I DREAM'D that, as I wander'd by the way,Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring;And gentle odours led my steps astray,Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuringAlong a shelving bank of turf, which layUnder a copse, and hardly dared to flingIts green arms round the bosom of the stream,But kiss'd it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets;Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,The constellated flower that never sets;Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birthThe sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets—Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth—Its mother's face with heaven-collected tearsWhen the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,Green cowbind and the moonlight-colour'd May,And cherry-blossoms, and white cups whose wineWas the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day;And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray;And flowers, azure, black, and streak'd with gold,Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.
And nearer to the river's trembling edgeThere grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white,And starry river-buds among the sedge,And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,Which lit the oak that overhung the hedgeWith moonlight beams of their own watery light;And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep greenAs soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowersI made a nosegay, bound in such a wayThat the same hues which in their natural bowersWere mingled or opposed, the like arrayKept these imprison'd children of the HoursWithin my hand;—and then, elate and gay,I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come,That I might there present it—O! to whom?
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822
617. Remorse
AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon,Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even:Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.Pause not! the time is past! Every voice cries, 'Away!'Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood:Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay:Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.
Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth;Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head,The blooms of dewy Spring shall gleam beneath thy feet:But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead,Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace, maymeet.
The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep;Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;Whatever moves or toils or grieves hath its appointed sleep.Thou in the grave shalt rest:—yet, till the phantoms flee,Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,Thy remembrance and repentance and deep musings are not freeFrom the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822
618. Music, when Soft Voices die
MUSIC, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory;Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on.
Hew Ainslie. 1792-1878
619. Willie and Helen
'WHAREFORE sou'd ye talk o' love,Unless it be to pain us?Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' loveWhan ye say the sea maun twain us?'
'It 's no because my love is light,Nor for your angry deddy;It 's a' to buy ye pearlins bright,An' to busk ye like a leddy.'
'O Willy, I can caird an' spin,Se ne'er can want for cleedin';An' gin I hae my Willy's heart,I hae a' the pearls I'm heedin'.
'Will it be time to praise this cheekWhan years an' tears has blench'd it?Will it be time to talk o' loveWhan cauld an' care has quench'd it?'
He's laid ae han' about her waist—The ither 's held to heaven;An' his luik was like the luik o' manWha's heart in twa is riven.
cleedin'] clothing.
John Keble. 1792-1866
620. Burial of the Dead
I THOUGHT to meet no more, so dreary seem'dDeath's interposing veil, and thou so pure,Thy place in ParadiseBeyond where I could soar;
Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughtsSpring like unbidden violets from the sod,Where patiently thou tak'stThy sweet and sure repose.
The shadows fall more soothing: the soft airIs full of cheering whispers like thine own;While Memory, by thy grave,Lives o'er thy funeral day;
The deep knell dying down, the mourners' pause,Waiting their Saviour's welcome at the gate.—Sure with the words of HeavenThy spirit met us there,
And sought with us along th' accustom'd wayThe hallow'd porch, and entering in, beheldThe pageant of sad joySo dear to Faith and Hope.
O! hadst thou brought a strain from ParadiseTo cheer us, happy soul, thou hadst not touch'dThe sacred springs of griefMore tenderly and true,
Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low,Low as the grave, high as th' Eternal Throne,Guiding through light and gloomOur mourning fancies wild,
Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eveAround the western twilight, all subsideInto a placid faith,That even with beaming eye
Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall;So many relics of a frail love lost,So many tokens dearOf endless love begun.
Listen! it is no dream: th' Apostles' trumpGives earnest of th' Archangel's;—calmly now,Our hearts yet beating highTo that victorious lay
(Most like a warrior's, to the martial dirgeOf a true comrade), in the grave we trustOur treasure for awhile:And if a tear steal down,
If human anguish o'er the shaded browPass shuddering, when the handful of pure earthTouches the coffin-lid;If at our brother's name,
Once and again the thought, 'for ever gone,'Come o'er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright,Thou turnest not away,Thou know'st us calm at heart.
One look, and we have seen our last of thee,Till we too sleep and our long sleep be o'er.O cleanse us, ere we viewThat countenance pure again,
Thou, who canst change the heart, and raise the dead!As Thou art by to soothe our parting hour,Be ready when we meet,With Thy dear pardoning words.
