CCXXIODE TO THE WEST WIND.

Ye clouds! that far above me float and pause,Whose pathless march no mortal may control!Ye ocean-waves! that, wheresoe’er ye roll,Yield homage only to eternal laws!Ye woods! that listen to the night-birds singing,5Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined,Save when your own imperious branches swingingHave made a solemn music of the wind!Where, like a man beloved of God,Through glooms, which never woodman trod,10How oft, pursuing fancies holy,My moonlight way o’er flowering weeds I wound,Inspired, beyond the guess of folly,By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound!O ye loud waves! and O ye forests high!15And O ye clouds that far above me soared!Thou rising sun! thou blue rejoicing sky!Yea, every thing that is and will be free!Bear witness for me, wheresoe’er ye be,With what deep worship I have still adored20The spirit of divinest Liberty.When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared,And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea,Stamped her strong foot, and said she would be free,Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared!25With what a joy my lofty gratulationUnawed I sang, amid a slavish band:And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,Like fiends embattled by a wizard’s wand,The Monarchs marched in evil day30And Britain joined the dire array;Though dear her shores and circling ocean,Though many friendships, many youthful lovesHad swoln the patriot emotionAnd flung a magic light o’er all her hills and groves;35Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeatTo all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,And shame too long delayed and vain retreat!For ne’er, O Liberty! with partial aimI dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame;40But blessed the pæans of delivered France,And hung my head and wept at Britain’s name.‘And what,’ I said, ‘though Blasphemy’s loud screamWith that sweet music of deliverance strove?Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove45A dance more wild than e’er was maniac’s dream?Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled,The sun was rising, though ye hid his light!’And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright;When France her front deep-scarred and gory51Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory;When, insupportably advancing,Her arm made mockery of the warrior’s tramp;While timid looks of fury glancing,55Domestic Treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;Then I reproached my fears that would not flee;‘And soon,’ I said, ‘shall Wisdom teach her loreIn the low huts of them that toil and groan!60And, conquering by her happiness alone,Shall France compel the nations to be free,Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own.’Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,65From bleak Helvetia’s icy caverns sent—I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams!Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished,And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snowsWith bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished70One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes!To scatter rage and traitorous guilt,Where Peace her jealous home had built;A patriot-race to disinheritOf all that made their stormy wilds so dear;75And with inexpiable spiritTo taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer—O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind,And patriot only in pernicious toils,Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind?80To mix with kings in the low lust of sway,Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey;To’ insult the shrine of Liberty with spoilsFrom freemen torn? to tempt and to betray?The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,85Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad gameThey burst their manacles and wear the nameOf Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!O Liberty! with profitless endeavourHave I pursued thee, many a weary hour;90But thou nor swell’st the victor’s strain, nor everDidst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.Alike from all, howe’er they praise thee,(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee)Alike from Priestcraft’s harpy minions,95And factious Blasphemy’s obscener slaves,Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves!And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff’s verge,Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above,100Had made one murmur with the distant surge!Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,And shot my being through earth, sea, and air,Possessing all things with intensest love,O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.105Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Ye clouds! that far above me float and pause,

Whose pathless march no mortal may control!

Ye ocean-waves! that, wheresoe’er ye roll,

Yield homage only to eternal laws!

Ye woods! that listen to the night-birds singing,5

Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined,

Save when your own imperious branches swinging

Have made a solemn music of the wind!

Where, like a man beloved of God,

Through glooms, which never woodman trod,10

How oft, pursuing fancies holy,

My moonlight way o’er flowering weeds I wound,

Inspired, beyond the guess of folly,

By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound!

O ye loud waves! and O ye forests high!15

And O ye clouds that far above me soared!

Thou rising sun! thou blue rejoicing sky!

Yea, every thing that is and will be free!

Bear witness for me, wheresoe’er ye be,

With what deep worship I have still adored20

The spirit of divinest Liberty.

When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared,And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea,Stamped her strong foot, and said she would be free,Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared!25With what a joy my lofty gratulationUnawed I sang, amid a slavish band:And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,Like fiends embattled by a wizard’s wand,The Monarchs marched in evil day30And Britain joined the dire array;Though dear her shores and circling ocean,Though many friendships, many youthful lovesHad swoln the patriot emotionAnd flung a magic light o’er all her hills and groves;35Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeatTo all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,And shame too long delayed and vain retreat!For ne’er, O Liberty! with partial aimI dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame;40But blessed the pæans of delivered France,And hung my head and wept at Britain’s name.

