Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864
566. Remain!
REMAIN, ah not in youth alone!—Tho' youth, where you are, long will stay—But when my summer days are gone,And my autumnal haste away.'Can I be always by your side?'No; but the hours you can, you must,Nor rise at Death's approaching stride,Nor go when dust is gone to dust.
Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864
567. Absence
HERE, ever since you went abroad,If there be change no change I see:I only walk our wonted road,The road is only walk'd by me.
Yes; I forgot; a change there is—Was it of that you bade me tell?I catch at times, at times I missThe sight, the tone, I know so well.
Only two months since you stood here?Two shortest months? Then tell me whyVoices are harsher than they were,And tears are longer ere they dry.
Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864
568. Of Clementina
IN Clementina's artless mienLucilla asks me what I see,And are the roses of sixteenEnough for me?
Lucilla asks, if that be all,Have I not cull'd as sweet before:Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fallI still deplore.
I now behold another scene,Where Pleasure beams with Heaven's own light,More pure, more constant, more serene,And not less bright.
Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,Whose chain of flowers no force can sever,And Modesty who, when she goes,Is gone for ever.
Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864
569. Ianthe's Question
'DO you remember me? or are you proud?'Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd,Ianthe said, and look'd into my eyes.'A yes, a yes to both: for MemoryWhere you but once have been must ever be,And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise.'
Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864
570. On Catullus
TELL me not what too well I knowAbout the bard of Sirmio.Yes, in Thalia's sonSuch stains there are—as when a GraceSprinkles another's laughing faceWith nectar, and runs on.
Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864
571. Dirce
STAND close around, ye Stygian set,With Dirce in one boat convey'd!Or Charon, seeing, may forgetThat he is old and she a shade.
Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864
572. Alciphron and Leucippe
AN ancient chestnut's blossoms threwTheir heavy odour over two:Leucippe, it is said, was one;The other, then, was Alciphron.'Come, come! why should we stand beneathThis hollow tree's unwholesome breath?'Said Alciphron, 'here 's not a bladeOf grass or moss, and scanty shade.Come; it is just the hour to roveIn the lone dingle shepherds love;There, straight and tall, the hazel twigDivides the crooked rock-held fig,O'er the blue pebbles where the rillIn winter runs and may run still.Come then, while fresh and calm the air,And while the shepherds are not there.'
Leucippe. But I would rather go when theySit round about and sing and play.Then why so hurry me? for youLike play and song, and shepherds too.
Alciphron. I like the shepherds very well,And song and play, as you can tell.But there is play, I sadly fear,And song I would not have you hear.
Leucippe. What can it be? What can it be?
Alciphron. To you may none of them repeatThe play that you have play'd with me,The song that made your bosom beat.
Leucippe. Don't keep your arm about my waist.
Alciphron. Might you not stumble?
Leucippe. Well then, do.But why are we in all this haste?
Alciphron. To sing.
Leucippe. Alas! and not play too?
Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864
573. Years
YEARS, many parti-colour'd years,Some have crept on, and some have flownSince first before me fell those tearsI never could see fall alone.
Years, not so many, are to come,Years not so varied, when from youOne more will fall: when, carried home,I see it not, nor hear Adieu.
Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864
574. Separation
THERE is a mountain and a wood between us,Where the lone shepherd and late bird have seen usMorning and noon and eventide repass.Between us now the mountain and the woodSeem standing darker than last year they stood,And say we must not cross—alas! alas!
Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864
575. Late Leaves
THE leaves are falling; so am I;The few late flowers have moisture in the eye;So have I too.Scarcely on any bough is heardJoyous, or even unjoyous, birdThe whole wood through.
Winter may come: he brings but nigherHis circle (yearly narrowing) to the fireWhere old friends meet.Let him; now heaven is overcast,And spring and summer both are past,And all things sweet.
Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864
576. Finis
I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife.Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art:I warm'd both hands before the fire of life;It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
Charles Lamb. 1775-1834
577. The Old Familiar Faces
I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing,Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a Love once, fairest among women:Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?So might we talk of the old familiar faces—
How some they have died, and some they have left me,And some are taken from me; all are departed—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
Charles Lamb. 1775-1834
578. Hester
WHEN maidens such as Hester dieTheir place ye may not well supply,Though ye among a thousand tryWith vain endeavour.
