The Spirit sings:Sabrina fair,Listen where thou art sittingUnder the glassy, cool, translucent wave,In twisted braids of lilies knittingThe loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;Listen for dear honor's sake,Goddess of the silver lake,Listen, and save!Listen, and appear to us,In name of great Oceanus;* * * *By all the Nymphs that Nightly danceUpon thy streams with wily glance,Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy headFrom thy coral-paven bed,And bridle in thy headlong wave,Till thou our summons answered have.Listen, and save.[Sabrinarises, attended by water-nymphs, and sings.]By the rushy-fringèd bank,Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank,My sliding Chariot stays,Thick set with agate, and the azure sheenOf turkis blue, and emerald green,That in the channel strays;Whilst from off the waters fleetThus I set my printless feetO'er the Cowslip's Velvet head,That bends not as I tread;Gentle swain, at thy requestI am here.John Milton.From "Comus."
The Spirit sings:Sabrina fair,Listen where thou art sittingUnder the glassy, cool, translucent wave,In twisted braids of lilies knittingThe loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;Listen for dear honor's sake,Goddess of the silver lake,Listen, and save!Listen, and appear to us,In name of great Oceanus;
* * * *
By all the Nymphs that Nightly danceUpon thy streams with wily glance,Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy headFrom thy coral-paven bed,And bridle in thy headlong wave,Till thou our summons answered have.Listen, and save.
[Sabrinarises, attended by water-nymphs, and sings.]
By the rushy-fringèd bank,Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank,My sliding Chariot stays,Thick set with agate, and the azure sheenOf turkis blue, and emerald green,That in the channel strays;Whilst from off the waters fleetThus I set my printless feetO'er the Cowslip's Velvet head,That bends not as I tread;Gentle swain, at thy requestI am here.
John Milton.
From "Comus."
'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia wonBy Philip's warlike son:Aloft in awful stateThe godlike hero sateOn his imperial throne:His valiant peers were placed around;Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:(So should desert in arms be crowned.)The lovely Thais, by his side,Sate like a blooming Eastern brideIn flower of youth and beauty's pride.Happy, happy, happy pair!None but the brave,None but the brave,None but the brave deserves the fair.Chorus.Happy, happy, happy pair!None but the brave,None but the brave,None but the brave deserves the fair.Timotheus, placed on highAmid the tuneful quire,With flying fingers touched the lyre:The trembling notes ascend the sky,And heavenly joys inspire.The song began from Jove,Who left his blissful seats above,(Such is the power of mighty love.)A dragon's fiery form belied the god:Sublime on radiant spires he rode.The listening crowd admire the lofty sound,A present deity, they shout around;A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:With ravish'd earsThe monarch hears,Assumes the god,Affects to nod,And seems to shake the spheres.Chorus.With ravish'd earsThe monarch hears,Assumes the god,Affects to nod,And seems to shake the spheres.John Dryden.From "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day."
'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia wonBy Philip's warlike son:Aloft in awful stateThe godlike hero sateOn his imperial throne:His valiant peers were placed around;Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:(So should desert in arms be crowned.)The lovely Thais, by his side,Sate like a blooming Eastern brideIn flower of youth and beauty's pride.Happy, happy, happy pair!None but the brave,None but the brave,None but the brave deserves the fair.
Chorus.
Happy, happy, happy pair!None but the brave,None but the brave,None but the brave deserves the fair.
Timotheus, placed on highAmid the tuneful quire,With flying fingers touched the lyre:The trembling notes ascend the sky,And heavenly joys inspire.The song began from Jove,Who left his blissful seats above,(Such is the power of mighty love.)A dragon's fiery form belied the god:Sublime on radiant spires he rode.The listening crowd admire the lofty sound,A present deity, they shout around;A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:With ravish'd earsThe monarch hears,Assumes the god,Affects to nod,And seems to shake the spheres.
Chorus.
With ravish'd earsThe monarch hears,Assumes the god,Affects to nod,And seems to shake the spheres.
John Dryden.
From "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day."