When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared,

And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea,

Stamped her strong foot, and said she would be free,

Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared!25

With what a joy my lofty gratulation

Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band:

And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,

Like fiends embattled by a wizard’s wand,

The Monarchs marched in evil day30

And Britain joined the dire array;

Though dear her shores and circling ocean,

Though many friendships, many youthful loves

Had swoln the patriot emotion

And flung a magic light o’er all her hills and groves;35

Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,

And shame too long delayed and vain retreat!

For ne’er, O Liberty! with partial aim

I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame;40

But blessed the pæans of delivered France,

And hung my head and wept at Britain’s name.

‘And what,’ I said, ‘though Blasphemy’s loud screamWith that sweet music of deliverance strove?Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove45A dance more wild than e’er was maniac’s dream?Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled,The sun was rising, though ye hid his light!’And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright;When France her front deep-scarred and gory51Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory;When, insupportably advancing,Her arm made mockery of the warrior’s tramp;While timid looks of fury glancing,55Domestic Treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;Then I reproached my fears that would not flee;‘And soon,’ I said, ‘shall Wisdom teach her loreIn the low huts of them that toil and groan!60And, conquering by her happiness alone,Shall France compel the nations to be free,Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own.’

‘And what,’ I said, ‘though Blasphemy’s loud scream

With that sweet music of deliverance strove?

Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove45

A dance more wild than e’er was maniac’s dream?

Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled,

The sun was rising, though ye hid his light!’

And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,

The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright;

When France her front deep-scarred and gory51

Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory;

When, insupportably advancing,

Her arm made mockery of the warrior’s tramp;

While timid looks of fury glancing,55

Domestic Treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,

Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;

Then I reproached my fears that would not flee;

‘And soon,’ I said, ‘shall Wisdom teach her lore

In the low huts of them that toil and groan!60

And, conquering by her happiness alone,

Shall France compel the nations to be free,

Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own.’

Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,65From bleak Helvetia’s icy caverns sent—I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams!Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished,And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snowsWith bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished70One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes!To scatter rage and traitorous guilt,Where Peace her jealous home had built;A patriot-race to disinheritOf all that made their stormy wilds so dear;75And with inexpiable spiritTo taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer—O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind,And patriot only in pernicious toils,Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind?80To mix with kings in the low lust of sway,Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey;To’ insult the shrine of Liberty with spoilsFrom freemen torn? to tempt and to betray?

Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,65

From bleak Helvetia’s icy caverns sent—

I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams!

Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished,

And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows

With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished70

One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes!

To scatter rage and traitorous guilt,

Where Peace her jealous home had built;

A patriot-race to disinherit

Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear;75

And with inexpiable spirit

To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer—

O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind,

And patriot only in pernicious toils,

Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind?80

To mix with kings in the low lust of sway,

Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey;

To’ insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils

From freemen torn? to tempt and to betray?

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,85Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad gameThey burst their manacles and wear the nameOf Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!O Liberty! with profitless endeavourHave I pursued thee, many a weary hour;90But thou nor swell’st the victor’s strain, nor everDidst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.Alike from all, howe’er they praise thee,(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee)Alike from Priestcraft’s harpy minions,95And factious Blasphemy’s obscener slaves,Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves!And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff’s verge,Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above,100Had made one murmur with the distant surge!Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,And shot my being through earth, sea, and air,Possessing all things with intensest love,O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.105Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,85

Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game

They burst their manacles and wear the name

Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!

O Liberty! with profitless endeavour

Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour;90

But thou nor swell’st the victor’s strain, nor ever

Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.

Alike from all, howe’er they praise thee,

(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee)

Alike from Priestcraft’s harpy minions,95

And factious Blasphemy’s obscener slaves,

Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,

The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves!

And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff’s verge,

Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above,100

Had made one murmur with the distant surge!

Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,

And shot my being through earth, sea, and air,

Possessing all things with intensest love,

O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.105

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,5Who chariotest to their dark wintry bedThe wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the spring shall blowHer clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill10(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air,)With living hues and odours plain and hill:Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!Thou on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion,15Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,Angels of rain and lightning; there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the head20Of some fierce Mænad, ev’n from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith’s height—The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,25Vaulted with all thy congregated mightOf vapours, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,30Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave’s intenser day,All overgrown with azure moss and flowers35So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic’s level powersCleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, know40Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share45The impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan thou, O uncontrollable! If evenI were as in my boyhood, and could beThe comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed50Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne’er have strivenAs thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed55One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.Make me thy lyre, ev’n as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own!The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep autumnal tone,60Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit! be thou me, impetuous One!Drive my dead thoughts over the universeLike withered leaves to quicken a new birth;And, by the incantation of this verse,65Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawakened earthThe trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,If winter comes, can spring be far behind?70Percy Bysshe Shelley.

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,5

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until

Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow

Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill10

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air,)

With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;

Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!

Thou on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion,15Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,Angels of rain and lightning; there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the head20Of some fierce Mænad, ev’n from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith’s height—The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,25Vaulted with all thy congregated mightOf vapours, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!

Thou on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion,15

Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,

Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning; there are spread

On the blue surface of thine airy surge,

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head20

Of some fierce Mænad, ev’n from the dim verge

Of the horizon to the zenith’s height—

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,25

Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!

Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,30Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave’s intenser day,All overgrown with azure moss and flowers35So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic’s level powersCleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, know40Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,30

Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay,

And saw in sleep old palaces and towers

Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers35

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, know40

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,

And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share45The impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan thou, O uncontrollable! If evenI were as in my boyhood, and could beThe comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed50Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne’er have strivenAs thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed55One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

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 share45

The impulse of thy strength, only less free

Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even

I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,

As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed50

Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne’er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.

O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed55

One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

Make me thy lyre, ev’n as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own!The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep autumnal tone,60Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit! be thou me, impetuous One!Drive my dead thoughts over the universeLike withered leaves to quicken a new birth;And, by the incantation of this verse,65Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawakened earthThe trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,If winter comes, can spring be far behind?70Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Make me thy lyre, ev’n as the forest is:

What if my leaves are falling like its own!

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,60

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,

My spirit! be thou me, impetuous One!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe

Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth;

And, by the incantation of this verse,65

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

Be through my lips to unawakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,

If winter comes, can spring be far behind?70

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness painsMy sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drainsOne minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,5But being too happy in thy happiness,—That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,In some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of summer in full-throated ease.10O for a draught of vintage, that hath beenCooled a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,Tasting of Flora and the country-green,Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South,15Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,And purple-stainèd mouth;That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,And with thee fade away into the forest dim:20Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forgetWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fretHere, where men sit and hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,25Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;Where but to think is to be full of sorrowAnd leaden-eyed despairs;Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.30Away! 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,35And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,Clustered around by all her starry Fays;But here there is no light,Save what from heaven is with the breezes blownThrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.40I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweetWherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;45White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;And mid-May’s eldest child,The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.50Darkling I listen; and for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death,Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,To take into the air my quiet breath;Now more than ever seems it rich to die,55To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroadIn such an ecstasy!Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—To thy high requiem become a sod.60Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a path65Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that oft-times hathCharmed magic casements, opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.70Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is famed to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades75Past the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deepIn the next valley-glades:Was it a vision, or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?80John Keats.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,5

But being too happy in thy happiness,—

That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.10

O for a draught of vintage, that hath beenCooled a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,Tasting of Flora and the country-green,Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South,15Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,And purple-stainèd mouth;That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,And with thee fade away into the forest dim:20

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been

Cooled a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country-green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,15

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stainèd mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:20

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forgetWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fretHere, where men sit and hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,25Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;Where but to think is to be full of sorrowAnd leaden-eyed despairs;Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.30

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,25

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs;

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.30

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy,Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,35And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,Clustered around by all her starry Fays;But here there is no light,Save what from heaven is with the breezes blownThrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.40

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,35

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Clustered around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.40

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweetWherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;45White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;And mid-May’s eldest child,The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.50

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;45

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;

And mid-May’s eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.50

Darkling I listen; and for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death,Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,To take into the air my quiet breath;Now more than ever seems it rich to die,55To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroadIn such an ecstasy!Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—To thy high requiem become a sod.60

Darkling I listen; and for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,55

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—

To thy high requiem become a sod.60

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a path65Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that oft-times hathCharmed magic casements, opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.70

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 path65

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.70

Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is famed to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades75Past the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deepIn the next valley-glades:Was it a vision, or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?80John Keats.