A month or more hath she been dead,Yet cannot I by force be ledTo think upon the wormy bedAnd her together.
A springy motion in her gait,A rising step, did indicateOf pride and joy no common rate,That flush'd her spirit:
I know not by what name besideI shall it call: if 'twas not pride,It was a joy to that allied,She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule,Which doth the human feeling cool;But she was train'd in Nature's school;Nature had blest her.
A waking eye, a prying mind;A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind;Ye could not Hester.
My sprightly neighbour! gone beforeTo that unknown and silent shore,Shall we not meet, as heretofore,Some summer morning—
When from thy cheerful eyes a rayHath struck a bliss upon the day,A bliss that would not go away,A sweet forewarning?
Charles Lamb. 1775-1834
579. On an Infant dying as soon as born
I SAW where in the shroud did lurkA curious frame of Nature's work;A floweret crush'd in the bud,A nameless piece of Babyhood,Was in her cradle-coffin lying;Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:So soon to exchange the imprisoning wombFor darker closets of the tomb!She did but ope an eye, and putA clear beam forth, then straight up shutFor the long dark: ne'er more to seeThrough glasses of mortality.Riddle of destiny, who can showWhat thy short visit meant, or knowWhat thy errand here below?Shall we say that Nature blindCheck'd her hand, and changed her mind,Just when she had exactly wroughtA finish'd pattern without fault?Could she flag, or could she tire,Or lack'd she the Promethean fire(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assureLife of health, and days mature:Woman's self in miniature!Limbs so fair, they might supply(Themselves now but cold imagery)The sculptor to make Beauty by.Or did the stern-eyed Fate descryThat babe or mother, one must die;So in mercy left the stockAnd cut the branch; to save the shockOf young years widow'd, and the painWhen single state comes back againTo the lone man who, reft of wife,Thenceforward drags a maimed life?The economy of Heaven is dark,And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark,Why human buds, like this, should fall,More brief than fly ephemeralThat has his day; while shrivell'd cronesStiffen with age to stocks and stones;And crabbed use the conscience searsIn sinners of an hundred years.Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:Rites, which custom does impose,Silver bells, and baby clothes;Coral redder than those lipsWhich pale death did late eclipse;Music framed for infants' glee,Whistle never tuned for thee;Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,Loving hearts were they which gave them.Let not one be missing; nurse,See them laid upon the hearseOf infant slain by doom perverse.Why should kings and nobles havePictured trophies to their grave,And we, churls, to thee denyThy pretty toys with thee to lie—A more harmless vanity?
Thomas Campbell. 1774-1844
580. Ye Mariners of England
YE Mariners of EnglandThat guard our native seas!Whose flag has braved a thousand yearsThe battle and the breeze!Your glorious standard launch againTo match another foe;And sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow!While the battle rages loud and longAnd the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathersShall start from every wave—For the deck it was their field of fame,And Ocean was their grave:Where Blake and mighty Nelson fellYour manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow!While the battle rages loud and longAnd the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,No towers along the steep;Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,Her home is on the deep.The thunders from her native oakShe quells the floods below,As they roar on the shore,When the stormy winds do blow!When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn;Till danger's troubled night departAnd the star of peace return.Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!Our song and feast shall flowTo the fame of your name,When the storm has ceased to blow!When the fiery fight is heard no more,And the storm has ceased to blow.
Thomas Campbell. 1774-1844
581. The Battle of the Baltic
OF Nelson and the NorthSing the glorious day's renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark's crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;By each gun the lighted brandIn a bold determined hand,And the Prince of all the landLed them on.
Like leviathans afloatLay their bulwarks on the brine,While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime:As they drifted on their pathThere was silence deep as death,And the boldest held his breathFor a time.
But the might of England flush'dTo anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rush'dO'er the deadly space between:'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.
Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the DaneTo our cheering sent us back;—Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—Then ceased—and all is wail,As they strike the shatter'd sail,Or in conflagration paleLight the gloom.
Out spoke the victor thenAs he hail'd them o'er the wave:'Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save:—So peace instead of death let us bring:But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,With the crews, at England's feet,And make submission meetTo our King.'…
Now joy, old England, raise!For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities' blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light!And yet amidst that joy and uproar,Let us think of them that sleepFull many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!