John Clare. 1793-1864
621. Written in Northampton County Asylum
I AM! yet what I am who cares, or knows?My friends forsake me like a memory lost.I am the self-consumer of my woes;They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.And yet I am—I live—though I am toss'd
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,Into the living sea of waking dream,Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys,But the huge shipwreck of my own esteemAnd all that 's dear. Even those I loved the bestAre strange—nay, they are stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man has never trod—For scenes where woman never smiled or wept—There to abide with my Creator, God,And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,—The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.
Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 1793-1835
622. Dirge
CALM on the bosom of thy God,Fair spirit, rest thee now!E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod,His seal was on thy brow.
Dust, to its narrow house beneath!Soul, to its place on high!They that have seen thy look in deathNo more may fear to die.
John Keats. 1795-1821
623. Song of the Indian Maid FROM 'ENDYMION'
O SORROW!Why dost borrowThe natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?—To give maiden blushesTo the white rose bushes?Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?
O Sorrow!Why dost borrowThe lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?—To give the glow-worm light?Or, on a moonless night,To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?
O Sorrow!Why dost borrowThe mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?—To give at evening paleUnto the nightingale,That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?
O Sorrow!Why dost borrowHeart's lightness from the merriment of May?—A lover would not treadA cowslip on the head,Though he should dance from eve till peep of day—Nor any drooping flowerHeld sacred for thy bower,Wherever he may sport himself and play.
To SorrowI bade good morrow,And thought to leave her far away behind;But cheerly, cheerly,She loves me dearly;She is so constant to me, and so kind:I would deceive herAnd so leave her,But ah! she is so constant and so kind.
Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,I sat a-weeping: in the whole world wideThere was no one to ask me why I wept,—And so I keptBrimming the water-lily cups with tearsCold as my fears.
Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,I sat a-weeping: what enamour'd bride,Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds,But hides and shroudsBeneath dark palm-trees by a river side?
And as I sat, over the light blue hillsThere came a noise of revellers: the rillsInto the wide stream came of purple hue—'Twas Bacchus and his crew!The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrillsFrom kissing cymbals made a merry din—'Twas Bacchus and his kin!Like to a moving vintage down they came,Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame;All madly dancing through the pleasant valley,To scare thee, Melancholy!O then, O then, thou wast a simple name!And I forgot thee, as the berried hollyBy shepherds is forgotten, when in JuneTall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon:—I rush'd into the folly!
Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood,Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood,With sidelong laughing;And little rills of crimson wine imbruedHis plump white arms and shoulders, enough whiteFor Venus' pearly bite;And near him rode Silenus on his ass,Pelted with flowers as he on did passTipsily quaffing.
'Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye,So many, and so many, and such glee?Why have ye left your bowers desolate,Your lutes, and gentler fate?'—'We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing,A-conquering!Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide,We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:—Come hither, lady fair, and joined beTo our wild minstrelsy!'
'Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye,So many, and so many, and such glee?Why have ye left your forest haunts, why leftYour nuts in oak-tree cleft?'—'For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree;For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms,And cold mushrooms;For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth;Great god of breathless cups and chirping mirth!Come hither, lady fair, and joined beTo our mad minstrelsy!'
Over wide streams and mountains great we went,And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent,Onward the tiger and the leopard pants,With Asian elephants:Onward these myriads—with song and dance,With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance,Web-footed alligators, crocodiles,Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files,Plump infant laughers mimicking the coilOf seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil:With toying oars and silken sails they glide,Nor care for wind and tide.
Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes,From rear to van they scour about the plains;A three days' journey in a moment done;And always, at the rising of the sun,About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn,On spleenful unicorn.
I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adownBefore the vine-wreath crown!I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and singTo the silver cymbals' ring!I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierceOld Tartary the fierce!The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail,And from their treasures scatter pearled hail;Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans,And all his priesthood moans,Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale.Into these regions came I, following him,Sick-hearted, weary—so I took a whimTo stray away into these forests drear,Alone, without a peer:And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.
Young Stranger!I've been a rangerIn search of pleasure throughout every clime;Alas! 'tis not for me!Bewitch'd I sure must be,To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.
Come then, Sorrow,Sweetest Sorrow!Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:I thought to leave thee,And deceive thee,But now of all the world I love thee best.
There is not one,No, no, not oneBut thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;Thou art her mother,And her brother,Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.
sea-spry] sea-spray.
