Many a green isle needs must beIn the deep wide sea of Misery,Or the mariner, worn and wan,Never thus could voyage onDay and night, and night and day,Drifting on his dreary way,With the solid darkness blackClosing round his vessel's track;Whilst above, the sunless skyBig with clouds, hangs heavily,And behind the tempest fleetHurries on with lightning feet,Riving sail, and cord, and plank,Till the ship has almost drankDeath from the o'er-brimming deep;And sinks down, down, like that sleepWhen the dreamer seems to beWeltering through eternity;And the dim low line beforeOf a dark and distant shoreStill recedes, as ever stillLonging with divided will,But no power to seek or shun,He is ever drifted onO'er the unreposing wave,To the haven of the grave.Ah, many flowering islands lieIn the waters of wide Agony:To such a one this morn was ledMy bark, by soft winds piloted.—'Mid the mountains EuganeanI stood listening to the paeanWith which the legion'd rooks did hailThe Sun's uprise majestical:Gathering round with wings all hoar,Through the dewy mist they soarLike gray shades, till the eastern heavenBursts; and then,—as clouds of evenFleck'd with fire and azure, lieIn the unfathomable sky,—So their plumes of purple grainStarr'd with drops of golden rainGleam above the sunlight woods,As in silent multitudesOn the morning's fitful galeThrough the broken mist they sail;And the vapours cloven and gleamingFollow down the dark steep streaming,Till all is bright, and clear, and stillRound the solitary hill.Beneath is spread like a green seaThe waveless plain of Lombardy,Bounded by the vaporous air,Islanded by cities fair;Underneath Day's azure eyes,Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,—A peopled labyrinth of walls,Amphitrite's destined halls,Which her hoary sire now pavesWith his blue and beaming waves.Lo! the sun upsprings behind,Broad, red, radiant, half-reclinedOn the level quivering lineOf the waters crystalline;And before that chasm of light,As within a furnace bright,Column, tower, and dome, and spire,Shine like obelisks of fire,Pointing with inconstant motionFrom the altar of dark oceanTo the sapphire-tinted skies;As the flames of sacrificeFrom the marble shrines did riseAs to pierce the dome of goldWhere Apollo spoke of old.Sun-girt City! thou hast beenOcean's child, and then his queen;Now is come a darker day,And thou soon must be his prey,If the power that raised thee hereHallow so thy watery bier.A less drear ruin then than now,With thy conquest-branded browStooping to the slave of slavesFrom thy throne among the wavesWilt thou be,—when the sea-mewFlies, as once before if flew,O'er thine isles depopulate,And all is in its ancient state,Save where many a palace-gateWith green sea-flowers overgrownLike a rock of ocean's own,Topples o'er the abandon'd seaAs the tides change sullenly.The fisher on his watery wayWandering at the close of day,Will spread his sail and seize his oarTill he pass the gloomy shore,Lest thy dead should, from their sleep,Bursting o'er the starlight deep,Lead a rapid masque of deathO'er the waters of his path.Noon descends around me now:'Tis the noon of autumn's glow,When a soft and purple mistLike a vaporous amethyst,Or an air-dissolvéd starMingling light and fragrance, farFrom the curved horizon's boundTo the point of heaven's profound,Fills the overflowing sky;And the plains that silent lieUnderneath; the leaves unsoddenWhere the infant Frost has troddenWith his morning-wingéd feetWhose bright print is gleaming yet;And the red and golden vinesPiercing with their trellised linesThe rough, dark-skirted wilderness;The dun and bladed grass no less,Pointing from this hoary towerIn the windless air; the flowerGlimmering at my feet; the lineOf the olive-sandall'd ApennineIn the south dimly islanded;And the Alps, whose snows are spreadHigh between the clouds and sun;And of living things each one;And my spirit, which so longDarken'd this swift stream of song,—Interpenetrated lieBy the glory of the sky;Be it love, light, harmony,Odour, or the soul of allWhich from heaven like dew doth fall,Or the mind which feeds this verse,Peopling the lone universe.Noon descends, and after noonAutumn's evening meets me soon,Leading the infantine moonAnd that one star, which to herAlmost seems to ministerHalf the crimson light she bringsFrom the sunset's radiant springs:And the soft dreams of the morn(Which like wingéd winds had borneTo that silent isle, which