Thomas Moore. 1779-1852
582. The Young May Moon
THE young May moon is beaming, love,The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love;How sweet to roveThrough Morna's grove,When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear,'Tis never too late for delight, my dear;And the best of all waysTo lengthen our daysIs to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!
Now all the world is sleeping, love,But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,And I, whose starMore glorious farIs the eye from that casement peeping, love.Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear,The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,Or in watching the flightOf bodies of lightHe might happen to take thee for one, my dear!
Thomas Moore. 1779-1852
583. The Irish Peasant to His Mistress
THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way,Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay;The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd,Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd:Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.
Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd;Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd;She woo'd me to temples, whilst thou lay'st hid in caves;Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather beThan wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.
They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail—Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale!They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains,That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains:O, foul is the slander!—no chain could that soul subdue—Where shineth thy spirit, there Liberty shineth too!
Thomas Moore. 1779-1852
584. The Light of Other Days
OFT, in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tearsOf boyhood's years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shone,Now dimm'd and gone,The cheerful hearts now broken!Thus, in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
When I remember allThe friends, so link'd together,I've seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed!Thus, in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound me.Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
Thomas Moore. 1779-1852
585. At the Mid Hour of Night
AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I flyTo the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of airTo revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky.
Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear,When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear;And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of SoulsFaintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
Edward Thurlow, Lord Thurlow. 1781-1829
586. May
MAY! queen of blossoms,And fulfilling flowers,With what pretty musicShall we charm the hours?Wilt thou have pipe and reed,Blown in the open mead?Or to the lute give heedIn the green bowers?
Thou hast no need of us,Or pipe or wire;Thou hast the golden beeRipen'd with fire;And many thousand moreSongsters, that thee adore,Filling earth's grassy floorWith new desire.
Thou hast thy mighty herds,Tame and free-livers;Doubt not, thy music tooIn the deep rivers;And the whole plumy flightWarbling the day and night—Up at the gates of light,See, the lark quivers!
Ebenezer Elliott. 1781-1849
587. Battle Song
DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark;What then? 'Tis day!We sleep no more; the cock crows—hark!To arms! away!They come! they come! the knell is rungOf us or them;Wide o'er their march the pomp is flungOf gold and gem.What collar'd hound of lawless sway,To famine dear—What pension'd slave of Attila,Leads in the rear?Come they from Scythian wilds afar,Our blood to spill?Wear they the livery of the Czar?They do his will.Nor tassell'd silk, nor epaulet,Nor plume, nor torse—No splendour gilds, all sternly met,Our foot and horse.But, dark and still, we inly glow,Condensed in ire!Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall knowOur gloom is fire.In vain your pomp, ye evil powers,Insults the land;Wrongs, vengeance, and the Cause are ours,And God's right hand!Madmen! they trample into snakesThe wormy clod!Like fire, beneath their feet awakesThe sword of God!Behind, before, above, below,They rouse the brave;Where'er they go, they make a foe,Or find a grave.
Ebenezer Elliott. 1781-1849
588. Plaint
DARK, deep, and cold the current flowsUnto the sea where no wind blows,Seeking the land which no one knows.
O'er its sad gloom still comes and goesThe mingled wail of friends and foes,Borne to the land which no one knows.
Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goesWith millions, from a world of woes,Unto the land which no one knows?
Though myriads go with him who goes,Alone he goes where no wind blows,Unto the land which no one knows.
For all must go where no wind blows,And none can go for him who goes;None, none return whence no one knows.
Yet why should he who shrieking goesWith millions, from a world of woes,Reunion seek with it or those?
Alone with God, where no wind blows,And Death, his shadow—doom'd, he goes.That God is there the shadow shows.
O shoreless Deep, where no wind blows!And thou, O Land which no one knows!That God is All, His shadow shows.
Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842
589. The Sun rises bright in France
THE sun rises bright in France,And fair sets he;But he has tint the blythe blink he hadIn my ain countree.
O, it 's nae my ain ruinThat saddens aye my e'e,But the dear Marie I left behin'Wi' sweet bairnies three.
My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie,And smiled my ain Marie;I've left a' my heart behin'In my ain countree.