John Keats. 1795-1821
624. Ode to a Nightingale
MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness 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,But being too happy in thine happiness,That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,In some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage! that hath beenCool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,Tasting of Flora and the country-green,Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South!Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,And purple-stained mouth;That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite 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 grey hairs,Where 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.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy,Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,Cluster'd around by all her starry FaysBut here there is no light,Save what from heaven is with the breezes blownThrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweetWherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;And mid-May's eldest child,The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death,Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,To take into the air my quiet breath;Now more than ever seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroadIn such an ecstasy!Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that ofttimes hathCharm'd magic casements, opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
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 fadesPast 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?
John Keats. 1795-1821
625. Ode on a Grecian Urn
THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,Sylvan historian, who canst thus expressA flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shapeOf deities or mortals, or of both,In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leaveThy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shedYour leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;And, happy melodist, unwearied,For ever piping songs for ever new;More happy love! more happy, happy love!For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,For ever panting, and for ever young;All breathing human passion far above,That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?To what green altar, O mysterious priest,Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?What little town by river or sea-shore,Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?And, little town, thy streets for evermoreWill silent be; and not a soul, to tellWhy thou art desolate, can e'er return.
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!When 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.'
John Keats. 1795-1821
626. Ode to Psyche
O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrungBy sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,And pardon that thy secrets should be sungEven into thine own soft-conched ear:Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I seeThe winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,Saw two fair creatures, couched side by sideIn deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roofOf leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ranA brooklet, scarce espied:'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,Blue, silver-white, and budded TyrianThey lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,And ready still past kisses to outnumberAt tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:The winged boy I knew;But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?His Psyche true!
O latest-born and loveliest vision farOf all Olympus' faded hierarchy!Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,Nor altar heap'd with flowers;Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moanUpon the midnight hours;No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweetFrom chain-swung censer teeming;No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heatOf pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
O brightest! though too late for antique vows,Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,When holy were the haunted forest boughs,Holy the air, the water, and the fire;Yet even in these days so far retiredFrom happy pieties, thy lucent fans,Fluttering among the faint Olympians,I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.So let me be thy choir, and make a moanUpon the midnight hours;Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweetFrom swinged censer teeming:Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heatOf pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a faneIn some untrodden region of my mind,Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd treesFledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;And in the midst of this wide quietnessA rosy sanctuary will I dressWith the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same;And there shall be for thee all soft delightThat shadowy thought can win,A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,To let the warm Love in!
John Keats. 1795-1821
627. To Autumn
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness!Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease,For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers;And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cider-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble softThe redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
John Keats. 1795-1821
628. Ode on Melancholy
NO, no! go not to Lethe, neither twistWolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kistBy nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;Make not your rosary of yew-berries,Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth beYour mournful Psyche, nor the downy owlA partner in your sorrow's mysteries;For shade to shade will come too drowsily,And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fallSudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,And hides the green hill in an April shroud;Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,Or on the wealth of globed peonies;Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lipsBidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:Ay, in the very temple of DelightVeil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongueCan burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
John Keats. 1795-1821
629. Fragment of an Ode to Maia (Written on May-Day, 1818)
MOTHER of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!May I sing to theeAs thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae?Or may I woo theeIn earlier Sicilian? or thy smilesSeek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles,By bards who died content on pleasant sward,Leaving great verse unto a little clan?O give me their old vigour! and unheardSave of the quiet primrose, and the spanOf heaven, and few ears,Rounded by thee, my song should die awayContent as theirs,Rich in the simple worship of a day.
John Keats. 1795-1821
630. Bards of Passion and of Mirth Written on the Blank Page before Beaumont and Fletcher's Tragi-Comedy 'The Fair Maid of the Inn'
BARDS of Passion and of Mirth,Ye have left your souls on earth!Have ye souls in heaven too,Doubled-lived in regions new?Yes, and those of heaven communeWith the spheres of sun and moon;With the noise of fountains wondrous,And the parle of voices thund'rous;With the whisper of heaven's treesAnd one another, in soft easeSeated on Elysian lawnsBrowsed by none but Dian's fawns;Underneath large blue-bells tented,Where the daisies are rose-scented,And the rose herself has gotPerfume which on earth is not;Where the nightingale doth singNot a senseless, tranced thing,But divine melodious truth;Philosophic numbers smooth;Tales and golden historiesOf heaven and its mysteries.