In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decree:Where Alph, the sacred river, ranThrough caverns measureless to man,Down to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile groundWith walls and towers were girdled round:And there were gardens bright with sinuous rillsWhere blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.But O! that deep romantic chasm which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchantedAs e'er beneath a waning moon was hauntedBy woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced:Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river.Five miles meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale, the sacred river ran,Then reached the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war!The shadow of the dome of pleasureFloated midway on the waves;Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!A damsel with a dulcimerIn a vision once I saw:It was an Abyssinian maid,And on her dulcimer she played,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within meHer sympathy and song,To such a deep delight 'twould win me,That with music loud and long,I would build that dome in air,That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them there,And all should cry, Beware! Beware!His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dread,For he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise.Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decree:Where Alph, the sacred river, ranThrough caverns measureless to man,Down to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile groundWith walls and towers were girdled round:And there were gardens bright with sinuous rillsWhere blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But O! that deep romantic chasm which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchantedAs e'er beneath a waning moon was hauntedBy woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced:Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river.Five miles meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale, the sacred river ran,Then reached the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasureFloated midway on the waves;Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!A damsel with a dulcimerIn a vision once I saw:It was an Abyssinian maid,And on her dulcimer she played,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within meHer sympathy and song,To such a deep delight 'twould win me,That with music loud and long,I would build that dome in air,That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them there,And all should cry, Beware! Beware!His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dread,For he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
The Fairy and the Soul proceeded;The silver clouds disparted;And, as the car of magic they ascended,Again the speechless music swelled,Again the coursers of the airUnfurled their azure pennons, and the Queen,Shaking the beamy reins,Bade them pursue their way.The magic car moved on.The night was fair, and countless starsStudded heaven's dark-blue vault,—The eastern wave grew paleWith the first smile of morn.The magic car moved on.From the celestial hoofsThe atmosphere in flaming sparkles flew;And, where the burning wheelsEddied above the mountain's loftiest peak,Was traced a line of lightning.Now far above a rock, the utmost vergeOf the wide earth, it flew—The rival of the Andes, whose dark browLoured o'er the silver sea.Far far below the chariot's path,Calm as a slumbering babe,Tremendous Ocean lay.The mirror of its stillness showedThe pale and waning stars,The chariot's fiery track,And the grey light of mornTingeing those fleecy cloudsThat cradled in their folds the infant dawn.The chariot seemed to flyThrough the abyss of an immense concave,Radiant with million constellations, tingedWith shades of infinite colour,And semicircled with a beltFlashing incessant meteors.The magic car moved on.As they approached their goal,The coursers seemed to gather speed.The sea no longer was distinguished; earthAppeared a vast and shadowy sphere;The sun's unclouded orbRolled through the black concave;Its rays of rapid lightParted around the chariot's swifter course,And fell like ocean's feathery sprayDashed from the boiling surgeBefore a vessel's prow.The magic car moved on.Earth's distant orb appearedThe smallest light that twinkles in the heavensWhilst round the chariot's wayInnumerable systems rolled,And countless spheres diffusedAn ever-varying glory.It was a sight of wonder: someWere hornèd like the crescent moon;Some shed a mild and silver beamLike Hesperus o'er the western sea;Some dashed athwart with trains of flame,Like worlds to death and ruin driven;Some shone like stars, and, as the chariot passed,Bedimmed all other light.Percy Bysshe Shelley.From "Queen Mab."
The Fairy and the Soul proceeded;The silver clouds disparted;And, as the car of magic they ascended,Again the speechless music swelled,Again the coursers of the airUnfurled their azure pennons, and the Queen,Shaking the beamy reins,Bade them pursue their way.
The magic car moved on.The night was fair, and countless starsStudded heaven's dark-blue vault,—The eastern wave grew paleWith the first smile of morn.The magic car moved on.From the celestial hoofsThe atmosphere in flaming sparkles flew;And, where the burning wheelsEddied above the mountain's loftiest peak,Was traced a line of lightning.Now far above a rock, the utmost vergeOf the wide earth, it flew—The rival of the Andes, whose dark browLoured o'er the silver sea.