The bud comes back to summer,And the blossom to the bee;But I'll win back, O never,To my ain countree.
O, I am leal to high Heaven,Where soon I hope to be,An' there I'll meet ye a' soonFrae my ain countree!
tint] lost.
Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842
590. Hame, Hame, Hame
HAME, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be—O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree,The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countree;Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be—O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for to fa',The bonnie White Rose it is withering an' a';But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,An' green it will graw in my ain countree.
O, there 's nocht now frae ruin my country can save,But the keys o' kind heaven, to open the grave;That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltieMay rise again an' fight for their ain countree.
The great now are gane, a' wha ventured to save,The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e,'I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.'
Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be—O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842
591. The Spring of the Year
GONE were but the winter cold,And gone were but the snow,I could sleep in the wild woodsWhere primroses blow.
Cold 's the snow at my head,And cold at my feet;And the finger of death 's at my e'en,Closing them to sleep.
Let none tell my fatherOr my mother so dear,—I'll meet them both in heavenAt the spring of the year.
Leigh Hunt. 1784-1859
592. Jenny kiss'd Me
JENNY kiss'd me when we met,Jumping from the chair she sat in;Time, you thief, who love to getSweets into your list, put that in!Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,Say I'm growing old, but add,Jenny kiss'd me.
Thomas Love Peacock. 1785-1866
593. Love and Age
I PLAY'D with you 'mid cowslips blowing,When I was six and you were four;When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,Were pleasures soon to please no more.Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,With little playmates, to and fro,We wander'd hand in hand together;But that was sixty years ago.
You grew a lovely roseate maiden,And still our early love was strong;Still with no care our days were laden,They glided joyously along;And I did love you very dearly,How dearly words want power to show;I thought your heart was touch'd as nearly;But that was fifty years ago.
Then other lovers came around you,Your beauty grew from year to year,And many a splendid circle found youThe centre of its glimmering sphere.I saw you then, first vows forsaking,On rank and wealth your hand bestow;O, then I thought my heart was breaking!—But that was forty years ago.
And I lived on, to wed another:No cause she gave me to repine;And when I heard you were a mother,I did not wish the children mine.My own young flock, in fair progression,Made up a pleasant Christmas row:My joy in them was past expression;But that was thirty years ago.
You grew a matron plump and comely,You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze;My earthly lot was far more homely;But I too had my festal days.No merrier eyes have ever glisten'dAround the hearth-stone's wintry glow,Than when my youngest child was christen'd;But that was twenty years ago.
Time pass'd. My eldest girl was married,And I am now a grandsire gray;One pet of four years old I've carriedAmong the wild-flower'd meads to play.In our old fields of childish pleasure,Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,She fills her basket's ample measure;And that is not ten years ago.
But though first love's impassion'd blindnessHas pass'd away in colder light,I still have thought of you with kindness,And shall do, till our last good-night.The ever-rolling silent hoursWill bring a time we shall not know,When our young days of gathering flowersWill be an hundred years ago.
Thomas Love Peacock. 1785-1866
594. The Grave of Love
I DUG, beneath the cypress shade,What well might seem an elfin's grave;And every pledge in earth I laid,That erst thy false affection gave.
I press'd them down the sod beneath;I placed one mossy stone above;And twined the rose's fading wreathAround the sepulchre of love.
Frail as thy love, the flowers were deadEre yet the evening sun was set:But years shall see the cypress spread,Immutable as my regret.
Thomas Love Peacock. 1785-1866
595. Three Men of Gotham
SEAMEN three! What men be ye?Gotham's three wise men we be.Whither in your bowl so free?To rake the moon from out the sea.The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.And our ballast is old wine.—And your ballast is old wine.
Who art thou, so fast adrift?I am he they call Old Care.Here on board we will thee lift.No: I may not enter there.Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,In a bowl Care may not be.—In a bowl Care may not be.
Fear ye not the waves that roll?No: in charmed bowl we swim.What the charm that floats the bowl?Water may not pass the brim.The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.And our ballast is old wine.—And your ballast is old wine.
Caroline Southey. 1787-1854
596. To Death
COME not in terrors clad, to claimAn unresisting prey:Come like an evening shadow, Death!So stealthily, so silently!And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath;Then willingly, O willingly,With thee I'll go away!