Thus ye live on high, and thenOn the earth ye live again;And the souls ye left behind youTeach us, here, the way to find you,Where your other souls are joying,Never slumber'd, never cloying.Here, your earth-born souls still speakTo mortals, of their little week;Of their sorrows and delights;Of their passions and their spites;Of their glory and their shame;What doth strengthen and what maim.Thus ye teach us, every day,Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth,Ye have left your souls on earth!Ye have souls in heaven too,Double-lived in regions new!
John Keats. 1795-1821
631. Fancy
EVER let the Fancy roam,Pleasure never is at home:At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;Then let winged Fancy wanderThrough the thought still spread beyond her:Open wide the mind's cage-door,She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.O sweet Fancy! let her loose;Summer's joys are spoilt by use,And the enjoying of the SpringFades as does its blossoming;Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,Blushing through the mist and dew,Cloys with tasting: What do then?Sit thee by the ingle, whenThe sear faggot blazes bright,Spirit of a winter's night;When the soundless earth is muffled,And the caked snow is shuffledFrom the ploughboy's heavy shoon;When the Night doth meet the NoonIn a dark conspiracyTo banish Even from her sky.Sit thee there, and send abroad,With a mind self-overawed,Fancy, high-commission'd:—send her!She has vassals to attend her:She will bring, in spite of frost,Beauties that the earth hath lost;She will bring thee, all together,All delights of summer weather;All the buds and bells of May,From dewy sward or thorny spray;All the heaped Autumn's wealth,With a still, mysterious stealth:She will mix these pleasures upLike three fit wines in a cup,And thou shalt quaff it:—thou shalt hearDistant harvest-carols clear;Rustle of the reaped corn;Sweet birds antheming the morn:And, in the same moment—hark!'Tis the early April lark,Or the rooks, with busy caw,Foraging for sticks and straw.Thou shalt, at one glance, beholdThe daisy and the marigold;White-plumed lilies, and the firstHedge-grown primrose that hath burst;Shaded hyacinth, alwaySapphire queen of the mid-May;And every leaf, and every flowerPearled with the self-same shower.Thou shalt see the fieldmouse peepMeagre from its celled sleep;And the snake all winter-thinCast on sunny bank its skin;Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt seeHatching in the hawthorn-tree,When the hen-bird's wing doth restQuiet on her mossy nest;Then the hurry and alarmWhen the beehive casts its swarm;Acorns ripe down-patteringWhile the autumn breezes sing.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose;Every thing is spoilt by use:Where 's the cheek that doth not fade,Too much gazed at? Where 's the maidWhose lip mature is ever new?Where 's the eye, however blue,Doth not weary? Where 's the faceOne would meet in every place?Where 's the voice, however soft,One would hear so very oft?At a touch sweet Pleasure meltethLike to bubbles when rain pelteth.Let, then, winged Fancy findThee a mistress to thy mind:Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,Ere the God of Torment taught herHow to frown and how to chide;With a waist and with a sideWhite as Hebe's, when her zoneSlipt its golden clasp, and downFell her kirtle to her feet,While she held the goblet sweet,And Jove grew languid.—Break the meshOf the Fancy's silken leash;Quickly break her prison-string,And such joys as these she'll bring.—Let the winged Fancy roam,Pleasure never is at home.
John Keats. 1795-1821
632. Stanzas
IN a drear-nighted December,Too happy, happy tree,Thy branches ne'er rememberTheir green felicity:The north cannot undo them,With a sleety whistle through them;Nor frozen thawings glue themFrom budding at the prime.
In a drear-nighted December,Too happy, happy brook,Thy bubblings ne'er rememberApollo's summer look;But with a sweet forgetting,They stay their crystal fretting,Never, never pettingAbout the frozen time.
Ah! would 'twere so with manyA gentle girl and boy!But were there ever anyWrithed not at passed joy?To know the change and feel it,When there is none to heal it,Nor numbed sense to steal it,Was never said in rhyme.
John Keats. 1795-1821
633. Las Belle Dame sans Merci
'O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,Alone and palely loitering?The sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.
'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,So haggard and so woe-begone?The squirrel's granary is full,And the harvest 's done.
'I see a lily on thy browWith anguish moist and fever dew;And on thy cheeks a fading roseFast withereth too.'
'I met a lady in the meads,Full beautiful—a faery's child,Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild.
'I made a garland for her head,And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;She look'd at me as she did love,And made sweet moan.
