The sun is warm, the sky is clear,The waves are dancing fast and bright,Blue isles and snowy mountains wearThe purple noon's transparent might:The breath of the moist earth is lightAround its unexpanded buds;Like many a voice of one delight—The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'—The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.I see the deep's untrampled floorWith green and purple sea-weeds strown;I see the waves upon the shoreLike light dissolved in star-showers thrown:I sit upon the sands alone;The lightning of the noon-tide oceanIs flashing round me, and a toneArises from its measured motion—How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.Alas! I have nor hope nor health,Nor peace within nor calm around,Nor that content, surpassing wealth,The sage in meditation found,And walk'd with inward glory crown'd—Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;Others I see whom these surround—Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.Yet now despair itself is mildEven as the winds and waters are;I could lie down like a tired child,And weep away the life of careWhich I have borne, and yet must bear,—Till death like sleep might steal on me,And I might feel in the warm airMy cheek grow cold, and hear the seaBreathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
The sun is warm, the sky is clear,The waves are dancing fast and bright,Blue isles and snowy mountains wearThe purple noon's transparent might:The breath of the moist earth is lightAround its unexpanded buds;Like many a voice of one delight—The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'—The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.
I see the deep's untrampled floorWith green and purple sea-weeds strown;I see the waves upon the shoreLike light dissolved in star-showers thrown:I sit upon the sands alone;The lightning of the noon-tide oceanIs flashing round me, and a toneArises from its measured motion—How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
Alas! I have nor hope nor health,Nor peace within nor calm around,Nor that content, surpassing wealth,The sage in meditation found,And walk'd with inward glory crown'd—Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;Others I see whom these surround—Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Yet now despair itself is mildEven as the winds and waters are;I could lie down like a tired child,And weep away the life of careWhich I have borne, and yet must bear,—Till death like sleep might steal on me,And I might feel in the warm airMy cheek grow cold, and hear the seaBreathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
P. B. Shelley
My days among the Dead are past;Around me I behold,Where'er these casual eyes are cast,The mighty minds of old:My never-failing friends are they,With whom I converse day by day.With them I take delight in wealAnd seek relief in woe;And while I understand and feelHow much to them I owe,My cheeks have often been bedew'dWith tears of thoughtful gratitude.My thoughts are with the Dead; with themI live in long-past years,Their virtues love, their faults condemn,Partake their hopes and fears,And from their lessons seek and findInstruction with an humble mind.My hopes are with the Dead; anonMy place with them will be,And I with them shall travel onThrough all Futurity;Yet leaving here a name, I trust,That will not perish in the dust.
My days among the Dead are past;Around me I behold,Where'er these casual eyes are cast,The mighty minds of old:My never-failing friends are they,With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in wealAnd seek relief in woe;And while I understand and feelHow much to them I owe,My cheeks have often been bedew'dWith tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the Dead; with themI live in long-past years,Their virtues love, their faults condemn,Partake their hopes and fears,And from their lessons seek and findInstruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the Dead; anonMy place with them will be,And I with them shall travel onThrough all Futurity;Yet leaving here a name, I trust,That will not perish in the dust.
R. Southey
Souls of Poets dead and gone,What Elysium have ye known,Happy field or mossy cavern,Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?Have ye tippled drink more fineThan mine host's Canary wine?Or are fruits of ParadiseSweeter than those dainty piesOf venison? O generous food!Drest as though bold Robin HoodWould, with his Maid Marian,Sup and bowse from horn and can.I have heard that on a dayMine host's sign-board flew awayNobody knew whither, tillAn astrologer's old quillTo a sheepskin gave the story,Said he saw you in your glory,Underneath a new-old signSipping beverage divine,And pledging with contented smackThe Mermaid in the Zodiac.Souls of Poets dead and gone,What Elysium have ye known,Happy field or mossy cavern,Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Souls of Poets dead and gone,What Elysium have ye known,Happy field or mossy cavern,Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?Have ye tippled drink more fineThan mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of ParadiseSweeter than those dainty piesOf venison? O generous food!Drest as though bold Robin HoodWould, with his Maid Marian,Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a dayMine host's sign-board flew awayNobody knew whither, tillAn astrologer's old quillTo a sheepskin gave the story,Said he saw you in your glory,Underneath a new-old signSipping beverage divine,And pledging with contented smackThe Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,What Elysium have ye known,Happy field or mossy cavern,Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
J. Keats
Proud Maisie is in the wood,Walking so early;Sweet Robin sits on the bush,Singing so rarely.'Tell me, thou bonny bird,When shall I marry me?'—'When six braw gentlemenKirkward shall carry ye.''Who makes the bridal bed,Birdie, say truly?'—'The gray-headed sextonThat delves the grave duly'The glowworm o'er grave and stoneShall light thee steady;The owl from the steeple singWelcome, proud lady.'