What need to clutch with iron graspWhat gentlest touch may take?What need with aspect dark to scare,So awfully, so terribly,The weary soul would hardly care,Call'd quietly, call'd tenderly,From thy dread power to break?
'Tis not as when thou markest outThe young, the blest, the gay,The loved, the loving—they who dreamSo happily, so hopefully;Then harsh thy kindest call may seem,And shrinkingly, reluctantly,The summon'd may obey.
But I have drunk enough of life—The cup assign'd to meDash'd with a little sweet at best,So scantily, so scantily—To know full well that all the restMore bitterly, more bitterly,Drugg'd to the last will be.
And I may live to pain some heartThat kindly cares for me:To pain, but not to bless. O Death!Come quietly—come lovingly—And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath;Then willingly, O willingly,I'll go away with thee!
George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824
597. When we Two parted
WHEN we two partedIn silence and tears,Half broken-heartedTo sever for years,Pale grew thy cheek and cold,Colder thy kiss;Truly that hour foretoldSorrow to this.
The dew of the morningSunk chill on my brow—It felt like the warningOf what I feel now.Thy vows are all broken,And light is thy fame:I hear thy name spoken,And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,A knell to mine ear;A shudder comes o'er me—Why wert thou so dear?They know not I knew thee,Who knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue thee,Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met—In silence I grieve,That thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter long years,How should I greet thee?With silence and tears.
George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824
598. For Music
THERE be none of Beauty's daughtersWith a magic like thee;And like music on the watersIs thy sweet voice to me:When, as if its sound were causingThe charmed ocean's pausing,The waves lie still and gleaming,And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weavingHer bright chain o'er the deep;Whose breast is gently heaving,As an infant's asleep:So the spirit bows before thee,To listen and adore thee;With a full but soft emotion,Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824
599. We'll go no more a-roving
SO, we'll go no more a-rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,And the day returns too soon,Yet we'll go no more a-rovingBy the light of the moon.
George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824
600. She walks in Beauty
SHE walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that 's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellow'd to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair'd the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!
George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824
601. The Isles of Greece
THE isles of Greece! the isles of GreeceWhere burning Sappho loved and sung,Where grew the arts of war and peace,Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!Eternal summer gilds them yet,But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,The hero's harp, the lover's lute,Have found the fame your shores refuse:Their place of birth alone is muteTo sounds which echo further westThan your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.
The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea;And musing there an hour alone,I dream'd that Greece might still be free;For standing on the Persians' grave,I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sate on the rocky browWhich looks o'er sea-born Salamis;And ships, by thousands, lay below,And men in nations;—all were his!He counted them at break of day—And when the sun set, where were they?
And where are they? and where art thou,My country? On thy voiceless shoreThe heroic lay is tuneless now—The heroic bosom beats no more!And must thy lyre, so long divine,Degenerate into hands like mine?
'Tis something in the dearth of fame,Though link'd among a fetter'd race,To feel at least a patriot's shame,Even as I sing, suffuse my face;For what is left the poet here?For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?Must we but blush?—Our fathers bled.Earth! render back from out thy breastA remnant of our Spartan dead!Of the three hundred grant but three,To make a new Thermopylae!
What, silent still? and silent all?Ah! no;—the voices of the deadSound like a distant torrent's fall,And answer, 'Let one living head,But one, arise,—we come, we come!''Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vain—in vain: strike other chords;Fill high the cup with Samian wine!Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,And shed the blood of Scio's vine:Hark! rising to the ignoble call—How answers each bold Bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?Of two such lessons, why forgetThe nobler and the manlier one?You have the letters Cadmus gave—Think ye he meant them for a slave?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!We will not think of themes like these!It made Anacreon's song divine:He served—but served Polycrates—A tyrant; but our masters thenWere still, at least, our countrymen.