'I set her on my pacing steedAnd nothing else saw all day long,For sideways would she lean, and singA faery's song.
'She found me roots of relish sweet,And honey wild and manna dew,And sure in language strange she said,"I love thee true!"
'She took me to her elfin grot,And there she wept and sigh'd fill sore;And there I shut her wild, wild eyesWith kisses four.
'And there she lulled me asleep,And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide!The latest dream I ever dream'dOn the cold hill's side.
'I saw pale kings and princes too,Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;They cried—"La belle Dame sans MerciHath thee in thrall!"
'I saw their starved lips in the gloamWith horrid warning gaped wide,And I awoke and found me here,On the cold hill's side.
'And this is why I sojourn hereAlone and palely loitering,Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.'
John Keats. 1795-1821
634. On first looking into Chapman's Homer
MUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyesHe stared at the Pacific—and all his menLook'd at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
John Keats. 1795-1821
635. When I have Fears that I may cease to be
WHEN I have fears that I may cease to beBefore my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,Before high pil`d books, in charact'ry,Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,And feel that I may never live to traceTheir shadows, with the magic hand of chance;And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!That I shall never look upon thee more,Never have relish in the faery powerOf unreflecting love;—then on the shoreOf the wide world I stand alone, and think,Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
John Keats. 1795-1821
636. To Sleep
O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight!Shutting with careful fingers and benignOur gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light,Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throwsAround my bed its lulling charities;Then save me, or the passed day will shineUpon my pillow, breeding many woes;Save me from curious conscience, that still lordsIts strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,And seal the hushed casket of my soul.
John Keats. 1795-1821
637. Last Sonnet
BRIGHT Star, would I were steadfast as thou art—Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,And watching, with eternal lids apart,Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,The moving waters at their priest-like taskOf pure ablution round earth's human shores,Or gazing on the new soft-fallen maskOf snow upon the mountains and the moors—No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
Jeremiah Joseph Callanan. 1795-1839
638. The Outlaw of Loch Lene FROM THE IRISH
O MANY a day have I made good ale in the glen,That came not of stream or malt, like the brewing of men:My bed was the ground; my roof, the green-wood above;And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my Love.
Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,That I was not near from terror my angel to shield!She stretch'd forth her arms; her mantle she flung to the wind,And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlaw'd lover to find.
O would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep,And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep;I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or a pinnace, to save—With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave.
'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides,The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides:I think, as at eve she wanders its mazes among,The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.
William Sidney Walker. 1795-1846
639. Too solemn for day, too sweet for night
TOO solemn for day, too sweet for night,Come not in darkness, come not in light;But come in some twilight interim,When the gloom is soft, and the light is dim.
George Darley. 1795-1846
640. Song
SWEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair;Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbersBreathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.
Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teemingTo wind round the willow banks that lure him from above:O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming,I too could glide to the bower of my love!
Ah! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her,Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay,Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her,To her lost mate's call in the forests far away.
Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest,Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me—Come—this fond bosom, O faithfullest and fairest,Bleeds with its death-wound, its wound of love for thee!
George Darley. 1795-1846
641. To Helene On a Gift-ring carelessly lost
I SENT a ring—a little bandOf emerald and ruby stone,And bade it, sparkling on thy hand,Tell thee sweet tales of oneWhose constant memoryWas full of loveliness, and thee.
A shell was graven on its gold,—'Twas Cupid fix'd without his wings—To Helene once it would have toldMore than was ever told by rings:But now all 's past and gone,Her love is buried with that stone.
Thou shalt not see the tears that startFrom eyes by thoughts like these beguiled;Thou shalt not know the beating heart,Ever a victim and a child:Yet Helene, love, believeThe heart that never could deceive.
I'll hear thy voice of melodyIn the sweet whispers of the air;I'll see the brightness of thine eyeIn the blue evening's dewy star;In crystal streams thy purity;And look on Heaven to look on thee.
George Darley. 1795-1846
642. The Fallen Star
A STAR is gone! a star is gone!There is a blank in Heaven;One of the cherub choir has doneHis airy course this even.
He sat upon the orb of fireThat hung for ages there,And lent his music to the choirThat haunts the nightly air.
But when his thousand years are pass'd,With a cherubic sighHe vanish'd with his car at last,For even cherubs die!
Hear how his angel-brothers mourn—The minstrels of the spheres—Each chiming sadly in his turnAnd dropping splendid tears.