lies'Mid remember'd agonies,The frail bark of this lone being),Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,And its ancient pilot, Pain,Sits beside the helm again.Other flowering isles must beIn the sea of Life and Agony:Other spirits float and fleeO'er that gulf: Ev'n now, perhaps,On some rock the wild wave wraps,With folded wings they waiting sitFor my bark, to pilot itTo some calm and blooming cove;Where for me, and those I love,May a windless bower be built,Far from passion, pain, and guilt,In a dell 'mid lawny hillsWhich the wild sea-murmur fills,And soft sunshine, and the soundOf old forests echoing round,And the light and smell divineOf all flowers that breathe and shine.—We may live so happy there,That the Spirits of the AirEnvying us, may ev'n enticeTo our healing paradiseThe polluting multitude:But their rage would be subduedBy that clime divine and calm,And the winds whose wings rain balmOn the uplifted soul, and leavesUnder which the bright sea heaves;While each breathless intervalIn their whisperings musicalThe inspired soul suppliesWith its own deep melodies;And the Love which heals all strifeCircling, like the breath of life,All things in that sweet abodeWith its own mild brotherhood:—They, not it, would change; and soonEvery sprite beneath the moonWould repent its envy vain,And the Earth grow young again.
Many a green isle needs must beIn the deep wide sea of Misery,Or the mariner, worn and wan,Never thus could voyage onDay and night, and night and day,Drifting on his dreary way,With the solid darkness blackClosing round his vessel's track;Whilst above, the sunless skyBig with clouds, hangs heavily,And behind the tempest fleetHurries on with lightning feet,Riving sail, and cord, and plank,Till the ship has almost drankDeath from the o'er-brimming deep;And sinks down, down, like that sleepWhen the dreamer seems to beWeltering through eternity;And the dim low line beforeOf a dark and distant shoreStill recedes, as ever stillLonging with divided will,But no power to seek or shun,He is ever drifted onO'er the unreposing wave,To the haven of the grave.
Ah, many flowering islands lieIn the waters of wide Agony:To such a one this morn was ledMy bark, by soft winds piloted.—'Mid the mountains EuganeanI stood listening to the paeanWith which the legion'd rooks did hailThe Sun's uprise majestical:Gathering round with wings all hoar,Through the dewy mist they soarLike gray shades, till the eastern heavenBursts; and then,—as clouds of evenFleck'd with fire and azure, lieIn the unfathomable sky,—So their plumes of purple grainStarr'd with drops of golden rainGleam above the sunlight woods,As in silent multitudesOn the morning's fitful galeThrough the broken mist they sail;And the vapours cloven and gleamingFollow down the dark steep streaming,Till all is bright, and clear, and stillRound the solitary hill.
Beneath is spread like a green seaThe waveless plain of Lombardy,Bounded by the vaporous air,Islanded by cities fair;Underneath Day's azure eyes,Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,—A peopled labyrinth of walls,Amphitrite's destined halls,Which her hoary sire now pavesWith his blue and beaming waves.Lo! the sun upsprings behind,Broad, red, radiant, half-reclinedOn the level quivering lineOf the waters crystalline;And before that chasm of light,As within a furnace bright,Column, tower, and dome, and spire,Shine like obelisks of fire,Pointing with inconstant motionFrom the altar of dark oceanTo the sapphire-tinted skies;As the flames of sacrificeFrom the marble shrines did riseAs to pierce the dome of goldWhere Apollo spoke of old.
Sun-girt City! thou hast beenOcean's child, and then his queen;Now is come a darker day,And thou soon must be his prey,If the power that raised thee hereHallow so thy watery bier.A less drear ruin then than now,With thy conquest-branded browStooping to the slave of slavesFrom thy throne among the wavesWilt thou be,—when the sea-mewFlies, as once before if flew,O'er thine isles depopulate,And all is in its ancient state,Save where many a palace-gateWith green sea-flowers overgrownLike a rock of ocean's own,Topples o'er the abandon'd seaAs the tides change sullenly.The fisher on his watery wayWandering at the close of day,Will spread his sail and seize his oarTill he pass the gloomy shore,Lest thy dead should, from their sleep,Bursting o'er the starlight deep,Lead a rapid masque of deathO'er the waters of his path.