The tyrant of the ChersoneseWas freedom's best and bravest friend;That tyrant was Miltiades!O that the present hour would lendAnother despot of the kind!Such chains as his were sure to bind.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,Exists the remnant of a lineSuch as the Doric mothers bore;And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,The Heracleidan blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks—They have a king who buys and sells;In native swords and native ranksThe only hope of courage dwells:But Turkish force and Latin fraudWould break your shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!Our virgins dance beneath the shade—I see their glorious black eyes shine;But gazing on each glowing maid,My own the burning tear-drop laves,To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,Where nothing, save the waves and I,May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;There, swan-like, let me sing and die:A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine—Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
Sir Aubrey De Vere. 1788-1846
602. The Children Band
ALL holy influences dwell withinThe breast of Childhood: instincts fresh from GodInspire it, ere the heart beneath the rodOf grief hath bled, or caught the plague of sin.How mighty was that fervour which could winIts way to infant souls!—and was the sodOf Palestine by infant Croises trod?Like Joseph went they forth, or Benjamin,In all their touching beauty to redeem?And did their soft lips kiss the Sepulchre?Alas! the lovely pageant as a dreamFaded! They sank not through ignoble fear;They felt not Moslem steel. By mountain, stream,In sands, in fens, they died—no mother near!
Charles Wolfe. 1791-1823
603. The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna
NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning,By the struggling moonbeam's misty lightAnd the lanthorn dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his restWith his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bedAnd smooth'd down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was doneWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory.
Charles Wolfe. 1791-1823
604. To Mary
IF I had thought thou couldst have died,I might not weep for thee;But I forgot, when by thy side,That thou couldst mortal be:It never through my mind had pastThe time would e'er be o'er,And I on thee should look my last,And thou shouldst smile no more!
And still upon that face I look,And think 'twill smile again;And still the thought I will not brook,That I must look in vain.But when I speak—thou dost not sayWhat thou ne'er left'st unsaid;And now I feel, as well I may,Sweet Mary, thou art dead!
If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,All cold and all serene—I still might press thy silent heart,And where thy smiles have been.While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,Thou seemest still mine own;But there—I lay thee in thy grave,And I am now alone!
I do not think, where'er thou art,Thou hast forgotten me;And I, perhaps, may soothe this heartIn thinking too of thee:Yet there was round thee such a dawnOf light ne'er seen before,As fancy never could have drawn,And never can restore!
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822
605. Hymn of Pan
FROM the forests and highlandsWe come, we come;From the river-girt islands,Where loud waves are dumb,Listening to my sweet pipings.The wind in the reeds and the rushes,The bees on the bells of thyme,The birds on the myrtle bushes,The cicale above in the lime,And the lizards below in the grass,Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,Listening to my sweet pipings.
Liquid Peneus was flowing,And all dark Tempe layIn Pelion's shadow, outgrowingThe light of the dying day,Speeded by my sweet pipings.The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,To the edge of the moist river-lawns,And the brink of the dewy caves,And all that did then attend and follow,Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars,I sang of the daedal earth,And of heaven, and the giant wars,And love, and death, and birth.And then I changed my pipings—Singing how down the vale of MaenalusI pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed:Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.All wept—as I think both ye now would,If envy or age had not frozen your blood—At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822
606. The Invitation
BEST and brightest, come away!Fairer far than this fair Day,Which, like thee to those in sorrow,Comes to bid a sweet good-morrowTo the rough Year just awakeIn its cradle on the brake.The brightest hour of unborn Spring,Through the winter wandering,Found, it seems, the halcyon MornTo hoar February born.Bending from heaven, in azure mirth,It kiss'd the forehead of the Earth;And smiled upon the silent sea;And bade the frozen streams be free;And waked to music all their fountains;And breathed upon the frozen mountains;And like a prophetess of MayStrew'd flowers upon the barren way,Making the wintry world appearLike one on whom thou smilest, dear.
Away, away, from men and towns,To the wild wood and the downs—To the silent wildernessWhere the soul need not repressIts music lest it should not findAn echo in another's mind,While the touch of Nature's artHarmonizes heart to heart.I leave this notice on my doorFor each accustom'd visitor:—'I am gone into the fieldsTo take what this sweet hour yields.Reflection, you may come to-morrow;Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.You with the unpaid bill, Despair,—You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,—I will pay you in the grave,—Death will listen to your stave.Expectation too, be off!To-day is for itself enough.Hope, in pity mock not WoeWith smiles, nor follow where I go;Long having lived on your sweet food,At length I find one moment's goodAfter long pain: with all your love,This you never told me of.'