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 fades75

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?80

John Keats.

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.5Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire;The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.10In the golden lightningOf the sunken sun,O’er which clouds are brightening,Thou dost float and run,Like an unbodied Joy whose race is just begun.15The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heavenIn the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:20Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.25All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.What thou art we know not;31What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to seeAs from thy presence showers a rain of melody.35Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:40Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:45Like a glowworm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aerial hueAmong the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:50Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflowered,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.55Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.60Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.65Chorus hymeneal,Or triumphal chaunt,Matched with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.70What objects are the fountainsOf 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?75With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.80Waking or asleep,Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?85We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet if we could scorn91Hate, and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.95Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!100Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now!105Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.5

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

Bird thou never wert,

That from heaven, or near it

Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.5

Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire;The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.10

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest,

Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.10

In the golden lightningOf the sunken sun,O’er which clouds are brightening,Thou dost float and run,Like an unbodied Joy whose race is just begun.15

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,

O’er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied Joy whose race is just begun.15

The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heavenIn the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:20

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of heaven

In the broad daylight

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:20

Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.25

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,

Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.25

All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,

As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not;31What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to seeAs from thy presence showers a rain of melody.35

What thou art we know not;31

What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.35

Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:40

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,

Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:40

Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:45

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,

Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour

With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:45

Like a glowworm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aerial hueAmong the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:50

Like a glowworm golden

In a dell of dew,

Scattering unbeholden

Its aerial hue

Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:50

Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflowered,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.55

Like a rose embowered

In its own green leaves,

By warm winds deflowered,

Till the scent it gives

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.55

Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.60

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,

Rain-awakened flowers,

All that ever was

Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.60

Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.65

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine:

I have never heard

Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.65

Chorus hymeneal,Or triumphal chaunt,Matched with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.70

Chorus hymeneal,

Or triumphal chaunt,

Matched with thine, would be all

But an empty vaunt—

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.70

What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?75

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?75

With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.80

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be:

Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee:

Thou lovest; but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.80

Waking or asleep,Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?85

Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem

Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?85

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

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 scorn91Hate, and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.95

Yet if we could scorn91

Hate, and pride, and fear;

If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.95

Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!100

Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,

Better than all treasures

That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!100

Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now!105Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know,

Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow,

The world should listen then, as I am listening now!105

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

’Tis time this heart should be unmoved,Since others it hath ceased to move:Yet, though I cannot be beloved,Still let me love!My days are in the yellow leaf;5The flowers and fruits of love are gone;The worm, the canker, and the griefAre mine alone!The fire that on my bosom preysIs lone as some volcanic isle;10No torch is kindled at its blaze—A funeral pile.The hope, the fear, the jealous care,The exalted portion of the painAnd power of love, I cannot share,15But wear the chain.But ’tis notthus—and ’tis nothere—Such thoughts should shake my soul, nornow,Where glory decks the hero’s bier,Or binds his brow.20The sword, the banner, and the field,Glory and Greece, around me see!The Spartan, borne upon his shield,Was not more free.Awake! (not Greece—sheisawake!)25Awake, my spirit! Think throughwhomThy life-blood tracks its parent lake,And then strike home!Tread those reviving passions down,Unworthy manhood!—unto thee30Indifferent should the smile or frownOf beauty be.If thou regret’st thy youth,why live?The land of honourable deathIs here:—up to the field, and give35Away thy breath!Seek out— less often sought than found—A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;Then look around, and choose thy ground,And take thy rest.40Lord Byron.

’Tis time this heart should be unmoved,Since others it hath ceased to move:Yet, though I cannot be beloved,Still let me love!

’Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move:

Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;5The flowers and fruits of love are gone;The worm, the canker, and the griefAre mine alone!

My days are in the yellow leaf;5

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;

The worm, the canker, and the grief

Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preysIs lone as some volcanic isle;10No torch is kindled at its blaze—A funeral pile.

The fire that on my bosom preys

Is lone as some volcanic isle;10

No torch is kindled at its blaze—

A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,The exalted portion of the painAnd power of love, I cannot share,15But wear the chain.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain

And power of love, I cannot share,15

But wear the chain.