The planetary sisters allJoin in the fatal song,And weep this hapless brother's fall,Who sang with them so long.
But deepest of the choral bandThe Lunar Spirit sings,And with a bass-according handSweeps all her sullen strings.
From the deep chambers of the domeWhere sleepless Uriel lies,His rude harmonic thunders comeMingled with mighty sighs.
The thousand car-bourne cherubim,The wandering eleven,All join to chant the dirge of himWho fell just now from Heaven.
Hartley Coleridge. 1796-1849
643. The Solitary-Hearted
SHE was a queen of noble Nature's crowning,A smile of hers was like an act of grace;She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning,Like daily beauties of the vulgar race:But if she smiled, a light was on her face,A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beamOf peaceful radiance, silvering o'er the streamOf human thought with unabiding glory;Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream,A visitation, bright and transitory.
But she is changed,—hath felt the touch of sorrow,No love hath she, no understanding friend;O grief! when Heaven is forced of earth to borrowWhat the poor niggard earth has not to lend;But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend.The tallest flower that skyward rears its headGrows from the common ground, and there must shedIts delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely,That they should find so base a bridal bed,Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely.
She had a brother, and a tender father,And she was loved, but not as others areFrom whom we ask return of love,—but ratherAs one might love a dream; a phantom fairOf something exquisitely strange and rare,Which all were glad to look on, men and maids,Yet no one claim'd—as oft, in dewy glades,The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness,Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;—The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness.
'Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is onlyThe common lot, which all the world have known;To her 'tis more, because her heart is lonely,And yet she hath no strength to stand alone,—Once she had playmates, fancies of her own,And she did love them. They are past awayAs Fairies vanish at the break of day;And like a spectre of an age departed,Or unsphered Angel wofully astray,She glides along—the solitary-hearted.
Hartley Coleridge. 1796-1849
644. Song
SHE is not fair to outward viewAs many maidens be,Her loveliness I never knewUntil she smiled on me;O, then I saw her eye was bright,A well of love, a spring of light!
But now her looks are coy and cold,To mine they ne'er reply,And yet I cease not to beholdThe love-light in her eye:Her very frowns are fairer farThan smiles of other maidens are.
Hartley Coleridge. 1796-1849
645. Early Death
SHE pass'd away like morning dewBefore the sun was high;So brief her time, she scarcely knewThe meaning of a sigh.
As round the rose its soft perfume,Sweet love around her floated;Admired she grew—while mortal doomCrept on, unfear'd, unnoted.
Love was her guardian Angel here,But Love to Death resign'd her;Tho' Love was kind, why should we fearBut holy Death is kinder?
Hartley Coleridge. 1796-1849
646. Friendship
WHEN we were idlers with the loitering rills,The need of human love we little noted:Our love was nature; and the peace that floatedOn the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills,To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills:One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted,That, wisely doting, ask'd not why it doted,And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills.But now I find how dear thou wert to me;That man is more than half of nature's treasure,Of that fair beauty which no eye can see,Of that sweet music which no ear can measure;And now the streams may sing for others' pleasure,The hills sleep on in their eternity.
Thomas Hood. 1798-1845
647. Autumn
I SAW old Autumn in the misty mornStand shadowless like Silence, listeningTo silence, for no lonely bird would singInto his hollow ear from woods forlorn,Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;—Shaking his languid locks all dewy brightWith tangled gossamer that fell by night,Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun,Oping the dusky eyelids of the south,Till shade and silence waken up as one,And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.Where are the merry birds?—Away, away,On panting wings through the inclement skies,Lest owls should preyUndazzled at noonday,And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.
Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west,Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prestLike tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rsTo a most gloomy breast.Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime,—The many, many leaves all twinkling?—ThreeOn the moss'd elm; three on the naked limeTrembling,—and one upon the old oak-tree!Where is the Dryad's immortality?—Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,Or wearing the long gloomy Winter throughIn the smooth holly's green eternity.
The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard,The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain,And honey bees have storedThe sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;The swallows all have wing'd across the main;But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,And sighs her tearful spellsAmongst the sunless shadows of the plain.Alone, alone,Upon a mossy stone,She sits and reckons up the dead and goneWith the last leaves for a love-rosary,Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily,Like a dim picture of the drowned pastIn the hush'd mind's mysterious far away,Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the lastInto that distance, gray upon the gray.