Noon descends around me now:'Tis the noon of autumn's glow,When a soft and purple mistLike a vaporous amethyst,Or an air-dissolvéd starMingling light and fragrance, farFrom the curved horizon's boundTo the point of heaven's profound,Fills the overflowing sky;And the plains that silent lieUnderneath; the leaves unsoddenWhere the infant Frost has troddenWith his morning-wingéd feetWhose bright print is gleaming yet;And the red and golden vinesPiercing with their trellised linesThe rough, dark-skirted wilderness;The dun and bladed grass no less,Pointing from this hoary towerIn the windless air; the flowerGlimmering at my feet; the lineOf the olive-sandall'd ApennineIn the south dimly islanded;And the Alps, whose snows are spreadHigh between the clouds and sun;And of living things each one;And my spirit, which so longDarken'd this swift stream of song,—Interpenetrated lieBy the glory of the sky;Be it love, light, harmony,Odour, or the soul of allWhich from heaven like dew doth fall,Or the mind which feeds this verse,Peopling the lone universe.
Noon descends, and after noonAutumn's evening meets me soon,Leading the infantine moonAnd that one star, which to herAlmost seems to ministerHalf the crimson light she bringsFrom the sunset's radiant springs:And the soft dreams of the morn(Which like wingéd winds had borneTo that silent isle, which lies'Mid remember'd agonies,The frail bark of this lone being),Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,And its ancient pilot, Pain,Sits beside the helm again.
Other flowering isles must beIn the sea of Life and Agony:Other spirits float and fleeO'er that gulf: Ev'n now, perhaps,On some rock the wild wave wraps,With folded wings they waiting sitFor my bark, to pilot itTo some calm and blooming cove;Where for me, and those I love,May a windless bower be built,Far from passion, pain, and guilt,In a dell 'mid lawny hillsWhich the wild sea-murmur fills,And soft sunshine, and the soundOf old forests echoing round,And the light and smell divineOf all flowers that breathe and shine.—We may live so happy there,That the Spirits of the AirEnvying us, may ev'n enticeTo our healing paradiseThe polluting multitude:But their rage would be subduedBy that clime divine and calm,And the winds whose wings rain balmOn the uplifted soul, and leavesUnder which the bright sea heaves;While each breathless intervalIn their whisperings musicalThe inspired soul suppliesWith its own deep melodies;And the Love which heals all strifeCircling, like the breath of life,All things in that sweet abodeWith its own mild brotherhood:—They, not it, would change; and soonEvery sprite beneath the moonWould repent its envy vain,And the Earth grow young again.
P. B. Shelley
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thouWho chariotest to their dark wintry bedThe wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the Spring shall blowHer clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)With living hues and odours plain and hill:Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear!Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,Angels of rain and lightning! there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the headOf some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith's height—The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,Vaulted with all thy congregated mightOf vapours, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear!Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave's intenser day,All overgrown with azure moss, and flowersSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic's level powersCleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, knowThy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fearAnd tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear!If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power, and shareThe impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan Thou, O uncontrollable! If evenI were as in my boyhood, and could beThe comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speedScarce seem'd a vision,—I would ne'er have strivenAs thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'dOne too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own!The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;And, by the incantation of this verse,Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawaken'd earthThe trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thouWho chariotest to their dark wintry bedThe wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the Spring shall blowHer clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)With living hues and odours plain and hill:Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear!
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,Angels of rain and lightning! there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the headOf some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith's height—The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,Vaulted with all thy congregated mightOf vapours, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear!
Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave's intenser day,All overgrown with azure moss, and flowersSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic's level powersCleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, knowThy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fearAnd tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear!
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power, and shareThe impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan Thou, O uncontrollable! If evenI were as in my boyhood, and could beThe comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speedScarce seem'd a vision,—I would ne'er have strivenAs thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'dOne too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.
Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own!The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;And, by the incantation of this verse,Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawaken'd earthThe trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
P. B. Shelley
Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm,painted by Sir George Beaumont
I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:I saw thee every day; and all the whileThy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!So like, so very like, was day to day!Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there;It trembled, but it never pass'd away.How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,No mood, which season takes away, or brings:I could have fancied that the mighty DeepWas even the gentlest of all gentle things.Ah! then—if mine had been the painter's handTo express what then I saw; and add the gleam,The light that never was on sea or land,The consecration, and the Poet's dream,—I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,Amid a world how different from this!Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house divineOf peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven;—Of all the sunbeams that did ever shineThe very sweetest had to thee been given.A picture had it been of lasting ease,Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;No motion but the moving tide; a breeze;Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,Such picture would I at that time have made;And seen the soul of truth in every part,A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd.So once it would have been,—'tis so no more;I have submitted to a new control:A power is gone, which nothing can restore;A deep distress hath humanized my soul.Not for a moment could I now beholdA smiling sea, and be what I have been:The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friendIf he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,This work of thine I blame not, but commend;This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.O 'tis a passionate work!—yet wise and well,Well chosen is the spirit that is here;That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,I love to see the look with which it braves,—Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time—The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.—Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!Such happiness, wherever it be known,Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,And frequent sights of what is to be borne!Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:—Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:I saw thee every day; and all the whileThy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!So like, so very like, was day to day!Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there;It trembled, but it never pass'd away.
How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,No mood, which season takes away, or brings:I could have fancied that the mighty DeepWas even the gentlest of all gentle things.
Ah! then—if mine had been the painter's handTo express what then I saw; and add the gleam,The light that never was on sea or land,The consecration, and the Poet's dream,—
I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,Amid a world how different from this!Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house divineOf peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven;—Of all the sunbeams that did ever shineThe very sweetest had to thee been given.
A picture had it been of lasting ease,Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;No motion but the moving tide; a breeze;Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,Such picture would I at that time have made;And seen the soul of truth in every part,A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd.
So once it would have been,—'tis so no more;I have submitted to a new control:A power is gone, which nothing can restore;A deep distress hath humanized my soul.
Not for a moment could I now beholdA smiling sea, and be what I have been:The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friendIf he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,This work of thine I blame not, but commend;This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
O 'tis a passionate work!—yet wise and well,Well chosen is the spirit that is here;That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!
And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,I love to see the look with which it braves,—Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time—The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
—Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!Such happiness, wherever it be known,Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.
But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,And frequent sights of what is to be borne!Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:—Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
W. Wordsworth
On a Poet's lips I sleptDreaming like a love-adeptIn the sound his breathing kept;Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,But feeds on the aërial kissesOf shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses.He will watch from dawn to gloomThe lake-reflected sun illumeThe yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,Nor heed nor see what things they be—But from these create he canForms more real than living Man,Nurslings of Immortality!
On a Poet's lips I sleptDreaming like a love-adeptIn the sound his breathing kept;Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,But feeds on the aërial kissesOf shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses.He will watch from dawn to gloomThe lake-reflected sun illumeThe yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,Nor heed nor see what things they be—But from these create he canForms more real than living Man,Nurslings of Immortality!
P. B. Shelley
In this still place, remote from men,Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen;In this still place, where murmurs onBut one meek streamlet, only one:He sang of battles, and the breathOf stormy war, and violent death;And should, methinks, when all was past,Have rightfully been laid at lastWhere rocks were rudely heap'd, and rentAs by a spirit turbulent;Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,And everything unreconciled;In some complaining, dim retreat,For fear and melancholy meet;But this is calm; there cannot beA more entire tranquillity.Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?Or is it but a groundless creed?What matters it?—I blame them notWhose fancy in this lonely spotWas moved; and in such way express'dTheir notion of its perfect rest.A convent, even a hermit's cell,Would break the silence of this Dell:It is not quiet, is not ease;But something deeper far than these;The separation that is hereIs of the grave; and of austereYet happy feelings of the dead:And, therefore, was it rightly saidThat Ossian, last of all his race!Lies buried in this lonely place.
In this still place, remote from men,Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen;In this still place, where murmurs onBut one meek streamlet, only one:He sang of battles, and the breathOf stormy war, and violent death;And should, methinks, when all was past,Have rightfully been laid at lastWhere rocks were rudely heap'd, and rentAs by a spirit turbulent;Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,And everything unreconciled;In some complaining, dim retreat,For fear and melancholy meet;But this is calm; there cannot beA more entire tranquillity.
Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?Or is it but a groundless creed?What matters it?—I blame them notWhose fancy in this lonely spotWas moved; and in such way express'dTheir notion of its perfect rest.A convent, even a hermit's cell,Would break the silence of this Dell:It is not quiet, is not ease;But something deeper far than these;The separation that is hereIs of the grave; and of austereYet happy feelings of the dead:And, therefore, was it rightly saidThat Ossian, last of all his race!Lies buried in this lonely place.
W. Wordsworth
The World is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;Little we see in Nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,The winds that will be howling at all hoursAnd are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather beA Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,—So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;Or hear old Triton blow his wreathéd horn.
The World is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;Little we see in Nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,The winds that will be howling at all hoursAnd are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather beA Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,—So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;Or hear old Triton blow his wreathéd horn.
W. Wordsworth
Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd(Albeit labouring for a scanty bandOf white-robed Scholars only) this immenseAnd glorious work of fine intelligence!—Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the loreOf nicely-calculated less or more:—So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the senseThese lofty pillars, spread that branching roofSelf-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cellsWhere light and shade repose, where music dwellsLingering—and wandering on as loth to die;Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proofThat they were born for immortality.
Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd(Albeit labouring for a scanty bandOf white-robed Scholars only) this immense
And glorious work of fine intelligence!—Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the loreOf nicely-calculated less or more:—So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roofSelf-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cellsWhere light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering—and wandering on as loth to die;Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proofThat they were born for immortality.
W. Wordsworth
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 Tempé 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, unweariéd,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 this 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.
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 Tempé 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, unweariéd,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 this 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.
J. Keats
Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—Both were mine! Life went a-mayingWith Nature, Hope, and Poesy,When I was young!When I was young?—Ah, woful when!Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!This breathing house not built with hands,This body that does me grievous wrong,O'er aery cliffs and glittering sandsHow lightly then it flash'd along:Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,On winding lakes and rivers wide,That ask no aid of sail or oar,That fear no spite of wind or tide!Nought cared this body for wind or weatherWhen Youth and I lived in't together.Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;Friendship is a sheltering tree;O! the joys, that came down shower-like,Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,Ere I was old!Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!O Youth! for years so many and sweet,'Tis known that Thou and I were one,I'll think it but a a fond conceit—It cannot be, that Thou art gone!Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:—And thou wert aye a masker bold!What strange disguise hast now put onTo make believe that Thou art gone?I see these locks in silvery slips,This drooping gait, this alter'd size:But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!Life is but Thought: so think I willThat Youth and I are house-mates still.Dew-drops are the gems of morning,But the tears of mournful eve!Where no hope is, life's a warningThat only serves to make us grieveWhen we are old:—That only serves to make us grieveWith oft and tedious taking-leave,Like some poor nigh-related guestThat may not rudely be dismist,Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,And tells the jest without the smile.
Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—Both were mine! Life went a-mayingWith Nature, Hope, and Poesy,When I was young!When I was young?—Ah, woful when!Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!This breathing house not built with hands,This body that does me grievous wrong,O'er aery cliffs and glittering sandsHow lightly then it flash'd along:Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,On winding lakes and rivers wide,That ask no aid of sail or oar,That fear no spite of wind or tide!Nought cared this body for wind or weatherWhen Youth and I lived in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;Friendship is a sheltering tree;O! the joys, that came down shower-like,Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,Ere I was old!Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!O Youth! for years so many and sweet,'Tis known that Thou and I were one,I'll think it but a a fond conceit—It cannot be, that Thou art gone!Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:—And thou wert aye a masker bold!What strange disguise hast now put onTo make believe that Thou art gone?I see these locks in silvery slips,This drooping gait, this alter'd size:But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!Life is but Thought: so think I willThat Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,But the tears of mournful eve!Where no hope is, life's a warningThat only serves to make us grieveWhen we are old:—That only serves to make us grieveWith oft and tedious taking-leave,Like some poor nigh-related guestThat may not rudely be dismist,Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,And tells the jest without the smile.