Far far below the chariot's path,Calm as a slumbering babe,Tremendous Ocean lay.The mirror of its stillness showedThe pale and waning stars,The chariot's fiery track,And the grey light of mornTingeing those fleecy cloudsThat cradled in their folds the infant dawn.The chariot seemed to flyThrough the abyss of an immense concave,Radiant with million constellations, tingedWith shades of infinite colour,And semicircled with a beltFlashing incessant meteors.
The magic car moved on.As they approached their goal,The coursers seemed to gather speed.The sea no longer was distinguished; earthAppeared a vast and shadowy sphere;The sun's unclouded orbRolled through the black concave;Its rays of rapid lightParted around the chariot's swifter course,And fell like ocean's feathery sprayDashed from the boiling surgeBefore a vessel's prow.The magic car moved on.Earth's distant orb appearedThe smallest light that twinkles in the heavensWhilst round the chariot's wayInnumerable systems rolled,And countless spheres diffusedAn ever-varying glory.It was a sight of wonder: someWere hornèd like the crescent moon;Some shed a mild and silver beamLike Hesperus o'er the western sea;Some dashed athwart with trains of flame,Like worlds to death and ruin driven;Some shone like stars, and, as the chariot passed,Bedimmed all other light.
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
From "Queen Mab."
Arethusa aroseFrom her couch of snowsIn the Acroceraunian mountains,—From cloud and from crag,With many a jag,Shepherding her bright fountains.She leapt down the rocksWith her rainbow locksStreaming among the streams;Her steps paved with greenThe downward ravineWhich slopes to the western gleams:And gliding and springing,She went, ever singing,In murmurs as soft as sleep;The Earth seemed to love her,And Heaven smiled above her,As she lingered towards the deep.Then Alpheus bold,On his glacier cold,With his trident the mountains strookAnd opened a chasmIn the rocks;—with the spasmAll Erymanthus shook.And the black south windIt concealed behindThe urns of the silent snow,And earthquake and thunderDid rend in sunderThe bars of the springs below.The beard and the hairOf the River-god wereSeen through the torrent's sweep,As he followed the lightOf the fleet nymph's flightTo the brink of the Dorian deep."Oh! save me! Oh! guide me!And bid the deep hide me!For he grasps me now by the hair!"The loud Ocean heard,To its blue depth stirred,And divided at her prayer;And under the waterThe Earth's white daughterFled like a sunny beam,Behind her descended,Her billows unblendedWith the brackish Dorian stream.Like a gloomy stainOn the emerald main,Alpheus rushed behind,—As an eagle pursuingA dove to its ruinDown the streams of the cloudy wind.Under the bowersWhere the Ocean PowersSit on their pearlèd thrones;Through the coral woodsOf the weltering floods;Over heaps of unvalued stones;Through the dim beamsWhich amid the streamsWeave a network of colored light;And under the cavesWhere the shadowy wavesAre as green as the forest's night;Outspeeding the shark,And the swordfish dark,—Under the ocean foam,And up through the riftsOf the mountain clifts,—They passed to their Dorian home.And now from their fountainsIn Enna's mountains,Down one vale where the morning basks,Like friends once partedGrown single-hearted,They ply their watery tasks.At sunrise they leapFrom their cradles steepIn the cave of the shelving hill;At noontide they flowThrough the woods belowAnd the meadows of asphodel;And at night they sleepIn the rocking deepBeneath the Ortygian shore;—Like the spirits that lieIn the azure sky,When they love but live no more.Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Arethusa aroseFrom her couch of snowsIn the Acroceraunian mountains,—From cloud and from crag,With many a jag,Shepherding her bright fountains.She leapt down the rocksWith her rainbow locksStreaming among the streams;Her steps paved with greenThe downward ravineWhich slopes to the western gleams:And gliding and springing,She went, ever singing,In murmurs as soft as sleep;The Earth seemed to love her,And Heaven smiled above her,As she lingered towards the deep.