Radiant Sister of the Day,Awake! arise! and come away!To the wild woods and the plains;And the pools where winter rainsImage all their roof of leaves;Where the pine its garland weavesOf sapless green and ivy dunRound stems that never kiss the sun;Where the lawns and pastures be,And the sandhills of the sea;Where the melting hoar-frost wetsThe daisy-star that never sets,And wind-flowers, and violetsWhich yet join not scent to hue,Crown the pale year weak and new;When the night is left behindIn the deep east, dun and blind,And the blue noon is over us,And the multitudinousBillows murmur at our feetWhere the earth and ocean meet,And all things seem only oneIn the universal sun.
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822
607. Hellas
THE world's great age begins anew,The golden years return,The earth doth like a snake renewHer winter weeds outworn;Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleamLike wrecks of a dissolving dream.
A brighter Hellas rears its mountainsFrom waves serener far;A new Peneus rolls his fountainsAgainst the morning star;Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleepYoung Cyclads on a sunnier deep.
A loftier Argo cleaves the main,Fraught with a later prize;Another Orpheus sings again,And loves, and weeps, and dies;A new Ulysses leaves once moreCalypso for his native shore.
O write no more the tale of Troy,If earth Death's scroll must be—Nor mix with Laian rage the joyWhich dawns upon the free,Although a subtler Sphinx renewRiddles of death Thebes never knew.
Another Athens shall arise,And to remoter timeBequeath, like sunset to the skies,The splendour of its prime;And leave, if naught so bright may live,All earth can take or Heaven can give.
Saturn and Love their long reposeShall burst, more bright and goodThan all who fell, than One who rose,Than many unsubdued:Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,But votive tears and symbol flowers.
O cease! must hate and death return?Cease! must men kill and die?Cease! drain not to its dregs the urnOf bitter prophecy!The world is weary of the past—O might it die or rest at last!
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822
608. To a Skylark
HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert—That from heaven or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
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.
In the golden light'ningOf the sunken sun,O'er which clouds are bright'ning,Thou dost float and run,Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heaven,In the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight—
Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphereWhose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
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 overflow'd.
What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:—
Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aerial hueAmong the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embower'dIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflower'd,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awaken'd flowers—All that ever wasJoyous and clear and fresh—thy music doth surpass.
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.
Chorus hymeneal,Or triumphal chant,Match'd with thine would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thin wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
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?
With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
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?
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.
Yet, if we could scornHate and pride and fear,If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
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.
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822
609. The Moon
AND, like a dying lady lean and pale,Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,Out of her chamber, led by the insaneAnd feeble wanderings of her fading brain,The mood arose up in the murky east,A white and shapeless mass.
Art thou pale for wearinessOf climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,Wandering companionlessAmong the stars that have a different birth,And ever changing, like a joyless eyeThat finds no object worth its constancy?
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822
610. Ode to the West Wind
O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's beingThou 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 thouWho chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)With living hues and odours plain and hill;
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning! there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith's height,The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of 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,Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowersSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan thou, O uncontrollable! if evenI were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speedScarce 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'dOne too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.
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 hearthAshes 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 theeIn 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 feetHath led me—who knows how?To thy chamber window, Sweet!
The wandering airs they faintOn 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 rainOn 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 fearWhich 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 boonI 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 lightOf thy looks, my love;It panted for thee like the hind at noonFor 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 doveWith 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 notWhen the lips have spoken,Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendourSurvive not the lamp and the lute,The heart's echoes renderNo song when the spirit is mute—No song but sad dirges,Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,Or the mournful surgesThat ring the dead seaman's knell.
When hearts have once mingled,Love first leaves the well-built nest;The weak one is singledTo endure what it once possest.O Love, who bewailestThe frailty of all things here,Why choose you the frailestFor 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 rafterWill rot, and thine eagle homeLeave thee naked to laughter,When leaves fall and cold winds come.
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822
615. To ——
ONE word is too often profanedFor me to profane it;One feeling too falsely disdain'dFor thee to disdain it;One hope is too like despairFor prudence to smother;And pity from thee more dearThan that from another.
I can give not what men call love:But wilt thou accept notThe worship the heart lifts aboveAnd the heavens reject not,The desire of the moth for the star,Of the night for the morrow,The devotion to something afarFrom the sphere of our sorrow?
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822
616. The Question