S. T. Coleridge
We walked along, while bright and redUprose the morning sun;And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said'The will of God be done!'A village schoolmaster was he,With hair of glittering gray;As blithe a man as you could seeOn a spring holiday.And on that morning, through the grassAnd by the steaming rillsWe travell'd merrily, to passA day among the hills.'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun;Then, from thy breast what thought,Beneath so beautiful a sun,So sad a sigh has brought?'A second time did Matthew stop;And fixing still his eyeUpon the eastern mountain-top,To me he made reply:'Yon cloud with that long purple cleftBrings fresh into my mindA day like this, which I have leftFull thirty years behind.'And just above yon slope of cornSuch colours, and no other,Were in the sky that April morn,Of this the very brother.'With rod and line I sued the sportWhich that sweet season gave,And to the church-yard come, stopp'd shortBeside my daughter's grave.'Nine summers had she scarcely seen,The pride of all the vale;And then she sang,—she would have beenA very nightingale.'Six feet in earth my Emma lay;And yet I loved her more—For so it seem'd,—than till that dayI e'er had loved before.'And turning from her grave, I met,Beside the churchyard yew,A blooming Girl, whose hair was wetWith points of morning dew.'A basket on her head she bare;Her brow was smooth and white:To see a child so very fair,It was a pure delight!'No fountain from its rocky caveE'er tripp'd with foot so free;She seem'd as happy as a waveThat dances on the sea.'There came from me a sigh of painWhich I could ill confine;I look'd at her, and look'd again:And did not wish her mine!'—Matthew is in his grave, yet nowMethinks I see him standAs at that moment, with a boughOf wilding in his hand.
We walked along, while bright and redUprose the morning sun;And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said'The will of God be done!'
A village schoolmaster was he,With hair of glittering gray;As blithe a man as you could seeOn a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grassAnd by the steaming rillsWe travell'd merrily, to passA day among the hills.
'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun;Then, from thy breast what thought,Beneath so beautiful a sun,So sad a sigh has brought?'
A second time did Matthew stop;And fixing still his eyeUpon the eastern mountain-top,To me he made reply:
'Yon cloud with that long purple cleftBrings fresh into my mindA day like this, which I have leftFull thirty years behind.
'And just above yon slope of cornSuch colours, and no other,Were in the sky that April morn,Of this the very brother.
'With rod and line I sued the sportWhich that sweet season gave,And to the church-yard come, stopp'd shortBeside my daughter's grave.
'Nine summers had she scarcely seen,The pride of all the vale;And then she sang,—she would have beenA very nightingale.
'Six feet in earth my Emma lay;And yet I loved her more—For so it seem'd,—than till that dayI e'er had loved before.
'And turning from her grave, I met,Beside the churchyard yew,A blooming Girl, whose hair was wetWith points of morning dew.
'A basket on her head she bare;Her brow was smooth and white:To see a child so very fair,It was a pure delight!
'No fountain from its rocky caveE'er tripp'd with foot so free;She seem'd as happy as a waveThat dances on the sea.
'There came from me a sigh of painWhich I could ill confine;I look'd at her, and look'd again:And did not wish her mine!'
—Matthew is in his grave, yet nowMethinks I see him standAs at that moment, with a boughOf wilding in his hand.
W. Wordsworth
A Conversation
We talk'd with open heart, and tongueAffectionate and true,A pair of friends, though I was young,And Matthew seventy-two.We lay beneath a spreading oak,Beside a mossy seat;And from the turf a fountain brokeAnd gurgled at our feet.'Now, Matthew!' said I, 'let us matchThis water's pleasant tuneWith some old border-song, or catchThat suits a summer's noon;'Or of the church-clock and the chimesSing here beneath the shadeThat half-mad thing of witty rhymesWhich you last April made!'In silence Matthew lay, and eyedThe spring beneath the tree;And thus the dear old man replied,The gray-hair'd man of glee:'No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,How merrily it goes!'Twill murmur on a thousand yearsAnd flow as now it flows.'And here, on this delightful day,I cannot choose but thinkHow oft, a vigorous man, I layBeside this fountain's brink.'My eyes are dim with childish tears,My heart is idly stirr'd,For the same sound is in my earsWhich in those days I heard.'Thus fares it still in our decay:And yet the wiser mindMourns less for what Age takes away,Than what it leaves behind.'The blackbird amid leafy trees,The lark above the hill,Let loose their carols when they please,Are quiet when they will.'With Nature never do they wageA foolish strife; they seeA happy youth, and their old ageIs beautiful and free:'But we are press'd by heavy laws;And often, glad no more,We wear a face of joy, becauseWe have been glad of yore.'If there be one who need bemoanHis kindred laid in earth,The household hearts that were his own,—It is the man of mirth.'My days, my friend, are almost gone,My life has been approved,And many love me; but by noneAm I enough beloved.''Now both himself and me he wrongs,The man who thus complains!I live and sing my idle songsUpon these happy plains:'And Matthew, for thy children deadI'll be a son to thee!'At this he grasp'd my hand and said,'Alas! that cannot be.'—We rose up from the fountain-side;And down the smooth descentOf the green sheep-track did we glide;And through the wood we went;And ere we came to Leonard's rockHe sang those witty rhymesAbout the crazy old church-clock,And the bewilder'd chimes.