Then Alpheus bold,On his glacier cold,With his trident the mountains strookAnd opened a chasmIn the rocks;—with the spasmAll Erymanthus shook.And the black south windIt concealed behindThe urns of the silent snow,And earthquake and thunderDid rend in sunderThe bars of the springs below.The beard and the hairOf the River-god wereSeen through the torrent's sweep,As he followed the lightOf the fleet nymph's flightTo the brink of the Dorian deep.
"Oh! save me! Oh! guide me!And bid the deep hide me!For he grasps me now by the hair!"The loud Ocean heard,To its blue depth stirred,And divided at her prayer;And under the waterThe Earth's white daughterFled like a sunny beam,Behind her descended,Her billows unblendedWith the brackish Dorian stream.Like a gloomy stainOn the emerald main,Alpheus rushed behind,—As an eagle pursuingA dove to its ruinDown the streams of the cloudy wind.Under the bowersWhere the Ocean PowersSit on their pearlèd thrones;Through the coral woodsOf the weltering floods;Over heaps of unvalued stones;Through the dim beamsWhich amid the streamsWeave a network of colored light;And under the cavesWhere the shadowy wavesAre as green as the forest's night;Outspeeding the shark,And the swordfish dark,—Under the ocean foam,And up through the riftsOf the mountain clifts,—They passed to their Dorian home.
And now from their fountainsIn Enna's mountains,Down one vale where the morning basks,Like friends once partedGrown single-hearted,They ply their watery tasks.At sunrise they leapFrom their cradles steepIn the cave of the shelving hill;At noontide they flowThrough the woods belowAnd the meadows of asphodel;And at night they sleepIn the rocking deepBeneath the Ortygian shore;—Like the spirits that lieIn the azure sky,When they love but live no more.
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
* * * *'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell:The wood-tick has kept the minutes well;He has counted them all with click and stroke,Deep in the heart of the mountain oak,And he has awakened the sentry elveWho sleeps with him in the haunted tree,To bid him ring the hour of twelve,And call the fays to their revelry;Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell—('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell)—"Midnight comes, and all is well!Hither, hither, wing your way!'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day."
* * * *
'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell:The wood-tick has kept the minutes well;He has counted them all with click and stroke,Deep in the heart of the mountain oak,And he has awakened the sentry elveWho sleeps with him in the haunted tree,To bid him ring the hour of twelve,And call the fays to their revelry;Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell—('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell)—"Midnight comes, and all is well!Hither, hither, wing your way!'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day."
They come from beds of lichen green,They creep from the mullein's velvet screen;Some on the backs of beetles flyFrom the silver tops of moon-touched trees,Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,And rocked about in the evening breeze;Some from the humbird's downy nest—They had driven him out by elfin power,And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,Had slumbered there till the charmèd hour;Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,With glittering ising-stars inlaid;And some had opened the four-o'clock,And stole within its purple shade.And now they throng the moonlight glade,Above—below—on every side,Their little minim forms arrayed,In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride.
They come from beds of lichen green,They creep from the mullein's velvet screen;Some on the backs of beetles flyFrom the silver tops of moon-touched trees,Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,And rocked about in the evening breeze;Some from the humbird's downy nest—They had driven him out by elfin power,And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,Had slumbered there till the charmèd hour;Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,With glittering ising-stars inlaid;And some had opened the four-o'clock,And stole within its purple shade.And now they throng the moonlight glade,Above—below—on every side,Their little minim forms arrayed,In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride.
The throne was reared upon the grass,Of spice-wood and of sassafras;On pillars of mottled tortoise-shellHung the burnished canopy—And over it gorgeous curtains fellOf the tulip's crimson drapery.The monarch sat on his judgment-seat,On his brow the crown imperial shone,The prisoner Fay was at his feet,And his peers were ranged around the throne,He waved his sceptre in the air,He looked around and calmly spoke;His brow was grave and his eye severe,But his voice in a softened accent broke:
The throne was reared upon the grass,Of spice-wood and of sassafras;On pillars of mottled tortoise-shellHung the burnished canopy—And over it gorgeous curtains fellOf the tulip's crimson drapery.The monarch sat on his judgment-seat,On his brow the crown imperial shone,The prisoner Fay was at his feet,And his peers were ranged around the throne,He waved his sceptre in the air,He looked around and calmly spoke;His brow was grave and his eye severe,But his voice in a softened accent broke:
Fairy! Fairy! list and mark:Thou hast broke thine elfin chain;Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain—Thou hast sullied thine elfin purityIn the glance of a mortal maiden's eye,Thou hast scorned our dread decree,And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high,But well I know her sinless mindIs pure as the angel forms above,Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind,Such as a spirit well might love;Fairy! had she spot or taint,Bitter had been thy punishment.