But ’tis notthus—and ’tis nothere—Such thoughts should shake my soul, nornow,Where glory decks the hero’s bier,Or binds his brow.20

But ’tis notthus—and ’tis nothere—

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nornow,

Where glory decks the hero’s bier,

Or binds his brow.20

The sword, the banner, and the field,Glory and Greece, around me see!The Spartan, borne upon his shield,Was not more free.

The sword, the banner, and the field,

Glory and Greece, around me see!

The Spartan, borne upon his shield,

Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece—sheisawake!)25Awake, my spirit! Think throughwhomThy life-blood tracks its parent lake,And then strike home!

Awake! (not Greece—sheisawake!)25

Awake, my spirit! Think throughwhom

Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,Unworthy manhood!—unto thee30Indifferent should the smile or frownOf beauty be.

Tread those reviving passions down,

Unworthy manhood!—unto thee30

Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be.

If thou regret’st thy youth,why live?The land of honourable deathIs here:—up to the field, and give35Away thy breath!

If thou regret’st thy youth,why live?

The land of honourable death

Is here:—up to the field, and give35

Away thy breath!

Seek out— less often sought than found—A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;Then look around, and choose thy ground,And take thy rest.40Lord Byron.

Seek out— less often sought than found—

A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;

Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy rest.40

Lord Byron.

What voice did on my spirit fall,Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost?‘’Tis better to have fought and lost,Than never to have fought at all.’The tricolor—a trampled rag5Lies, dirt and dust; the lines I trackBy sentry boxes yellow-black,Lead up to no Italian flag.I see the Croat soldier standUpon the grass of your redoubts;10The eagle with his black wings floutsThe breadth and beauty of your land.Yet not in vain, although in vain,O men of Brescia, on the dayOf loss past hope, I heard you say15Your welcome to the noble pain.You said, ‘Since so it is,—good byeSweet life, high hope; but whatsoe’erMay be, or must, no tongue shall dareTo tell, “The Lombard feared to die!”’20You said, (there shall be answer fit,)‘And if our children must obey,They must; but thinking on this day,’Twill less debase them to submit.’You said, (oh, not in vain you said,)25‘Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we may;The hours ebb fast of this one day,When blood may yet be nobly shed.’Ah! not for idle hatred, notFor honour, fame, nor self-applause,30But for the glory of the cause,You did, what will not be forgot.And though the stranger stand, ’tis true,By force and fortune’s right he stands;By fortune, which is in God’s hands,35And strength, which yet shall spring in you.This voice did on my spirit fall,Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost,‘’Tis better to have fought and lost,Than never to have fought at all.’40Arthur Hugh Clough.

What voice did on my spirit fall,Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost?‘’Tis better to have fought and lost,Than never to have fought at all.’

What voice did on my spirit fall,

Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost?

‘’Tis better to have fought and lost,

Than never to have fought at all.’

The tricolor—a trampled rag5Lies, dirt and dust; the lines I trackBy sentry boxes yellow-black,Lead up to no Italian flag.

The tricolor—a trampled rag5

Lies, dirt and dust; the lines I track

By sentry boxes yellow-black,

Lead up to no Italian flag.

I see the Croat soldier standUpon the grass of your redoubts;10The eagle with his black wings floutsThe breadth and beauty of your land.

I see the Croat soldier stand

Upon the grass of your redoubts;10

The eagle with his black wings flouts

The breadth and beauty of your land.

Yet not in vain, although in vain,O men of Brescia, on the dayOf loss past hope, I heard you say15Your welcome to the noble pain.

Yet not in vain, although in vain,

O men of Brescia, on the day

Of loss past hope, I heard you say15

Your welcome to the noble pain.

You said, ‘Since so it is,—good byeSweet life, high hope; but whatsoe’erMay be, or must, no tongue shall dareTo tell, “The Lombard feared to die!”’20

You said, ‘Since so it is,—good bye

Sweet life, high hope; but whatsoe’er

May be, or must, no tongue shall dare

To tell, “The Lombard feared to die!”’20

You said, (there shall be answer fit,)‘And if our children must obey,They must; but thinking on this day,’Twill less debase them to submit.’

You said, (there shall be answer fit,)

‘And if our children must obey,

They must; but thinking on this day,

’Twill less debase them to submit.’

You said, (oh, not in vain you said,)25‘Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we may;The hours ebb fast of this one day,When blood may yet be nobly shed.’

You said, (oh, not in vain you said,)25

‘Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we may;

The hours ebb fast of this one day,

When blood may yet be nobly shed.’