O go and sit with her, and be o'ershadedUnder the languid downfall of her hair:She wears a coronal of flowers fadedUpon her forehead, and a face of care;—There is enough of wither'd everywhereTo make her bower,—and enough of gloom;There is enough of sadness to invite,If only for the rose that died, whose doomIs Beauty's,—she that with the living bloomOf conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:There is enough of sorrowing, and quiteEnough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,—Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;Enough of fear and shadowy despair,To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!
Thomas Hood. 1798-1845
648. Silence
THERE is a silence where hath been no sound,There is a silence where no sound may be,In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea,Or in wide desert where no life is found,Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;No voice is hush'd—no life treads silently,But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,That never spoke, over the idle ground:But in green ruins, in the desolate wallsOf antique palaces, where Man hath been,Though the dun fox or wild hyaena calls,And owls, that flit continually between,Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan—There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
Thomas Hood. 1798-1845
649. Death
IT is not death, that sometime in a sighThis eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;That sometime these bright stars, that now replyIn sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow;That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spriteBe lapp'd in alien clay and laid below;It is not death to know this—but to knowThat pious thoughts, which visit at new gravesIn tender pilgrimage, will cease to goSo duly and so oft—and when grass wavesOver the pass'd-away, there may be thenNo resurrection in the minds of men.
Thomas Hood. 1798-1845
650. Fair Ines
O SAW ye not fair Ines?She 's gone into the West,To dazzle when the sun is down,And rob the world of rest:She took our daylight with her,The smiles that we love best,With morning blushes on her cheek,And pearls upon her breast.
O turn again, fair Ines,Before the fall of night,For fear the Moon should shine alone,And stars unrivall'd bright;And blessed will the lover beThat walks beneath their light,And breathes the love against thy cheekI dare not even write!
Would I had been, fair Ines,That gallant cavalier,Who rode so gaily by thy side,And whisper'd thee so near!Were there no bonny dames at home,Or no true lovers here,That he should cross the seas to winThe dearest of the dear?
I saw thee, lovely Ines,Descend along the shore,With bands of noble gentlemen,And banners waved before;And gentle youth and maidens gay,And snowy plumes they wore:It would have been a beauteous dream,—If it had been no more!
Alas, alas! fair Ines,She went away with song,With Music waiting on her steps,And shoutings of the throng;But some were sad, and felt no mirth,But only Music's wrong,In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell,To her you've loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines!That vessel never boreSo fair a lady on its deck,Nor danced so light before,—Alas for pleasure on the sea,And sorrow on the shore!The smile that bless'd one lover's heartHas broken many more!
Thomas Hood. 1798-1845
651. Time of Roses
IT was not in the WinterOur loving lot was cast;It was the time of roses—We pluck'd them as we pass'd!
That churlish season never frown'dOn early lovers yet:O no—the world was newly crown'dWith flowers when first we met!
'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,But still you held me fast;It was the time of roses—We pluck'd them as we pass'd!
Thomas Hood. 1798-1845
652. Ruth
SHE stood breast-high amid the corn,Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,Like the sweetheart of the sun,Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush,Deeply ripen'd;—such a blushIn the midst of brown was born,Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses fell,Which were blackest none could tell,But long lashes veil'd a light,That had else been all too bright.
And her hat, with shady brim,Made her tressy forehead dim;Thus she stood amid the stooks,Praising God with sweetest looks:—
Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean,Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,Lay thy sheaf adown and come,Share my harvest and my home.
Thomas Hood. 1798-1845
653. The Death-bed
WE watch'd her breathing thro' the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seem'd to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.
Thomas Hood. 1798-1845
654. The Bridge of Sighs
ONE more Unfortunate,Weary of breath,Rashly importunate,Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion'd so slenderlyYoung, and so fair!
Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements;Whilst the wave constantlyDrips from her clothing;Take her up instantly,Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;Think of her mournfully,Gently and humanly;Not of the stains of her,All that remains of herNow is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutinyRash and undutiful:Past all dishonour,Death has left on herOnly the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,One of Eve's family—Wipe those poor lips of hersOozing so clammily.
Loop up her tressesEscaped from the comb,Her fair auburn tresses;Whilst wonderment guessesWhere was her home?