Fairy! Fairy! list and mark:Thou hast broke thine elfin chain;Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain—Thou hast sullied thine elfin purityIn the glance of a mortal maiden's eye,Thou hast scorned our dread decree,And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high,But well I know her sinless mindIs pure as the angel forms above,Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind,Such as a spirit well might love;Fairy! had she spot or taint,Bitter had been thy punishment.
"Thou shalt seek the beach of sandWhere the water bounds the elfin land;Thou shalt watch the oozy brineTill the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine,Then dart the glistening arch below,And catch a drop from his silver bow.The water-sprites will wield their armsAnd dash around, with roar and rave,And vain are the woodland spirits' charms,They are the imps that rule the wave.Yet trust thee in thy single might:If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,Thou shalt win the warlock fight.IX"If the spray-bead gem be won,The stain of thy wing is washed away:But another errand must be doneEre thy crime be lost for aye;Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,Thou must reillume its spark.Mount thy steed and spur him highTo the heaven's blue canopy;And when thou seest a shooting star,Follow it fast, and follow it far—The last faint spark of its burning trainShall light the elfin lamp again.Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay;Hence! to the water-side, away!"
"Thou shalt seek the beach of sandWhere the water bounds the elfin land;Thou shalt watch the oozy brineTill the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine,Then dart the glistening arch below,And catch a drop from his silver bow.The water-sprites will wield their armsAnd dash around, with roar and rave,And vain are the woodland spirits' charms,They are the imps that rule the wave.Yet trust thee in thy single might:If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,Thou shalt win the warlock fight.
IX
"If the spray-bead gem be won,The stain of thy wing is washed away:But another errand must be doneEre thy crime be lost for aye;Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,Thou must reillume its spark.Mount thy steed and spur him highTo the heaven's blue canopy;And when thou seest a shooting star,Follow it fast, and follow it far—The last faint spark of its burning trainShall light the elfin lamp again.Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay;Hence! to the water-side, away!"
The goblin marked his monarch well;He spake not, but he bowed him low,Then plucked a crimson colen-bell,And turned him round in act to go.The way is long, he cannot fly,His soiléd wing has lost its power,And he winds adown the mountain high,For many a sore and weary hour.Through dreary beds of tangled fern,Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,Over the grass and through the brake,Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake;Now over the violet's azure flushHe skips along in lightsome mood;And now he thrids the bramble-bush,Till its points are dyed in fairy blood.He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the brier,He has swum the brook, and waded the mire,Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew weak,And the red waxed fainter in his cheek.He had fallen to the ground outright,For rugged and dim was his onward track,But there came a spotted toad in sight,And he laughed as he jumped upon her back:He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist,He lashed her sides with an osier thong;And now, through evening's dewy mist,With leap and spring they bound along,Till the mountain's magic verge is past,And the beach of sand is reached at last.Joseph Rodman Drake.
The goblin marked his monarch well;He spake not, but he bowed him low,Then plucked a crimson colen-bell,And turned him round in act to go.The way is long, he cannot fly,His soiléd wing has lost its power,And he winds adown the mountain high,For many a sore and weary hour.Through dreary beds of tangled fern,Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,Over the grass and through the brake,Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake;Now over the violet's azure flushHe skips along in lightsome mood;And now he thrids the bramble-bush,Till its points are dyed in fairy blood.He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the brier,He has swum the brook, and waded the mire,Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew weak,And the red waxed fainter in his cheek.He had fallen to the ground outright,For rugged and dim was his onward track,But there came a spotted toad in sight,And he laughed as he jumped upon her back:He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist,He lashed her sides with an osier thong;And now, through evening's dewy mist,With leap and spring they bound along,Till the mountain's magic verge is past,And the beach of sand is reached at last.
