moscow, While on tower and kiosk O! In Saint Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer From the tapering summits Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them; But there 's an anthem More dear to me,— 'Tis the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861

678. Rosalind's Scroll

I LEFT thee last, a child at heart, A woman scarce in years: I come to thee, a solemn corpse Which neither feels nor fears. I have no breath to use in sighs; They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes To seal them safe from tears.

Look on me with thine own calm look: I meet it calm as thou. No look of thine can change this smile, Or break thy sinful vow: I tell thee that my poor scorn'd heart Is of thine earth—thine earth—a part: It cannot vex thee now.

I have pray'd for thee with bursting sob When passion's course was free; I have pray'd for thee with silent lips In the anguish none could see; They whisper'd oft, 'She sleepeth soft'— But I only pray'd for thee.

Go to! I pray for thee no more: The corpse's tongue is still; Its folded fingers point to heaven, But point there stiff and chill: No farther wrong, no farther woe Hath licence from the sin below Its tranquil heart to thrill.

I charge thee, by the living's prayer, And the dead's silentness, To wring from out thy soul a cry Which God shall hear and bless! Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand, And pale among the saints I stand, A saint companionless.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861

679. The Deserted Garden

I MIND me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted.

The beds and walks were vanish'd quite; And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, The greenest grasses Nature laid, To sanctify her right.

I call'd the place my wilderness, For no one enter'd there but I. The sheep look'd in, the grass to espy, And pass'd it ne'ertheless.

The trees were interwoven wild, And spread their boughs enough about To keep both sheep and shepherd out, But not a happy child.

Adventurous joy it was for me! I crept beneath the boughs, and found A circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar-tree.

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, Bedropt with roses waxen-white, Well satisfied with dew and light, And careless to be seen.

Long years ago, it might befall, When all the garden flowers were trim, The grave old gardener prided him On these the most of all.

Some Lady, stately overmuch, Here moving with a silken noise, Has blush'd beside them at the voice That liken'd her to such.

Or these, to make a diadem, She often may have pluck'd and twined; Half-smiling as it came to mind, That few would look at them.

O, little thought that Lady proud, A child would watch her fair white rose, When buried lay her whiter brows, And silk was changed for shroud!—

Nor thought that gardener (full of scorns For men unlearn'd and simple phrase) A child would bring it all its praise, By creeping through the thorns!

To me upon my low moss seat, Though never a dream the roses sent Of science or love's compliment, I ween they smelt as sweet.

It did not move my grief to see The trace of human step departed: Because the garden was deserted, The blither place for me!

Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken Hath childhood 'twixt the sun and sward: We draw the moral afterward— We feel the gladness then.

And gladdest hours for me did glide In silence at the rose-tree wall: A thrush made gladness musical Upon the other side.

Nor he nor I did e'er incline To peck or pluck the blossoms white:— How should I know but that they might Lead lives as glad as mine?

To make my hermit-home complete, I brought clear water from the spring Praised in its own low murmuring, And cresses glossy wet.

And so, I thought, my likeness grew (Without the melancholy tale) To 'gentle hermit of the dale,' And Angelina too.

For oft I read within my nook Such minstrel stories; till the breeze Made sounds poetic in the trees, And then I shut the book.

If I shut this wherein I write, I hear no more the wind athwart Those trees, nor feel that childish heart Delighting in delight.

My childhood from my life is parted, My footstep from the moss which drew Its fairy circle round: anew The garden is deserted.

Another thrush may there rehearse The madrigals which sweetest are; No more for me!—myself afar Do sing a sadder verse.

Ah me! ah me! when erst I lay In that child's-nest so greenly wrought, I laugh'd unto myself and thought, 'The time will pass away.'

And still I laugh'd, and did not fear But that, whene'er was pass'd away The childish time, some happier play My womanhood would cheer.

I knew the time would pass away; And yet, beside the rose-tree wall, Dear God, how seldom, if at all, Did I look up to pray!

The time is past: and now that grows The cypress high among the trees, And I behold white sepulchres As well as the white rose,—

When wiser, meeker thoughts are given, And I have learnt to lift my face, Reminded how earth's greenest place The colour draws from heaven,—

It something saith for earthly pain, But more for heavenly promise free, That I who was, would shrink to be That happy child again.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861

680. Consolation

ALL are not taken; there are left behind Living Beloveds, tender looks to bring And make the daylight still a happy thing, And tender voices, to make soft the wind: But if it were not so—if I could find No love in all this world for comforting, Nor any path but hollowly did ring Where 'dust to dust' the love from life disjoin'd; And if, before those sepulchres unmoving I stood alone (as some forsaken lamb Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth) Crying 'Where are ye, O my loved and loving?'— I know a voice would sound, 'Daughter, I AM. Can I suffice for Heaven and not for earth?'

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861

681. Grief

I TELL you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air Beat upward to God's throne in loud access Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness In souls as countries lieth silent-bare Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death— Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless woe Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet: If it could weep, it could arise and go.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861

682. Sonnets from the Portuguese i

I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wish'd-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw in gradual vision through my tears The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years— Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, 'Guess now who holds thee?'—'Death,' I said. But there The silver answer rang—'Not Death, but Love.'

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861

683. Sonnets from the Portuguese ii

UNLIKE are we, unlike, O princely Heart! Unlike our uses and our destinies. Our ministering two angels look surprise On one another, as they strike athwart Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art A guest for queens to social pageantries, With gages from a hundred brighter eyes Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part Of chief musician. What hast thou to do With looking from the lattice-lights at me— A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree? The chrism is on thine head—on mine the dew— And Death must dig the level where these agree.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861

684. Sonnets from the Portuguese iii

GO from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand Serenely in the sunshine as before, Without the sense of that which I forbore— Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine, And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861

685. Sonnets from the Portuguese iv

IF thou must love me, let it be for naught Except for love's sake only. Do not say, 'I love her for her smile—her look—her way Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'— For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee—and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry: A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861

686. Sonnets from the Portuguese v

WHEN our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire At either curving point,—what bitter wrong Can the earth do us, that we should not long Be here contented? Think! In mounting higher, The angels would press on us, and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay Rather on earth, Beloved—where the unfit Contrarious moods of men recoil away And isolate pure spirits, and permit A place to stand and love in for a day, With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861

687. A Musical Instrument

WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep cool bed of the river; The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan, While turbidly flow'd the river; And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan (How tall it stood in the river!), Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring, And notch'd the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sat by the river.

'This is the way,' laugh'd the great god Pan (Laugh'd while he sat by the river), 'The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed.' Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! Piercing sweet by the river! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man: The true gods sigh for the cost and pain— For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds of the river.

Frederick Tennyson. 1807-1898

688. The Holy Tide

THE days are sad, it is the Holy tide: The Winter morn is short, the Night is long; So let the lifeless Hours be glorified With deathless thoughts and echo'd in sweet song: And through the sunset of this purple cup They will resume the roses of their prime, And the old Dead will hear us and wake up, Pass with dim smiles and make our hearts sublime!

The days are sad, it is the Holy tide: Be dusky mistletoes and hollies strown, Sharp as the spear that pierced His sacred side, Red as the drops upon His thorny crown; No haggard Passion and no lawless Mirth Fright off the solemn Muse,—tell sweet old tales, Sing songs as we sit brooding o'er the hearth, Till the lamp flickers, and the memory fails.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 1807-1882

689. My Lost Youth

OFTEN I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thunder'd o'er the tide! And the dead sea-captains, as they lay In their graves o'erlooking the tranquil bay Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighbourhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'