Who was her father?Who was her mother?Had she a sister?Had she a brother?Or was there a dearer oneStill, and a nearer oneYet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!O, it was pitiful!Near a whole city full,Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,Fatherly, motherlyFeelings had changed:Love, by harsh evidence,Thrown from its eminence;Even God's providenceSeeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiverSo far in the river,With many a lightFrom window and casement,From garret to basement,She stood, with amazement,Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of MarchMade her tremble and shiver;But not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river:Mad from life's history,Glad to death's mystery,Swift to be hurl'd—Anywhere, anywhereOut of the world!
In she plunged boldly—No matter how coldlyThe rough river ran—Over the brink of it,Picture it—think of it,Dissolute Man!Lave in it, drink of it,Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion'd so slenderly,Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidlyStiffen too rigidly,Decently, kindly,Smooth and compose them;And her eyes, close them,Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staringThro' muddy impurity,As when with the daringLast look of despairingFix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,Spurr'd by contumely,Cold inhumanity,Burning insanity,Into her rest.—Cross her hands humblyAs if praying dumbly,Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,Her evil behaviour,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour!
William Thom. 1798-1848
655. The Blind Boy's Pranks
MEN grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind,Love kentna whaur to stay:Wi' fient an arrow, bow, or string—Wi' droopin' heart an' drizzled wing,He faught his lonely way.
'Is there nae mair in Garioch fairAe spotless hame for me?Hae politics an' corn an' kyeIlk bosom stappit? Fie, O fie!I'll swithe me o'er the sea.'
He launch'd a leaf o' jessamine,On whilk he daur'd to swim,An' pillow'd his head on a wee rosebud,Syne laithfu', lanely, Love 'gan scudDown Ury's waefu' stream.
The birds sang bonnie as Love drew near,But dowie when he gaed by;Till lull'd wi' the sough o' monie a sang,He sleepit fu' soun' and sail'd alang'Neath Heaven's gowden sky.
'Twas just whaur creeping Ury greetsIts mountain cousin Don,There wander'd forth a weelfaur'd dame,Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream,As it flirted an' play'd with a sunny beamThat flicker'd its bosom upon.
Love happit his head, I trow, that timeThe jessamine bark drew nigh,The lassie espied the wee rosebud,An' aye her heart gae thud for thud,An' quiet it wadna lie.
'O gin I but had yon wearie wee flowerThat floats on the Ury sae fair!'—She lootit her hand for the silly rose-leaf,But little wist she o' the pawkie thiefThat was lurkin' an' laughin' there!
Love glower'd when he saw her bonnie dark e'e,An' swore by Heaven's graceHe ne'er had seen nor thought to see,Since e'er he left the Paphian lea,Sae lovely a dwallin'-place.
Syne first of a' in her blythesome breastHe built a bower, I ween;An' what did the waefu' devilick neist?But kindled a gleam like the rosy east,That sparkled frae baith her e'en.
An' then beneath ilk high e'e-breeHe placed a quiver there;His bow? What but her shinin' brow?An' O sic deadly strings he drewFrae out her silken hair!
Guid be our guard! Sic deeds waur deenRoun' a' our countrie then;An' monie a hangin' lug was seen'Mang farmers fat, an' lawyers lean,An' herds o' common men!
kentna] knew not. wi' fient an arrow] i. q. with deuce an arrow. swithe] hie quickly. laithfu'] regretful. dowie] dejectedly. weelfaur'd] well-favoured, comely. happit] covered up. lootit] lowered. pawkie] sly. glower'd] stared. e'e-bree] eyebrow. lug] ear.
Sir Henry Taylor. 1800-1866
656. Elena's Song
QUOTH tongue of neither maid nor wifeTo heart of neither wife nor maid—Lead we not here a jolly lifeBetwixt the shine and shade?
Quoth heart of neither maid nor wifeTo tongue of neither wife nor maid—Thou wagg'st, but I am worn with strife,And feel like flowers that fade.
Thomas Babington Macaulay, Lord Macaulay. 1800-1859
657. A Jacobite's Epitaph
TO my true king I offer'd free from stainCourage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.For him I languish'd in a foreign clime,Gray-hair'd with sorrow in my manhood's prime;Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees,And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;Beheld each night my home in fever'd sleep,Each morning started from the dream to weep;Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gaveThe resting-place I ask'd, an early grave.O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,From that proud country which was once mine own,By those white cliffs I never more must see,By that dear language which I spake like thee,Forget all feuds, and shed one English tearO'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.