Joseph Rodman Drake.
A floating, a floatingAcross the sleeping sea,All night I heard a singing birdUpon the topmast tree."Oh, came you from the isles of GreeceOr from the banks of Seine?Or off some tree in forests freeThat fringe the western main?""I came not off the old world,Nor yet from off the new;But I am one of the birds of GodWhich sing the whole night through.""Oh, sing and wake the dawning!Oh, whistle for the wind!The night is long, the current strong,My boat it lags behind.""The current sweeps the old world,The current sweeps the new;The wind will blow, the dawn will glow,Ere thou hast sailed them through."Charles Kingsley.
A floating, a floatingAcross the sleeping sea,All night I heard a singing birdUpon the topmast tree.
"Oh, came you from the isles of GreeceOr from the banks of Seine?Or off some tree in forests freeThat fringe the western main?"
"I came not off the old world,Nor yet from off the new;But I am one of the birds of GodWhich sing the whole night through."
"Oh, sing and wake the dawning!Oh, whistle for the wind!The night is long, the current strong,My boat it lags behind."
"The current sweeps the old world,The current sweeps the new;The wind will blow, the dawn will glow,Ere thou hast sailed them through."
Charles Kingsley.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glenWe daren't go a-hunting,For fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather.Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain-lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with music,On cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow;They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lakes,On a bed of flag leaves,Watching till she wakes.By the craggy hillside,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringAs dig one up in spite?He shall find the thornies setIn his bed at night.Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather.William Allingham.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glenWe daren't go a-hunting,For fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather.
Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain-lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.
High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with music,On cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow;They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lakes,On a bed of flag leaves,Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hillside,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringAs dig one up in spite?He shall find the thornies setIn his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather.
William Allingham.
IWho would beA merman bold,Sitting alone,Singing aloneUnder the sea,With a crown of gold,On a throne?III would be a merman bold,I would sit and sing the whole of the day;I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power;But at night I would roam abroad and playWith the mermaids in and out of the rocks,Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower;And holding them back by their flowing locksI would kiss them often under the sea,And kiss them again till they kiss'd meLaughingly, laughingly;And then we would wander away, away,To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high,Chasing each other merrily.IIIThere would be neither moon nor star;But the wave would make music above us afar—Low thunder and light in the magic night—Neither moon nor star.We would call aloud in the dreamy dells,Call to each other and whoop and cryAll night, merrily, merrily.They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells,Laughing and clapping their hands between,All night, merrily, merrily,But I would throw to them back in mineTurkis and agate and almondine;Then leaping out upon them unseenI would kiss them often under the sea,And kiss them again till they kiss'd meLaughingly, laughingly.O, what a happy life were mineUnder the hollow-hung ocean green!Soft are the moss-beds under the sea;We would live merrily, merrily.Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
I
Who would beA merman bold,Sitting alone,Singing aloneUnder the sea,With a crown of gold,On a throne?
II
I would be a merman bold,I would sit and sing the whole of the day;I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power;But at night I would roam abroad and playWith the mermaids in and out of the rocks,Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower;And holding them back by their flowing locksI would kiss them often under the sea,And kiss them again till they kiss'd meLaughingly, laughingly;And then we would wander away, away,To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high,Chasing each other merrily.