Ah! not for idle hatred, notFor honour, fame, nor self-applause,30But for the glory of the cause,You did, what will not be forgot.

Ah! not for idle hatred, not

For honour, fame, nor self-applause,30

But for the glory of the cause,

You did, what will not be forgot.

And though the stranger stand, ’tis true,By force and fortune’s right he stands;By fortune, which is in God’s hands,35And strength, which yet shall spring in you.

And though the stranger stand, ’tis true,

By force and fortune’s right he stands;

By fortune, which is in God’s hands,35

And strength, which yet shall spring in you.

This voice did on my spirit fall,Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost,‘’Tis better to have fought and lost,Than never to have fought at all.’40Arthur Hugh Clough.

This voice did on my spirit fall,

Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost,

‘’Tis better to have fought and lost,

Than never to have fought at all.’40

Arthur Hugh Clough.

I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:I saw thee every day; and all the whileThy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!5So like, so very like, was day to day!Whene’er I looked, thy image still was there;It trembled, but it never passed away.How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep,No mood, which season takes away, or brings:10I could have fancied that the mighty DeepWas even the gentlest of all gentle things.Ah! then, if mine had been the painter’s handTo express what then I saw; and add the gleam,The light that never was, on sea or land,15The consecration, and the poet’s dream,—I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile,Amid a world how different from this!Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.20Thou should’st have seemed a treasure-house divineOf peaceful years, a chronicle of heaven;Of all the sunbeams that did ever shineThe very sweetest had to thee been given.A picture had it been of lasting ease,25Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,Or merely silent Nature’s breathing life.Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,Such picture would I at that time have made;30And seen the soul of truth in every part,A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed.So once it would have been,—’tis so no more;I have submitted to a new control:A power is gone, which nothing can restore;35A deep distress hath humanized my soul.Not for a moment could I now beholdA smiling sea, and be what I have been:The feeling of my loss will ne’er be old;This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.40Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend,If he had lived, of him whom I deplore,This work of thine I blame not, but commend;This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.O ’tis a passionate work!—yet wise and well,45Well chosen is the spirit that is here;That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,I love to see the look with which it braves,50—Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time—The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!Such happiness, wherever it be known,55Is to be pitied; for ’tis surely blind.But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,And frequent sights of what is to be borne!Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:—Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.60William Wordsworth.

I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:I saw thee every day; and all the whileThy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!

Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:

I saw thee every day; and all the while

Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!5So like, so very like, was day to day!Whene’er I looked, thy image still was there;It trembled, but it never passed away.

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!5

So like, so very like, was day to day!

Whene’er I looked, thy image still was there;

It trembled, but it never passed away.

How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep,No mood, which season takes away, or brings:10I could have fancied that the mighty DeepWas even the gentlest of all gentle things.

How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep,

No mood, which season takes away, or brings:10

I could have fancied that the mighty Deep

Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

Ah! then, if mine had been the painter’s handTo express what then I saw; and add the gleam,The light that never was, on sea or land,15The consecration, and the poet’s dream,—

Ah! then, if mine had been the painter’s hand

To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,

The light that never was, on sea or land,15

The consecration, and the poet’s dream,—

I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile,Amid a world how different from this!Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.20

I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile,

Amid a world how different from this!

Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;

On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.20

Thou should’st have seemed a treasure-house divineOf peaceful years, a chronicle of heaven;Of all the sunbeams that did ever shineThe very sweetest had to thee been given.

Thou should’st have seemed a treasure-house divine

Of peaceful years, a chronicle of heaven;

Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine

The very sweetest had to thee been given.

A picture had it been of lasting ease,25Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,Or merely silent Nature’s breathing life.

A picture had it been of lasting ease,25

Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;

No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,

Or merely silent Nature’s breathing life.

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,Such picture would I at that time have made;30And seen the soul of truth in every part,A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed.

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,

Such picture would I at that time have made;30

And seen the soul of truth in every part,

A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed.

So once it would have been,—’tis so no more;I have submitted to a new control:A power is gone, which nothing can restore;35A deep distress hath humanized my soul.

So once it would have been,—’tis so no more;

I have submitted to a new control:

A power is gone, which nothing can restore;35

A deep distress hath humanized my soul.