We talk'd with open heart, and tongueAffectionate and true,A pair of friends, though I was young,And Matthew seventy-two.
We lay beneath a spreading oak,Beside a mossy seat;And from the turf a fountain brokeAnd gurgled at our feet.
'Now, Matthew!' said I, 'let us matchThis water's pleasant tuneWith some old border-song, or catchThat suits a summer's noon;
'Or of the church-clock and the chimesSing here beneath the shadeThat half-mad thing of witty rhymesWhich you last April made!'
In silence Matthew lay, and eyedThe spring beneath the tree;And thus the dear old man replied,The gray-hair'd man of glee:
'No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,How merrily it goes!'Twill murmur on a thousand yearsAnd flow as now it flows.
'And here, on this delightful day,I cannot choose but thinkHow oft, a vigorous man, I layBeside this fountain's brink.
'My eyes are dim with childish tears,My heart is idly stirr'd,For the same sound is in my earsWhich in those days I heard.
'Thus fares it still in our decay:And yet the wiser mindMourns less for what Age takes away,Than what it leaves behind.
'The blackbird amid leafy trees,The lark above the hill,Let loose their carols when they please,Are quiet when they will.
'With Nature never do they wageA foolish strife; they seeA happy youth, and their old ageIs beautiful and free:
'But we are press'd by heavy laws;And often, glad no more,We wear a face of joy, becauseWe have been glad of yore.
'If there be one who need bemoanHis kindred laid in earth,The household hearts that were his own,—It is the man of mirth.
'My days, my friend, are almost gone,My life has been approved,And many love me; but by noneAm I enough beloved.'
'Now both himself and me he wrongs,The man who thus complains!I live and sing my idle songsUpon these happy plains:
'And Matthew, for thy children deadI'll be a son to thee!'At this he grasp'd my hand and said,'Alas! that cannot be.'
—We rose up from the fountain-side;And down the smooth descentOf the green sheep-track did we glide;And through the wood we went;
And ere we came to Leonard's rockHe sang those witty rhymesAbout the crazy old church-clock,And the bewilder'd chimes.
W. Wordsworth
The more we live, more brief appearOur life's succeeding stages:A day to childhood seems a year,And years like passing ages.The gladsome current of our youth,Ere passion yet disorders,Steals lingering like a river smoothAlong its grassy borders.But as the care-worn cheek grows wan,And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,Ye Stars, that measure life to man,Why seem your courses quicker?When joys have lost their bloom and breathAnd life itself is vapid,Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,Feel we its tide more rapid?It may be strange—yet who would changeTime's course to slower speeding,When one by one our friends have goneAnd left our bosoms bleeding?Heaven gives our years of fading strengthIndemnifying fleetness;And those of youth, a seeming length,Proportion'd to their sweetness.
The more we live, more brief appearOur life's succeeding stages:A day to childhood seems a year,And years like passing ages.
The gladsome current of our youth,Ere passion yet disorders,Steals lingering like a river smoothAlong its grassy borders.
But as the care-worn cheek grows wan,And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,Ye Stars, that measure life to man,Why seem your courses quicker?
When joys have lost their bloom and breathAnd life itself is vapid,Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,Feel we its tide more rapid?
It may be strange—yet who would changeTime's course to slower speeding,When one by one our friends have goneAnd left our bosoms bleeding?
Heaven gives our years of fading strengthIndemnifying fleetness;And those of youth, a seeming length,Proportion'd to their sweetness.
T. Campbell