III
There would be neither moon nor star;But the wave would make music above us afar—Low thunder and light in the magic night—Neither moon nor star.We would call aloud in the dreamy dells,Call to each other and whoop and cryAll night, merrily, merrily.They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells,Laughing and clapping their hands between,All night, merrily, merrily,But I would throw to them back in mineTurkis and agate and almondine;Then leaping out upon them unseenI would kiss them often under the sea,And kiss them again till they kiss'd meLaughingly, laughingly.O, what a happy life were mineUnder the hollow-hung ocean green!Soft are the moss-beds under the sea;We would live merrily, merrily.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
IWho would beA mermaid fair,Singing alone,Combing her hairUnder the sea,In a golden curlWith a comb of pearl,On a throne?III would be a mermaid fair;I would sing to myself the whole of the day;With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;And still as I combed I would sing and say,"Who is it loves me? who loves not me?"I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fallLow adown, low adown,From under my starry sea-bud crownLow adown and around,And I should look like a fountain of goldSpringing aloneWith a shrill inner sound,Over the throneIn the midst of the hall;Till that great sea-snake under the seaFrom his coiled sleeps in the central deepsWould slowly trail himself sevenfoldRound the hall where I sate, and look in at the gateWith his large calm eyes for the love of me.And all the mermen under the seaWould feel their immortalityDie in their hearts for the love of me.IIIBut at night I would wander away, away,I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks,And lightly vault from the throne and playWith the mermen in and out of the rocks;We would run to and fro, and hide and seek,On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells,Whose silvery spikes are nearest the sea.But if any came near I would call and shriek,And adown the steep like a wave I would leapFrom the diamond ledges that jut from the dells;For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list,Of the bold merry mermen under the sea;They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me,In the purple twilights under the sea;But the king of them all would carry me,Woo me, win me, and marry me,In the branching jaspers under the sea;Then all the dry pied things that beIn the hueless mosses under the seaWould curl round my silver feet silently,All looking up for the love of me.And if I should carol aloud from aloftAll things that are forked and horned and softWould lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea,All looking down for the love of me.Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
I
Who would beA mermaid fair,Singing alone,Combing her hairUnder the sea,In a golden curlWith a comb of pearl,On a throne?
II
I would be a mermaid fair;I would sing to myself the whole of the day;With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;And still as I combed I would sing and say,"Who is it loves me? who loves not me?"I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fallLow adown, low adown,From under my starry sea-bud crownLow adown and around,And I should look like a fountain of goldSpringing aloneWith a shrill inner sound,Over the throneIn the midst of the hall;Till that great sea-snake under the seaFrom his coiled sleeps in the central deepsWould slowly trail himself sevenfoldRound the hall where I sate, and look in at the gateWith his large calm eyes for the love of me.And all the mermen under the seaWould feel their immortalityDie in their hearts for the love of me.
III
But at night I would wander away, away,I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks,And lightly vault from the throne and playWith the mermen in and out of the rocks;We would run to and fro, and hide and seek,On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells,Whose silvery spikes are nearest the sea.But if any came near I would call and shriek,And adown the steep like a wave I would leapFrom the diamond ledges that jut from the dells;For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list,Of the bold merry mermen under the sea;They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me,In the purple twilights under the sea;But the king of them all would carry me,Woo me, win me, and marry me,In the branching jaspers under the sea;Then all the dry pied things that beIn the hueless mosses under the seaWould curl round my silver feet silently,All looking up for the love of me.And if I should carol aloud from aloftAll things that are forked and horned and softWould lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea,All looking down for the love of me.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
The splendor falls on castle walls,And snowy summits old in story;The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.Oh hark! oh hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!Oh sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O Love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill, or field, or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever:Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.Alfred, Lord Tennyson.From "The Princess."
The splendor falls on castle walls,And snowy summits old in story;The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Oh hark! oh hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!Oh sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O Love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill, or field, or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever:Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
From "The Princess."
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—Only this, and nothing more."Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Nameless here for evermore.And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—This it is, and nothing more."Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;——Darkness there, and nothing more.Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"Merely this, and nothing more.Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before."Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—'Tis the wind, and nothing more!"Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—Perched, and sat, and nothing more.Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as "Nevermore."But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."Then the bird said "Nevermore."Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boreOf 'Never—nevermore.'"But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking "Nevermore."This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,She shall press, ah, nevermore!Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent theeRespite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore.""Prophet," said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!Quoth the raven, "Nevermore.""Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore.""Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted—nevermore!Edgar Allan Poe.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;——Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before."Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—'Tis the wind, and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."Then the bird said "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boreOf 'Never—nevermore.'"
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent theeRespite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted—nevermore!
Edgar Allan Poe.