Not for a moment could I now beholdA smiling sea, and be what I have been:The feeling of my loss will ne’er be old;This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.40

Not for a moment could I now behold

A smiling sea, and be what I have been:

The feeling of my loss will ne’er be old;

This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.40

Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend,If he had lived, of him whom I deplore,This work of thine I blame not, but commend;This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend,

If he had lived, of him whom I deplore,

This work of thine I blame not, but commend;

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

O ’tis a passionate work!—yet wise and well,45Well chosen is the spirit that is here;That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!

O ’tis a passionate work!—yet wise and well,45

Well chosen is the spirit that is here;

That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,

This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,I love to see the look with which it braves,50—Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time—The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,

I love to see the look with which it braves,50

—Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time—

The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!Such happiness, wherever it be known,55Is to be pitied; for ’tis surely blind.

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,

Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!

Such happiness, wherever it be known,55

Is to be pitied; for ’tis surely blind.

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,And frequent sights of what is to be borne!Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:—Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.60William Wordsworth.

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,

And frequent sights of what is to be borne!

Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:—

Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.60

William Wordsworth.

Thou still unravished bride of quietness!Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,Sylvan historian, who canst thus expressA flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape5Of deities or mortals, or of both,In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?10Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave15Thy 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!20Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shedYour leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;And, happy melodist, unwearièd,For ever piping songs for ever new;More happy love! more happy, happy love!25For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,For ever panting and for ever young;All breathing human passion far above,That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.30Who 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,35Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?And, little town, thy streets for evermoreWill silent be; and not a soul to tellWhy thou art desolate, can e’er return.40O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with bredeOf marble men and maidens overwrought,With forest branches and the trodden weed;Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!45When old age shall this generation waste,Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woeThan ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’—that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.50John Keats.

Thou still unravished 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 shape5

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?10

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave15Thy 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!20

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave15

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!20

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shedYour leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;And, happy melodist, unwearièd,For ever piping songs for ever new;More happy love! more happy, happy love!25For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,For ever panting and for ever young;All breathing human passion far above,That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.30

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearièd,

For ever piping songs for ever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!25

For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,

For ever panting and for ever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.30

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,35Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?And, little town, thy streets for evermoreWill silent be; and not a soul to tellWhy thou art desolate, can e’er return.40

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,35

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.40

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with bredeOf marble men and maidens overwrought,With forest branches and the trodden weed;Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!45When old age shall this generation waste,Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woeThan ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’—that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.50John Keats.

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!45

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.50

John Keats.

The sun is warm, the sky is clear,The waves are dancing fast and bright,Blue isles and snowy mountains wearThe purple noon’s transparent light:The breath of the moist air is light5Around its unexpanded buds;Like many a voice of one delight,The winds, the birds, the ocean-floods,The City’s voice itself is soft like solitude’s.I see the Deep’s untrampled floor10With green and purple sea-weeds strown;I see the waves upon the shore,Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:I sit upon the sands alone;The lightning of the noon-tide ocean15Is flashing round me, and a toneArises from its measured motion—How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion!Alas! I have nor hope nor health,Nor peace within nor calm around,20Nor that content surpassing wealthThe sage in meditation found,And walked with inward glory crowned—Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;Others I see whom these surround;25Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.Yet now despair itself is mild,Even as the winds and waters are;I could lie down like a tired child,30And weep away the life of careWhich I have borne, and yet must bear,Till death like sleep might steal on me,And I might feel in the warm airMy cheek grow cold, and hear the sea35Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.Some might lament that I were cold,As I, when this sweet day is gone,Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,Insults with this untimely moan;40They might lament—for I am oneWhom men love not, and yet regret;Unlike this day, which, when the sunShall on its stainless glory set,Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.45Percy Bysshe Shelley.

The sun is warm, the sky is clear,

The waves are dancing fast and bright,

Blue isles and snowy mountains wear

The purple noon’s transparent light:

The breath of the moist air is light5

Around its unexpanded buds;

Like many a voice of one delight,

The winds, the birds, the ocean-floods,

The City’s voice itself is soft like solitude’s.

I see the Deep’s untrampled floor10With green and purple sea-weeds strown;I see the waves upon the shore,Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:I sit upon the sands alone;The lightning of the noon-tide ocean15Is flashing round me, and a toneArises from its measured motion—How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion!

I see the Deep’s untrampled floor10

With green and purple sea-weeds strown;

I see the waves upon the shore,

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:

I sit upon the sands alone;

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean15

Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion—

How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion!

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,Nor peace within nor calm around,20Nor that content surpassing wealthThe sage in meditation found,And walked with inward glory crowned—Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;Others I see whom these surround;25Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,

Nor peace within nor calm around,20

Nor that content surpassing wealth

The sage in meditation found,

And walked with inward glory crowned—

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;

Others I see whom these surround;25

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;

To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild,Even as the winds and waters are;I could lie down like a tired child,30And weep away the life of careWhich I have borne, and yet must bear,Till death like sleep might steal on me,And I might feel in the warm airMy cheek grow cold, and hear the sea35Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.

Yet now despair itself is mild,

Even as the winds and waters are;

I could lie down like a tired child,30

And weep away the life of care

Which I have borne, and yet must bear,

Till death like sleep might steal on me,

And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea35

Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.

Some might lament that I were cold,As I, when this sweet day is gone,Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,Insults with this untimely moan;40They might lament—for I am oneWhom men love not, and yet regret;Unlike this day, which, when the sunShall on its stainless glory set,Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.45Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Some might lament that I were cold,

As I, when this sweet day is gone,

Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,

Insults with this untimely moan;40

They might lament—for I am one

Whom men love not, and yet regret;

Unlike this day, which, when the sun

Shall on its stainless glory set,

Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.45

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Say not, the struggle nought availeth,The labour and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;5It may be, in yon smoke concealed,Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,And, but for you, possess the field.For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,Seem here no painful inch to gain,10Far back, through creeks and inlets making,Comes silent, flooding in, the main.And not by eastern windows only,When daylight comes, comes in the light;In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,15But westward, look, the land is bright.Arthur Hugh Clough.

Say not, the struggle nought availeth,The labour and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.

Say not, the struggle nought availeth,

The labour and the wounds are vain,

The enemy faints not, nor faileth,

And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;5It may be, in yon smoke concealed,Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,And, but for you, possess the field.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;5

It may be, in yon smoke concealed,

Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,

And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,Seem here no painful inch to gain,10Far back, through creeks and inlets making,Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,

Seem here no painful inch to gain,10

Far back, through creeks and inlets making,

Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,When daylight comes, comes in the light;In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,15But westward, look, the land is bright.Arthur Hugh Clough.

And not by eastern windows only,

When daylight comes, comes in the light;

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,15

But westward, look, the land is bright.

Arthur Hugh Clough.

Oft in the stilly nightEre slumber’s chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tears5Of boyhood’s years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shone,Now dimmed and gone,The cheerful hearts now broken!10Thus in the stilly lightEre slumber’s chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.When I remember all15The friends so linked togetherI’ve seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads alone20Some banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed!Thus in the stilly night25Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.Thomas Moore.

Oft in the stilly night

Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,

Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me:

The smiles, the tears5

Of boyhood’s years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimmed and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!10

Thus in the stilly light

Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all15The friends so linked togetherI’ve seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads alone20Some banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed!Thus in the stilly night25Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.Thomas Moore.

When I remember all15

The friends so linked together

I’ve seen around me fall

Like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one

Who treads alone20

Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed!

Thus in the stilly night25

Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

Thomas Moore.

If thou wilt ease thine heartOf love, and all its smart—Then sleep, dear, sleep!And not a sorrowHang any tear on your eyelashes;5Lie still and deep,Sad soul, until the sea-wave washesThe rim o’ the sun to-morrowIn Eastern sky.But wilt thou cure thine heart10Of love, and all its smart—Then die, dear, die!’Tis deeper, sweeter,Than on a rose-bank to lie dreamingWith folded eye;15And then alone, amid the beamingOf love’s stars, thou’lt meet herIn Eastern sky.Thomas Lovell Beddoes.

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;5

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 heart10Of love, and all its smart—Then die, dear, die!’Tis deeper, sweeter,Than on a rose-bank to lie dreamingWith folded eye;15And then alone, amid the beamingOf love’s stars, thou’lt meet herIn Eastern sky.Thomas Lovell Beddoes.

But wilt thou cure thine heart10

Of love, and all its smart—

Then die, dear, die!

’Tis deeper, sweeter,

Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming

With folded eye;15

And then alone, amid the beaming

Of love’s stars, thou’lt meet her

In Eastern sky.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes.

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