Proud Maisie is in the wood,Walking so early;Sweet Robin sits on the bush,Singing so rarely.
'Tell me, thou bonny bird,When shall I marry me?'—'When six braw gentlemenKirkward shall carry ye.'
'Who makes the bridal bed,Birdie, say truly?'—'The gray-headed sextonThat delves the grave duly
'The glowworm o'er grave and stoneShall light thee steady;The owl from the steeple singWelcome, proud lady.'
Sir W. Scott
One more UnfortunateWeary of breathRashly importunate,Gone to her death!Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion'd so slenderly,Young, and so fair!Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements;Whilst the wave constantlyDrips from her clothing;Take her up instantly,Loving, not loathing.Touch her not scornfully;Think of her mournfully,Gently and humanly;Not of the stains of her—All that remains of herNow is pure womanly.Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutinyRash and undutiful:Past all dishonour,Death has left on herOnly the beautiful.Still, for all slips of hers,One of Eve's family—Wipe those poor lips of hersOozing so clammily.Loop up her tressesEscaped from the comb,Her fair auburn tresses;Whilst wonderment guessesWhere was her home?Who was her father?Who was her mother?Had she a sister?Had she a brother?Or was there a dearer oneStill, and a nearer oneYet, than all other?Alas! for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!Oh! it was pitiful!Near a whole city full,Home she had none.Sisterly, brotherly,Fatherly, motherlyFeelings had changed:Love, by harsh evidence,Thrown from its eminence;Even God's providenceSeeming estranged.Where the lamps quiverSo far in the river,With many a lightFrom window and casement,From garret to basement,She stood, with amazement,Houseless by night.The bleak wind of MarchMade her tremble and shiverBut not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river:Mad from life's history,Glad to death's mysterySwift to be hurl'd—Any where, any whereOut of the world!In she plunged boldly,No matter how coldlyThe rough river ran,—Over the brink of it,Picture it—think of it,Dissolute Man!Lave in it, drink of it,Then, if you can!Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion'd so slenderly,Young, and so fair!Ere her limbs frigidlyStiffen too rigidly,Decently, kindly,Smooth and compose them,And her eyes, close them,Staring so blindly!Dreadfully staringThro' muddy impurity,As when with the daringLast look of despairingFix'd on futurity.Perishing gloomily,Spurr'd by contumely,Cold inhumanity,Burning insanity,Into her rest.—Cross her hands humblyAs if praying dumbly,Over her breast!Owning her weakness,Her evil behaviour,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour!
One more UnfortunateWeary of breathRashly importunate,Gone to her death!Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion'd so slenderly,Young, and so fair!
Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements;Whilst the wave constantlyDrips from her clothing;Take her up instantly,Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;Think of her mournfully,Gently and humanly;Not of the stains of her—All that remains of herNow is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutinyRash and undutiful:Past all dishonour,Death has left on herOnly the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,One of Eve's family—Wipe those poor lips of hersOozing so clammily.
Loop up her tressesEscaped from the comb,Her fair auburn tresses;Whilst wonderment guessesWhere was her home?
Who was her father?Who was her mother?Had she a sister?Had she a brother?Or was there a dearer oneStill, and a nearer oneYet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!Oh! it was pitiful!Near a whole city full,Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,Fatherly, motherlyFeelings had changed:Love, by harsh evidence,Thrown from its eminence;Even God's providenceSeeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiverSo far in the river,With many a lightFrom window and casement,From garret to basement,She stood, with amazement,Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of MarchMade her tremble and shiverBut not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river:Mad from life's history,Glad to death's mysterySwift to be hurl'd—Any where, any whereOut of the world!
In she plunged boldly,No matter how coldlyThe rough river ran,—Over the brink of it,Picture it—think of it,Dissolute Man!Lave in it, drink of it,Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion'd so slenderly,Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidlyStiffen too rigidly,Decently, kindly,Smooth and compose them,And her eyes, close them,Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staringThro' muddy impurity,As when with the daringLast look of despairingFix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,Spurr'd by contumely,Cold inhumanity,Burning insanity,Into her rest.—Cross her hands humblyAs if praying dumbly,Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,Her evil behaviour,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour!
T. Hood
Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;But on thy turf shall roses rearTheir leaves, the earliest of the year,And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:And oft by yon blue gushing streamShall Sorrow lean her drooping head,And feed deep thought with many a dream,And lingering pause and lightly tread;Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!Away! we know that tears are vain,That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:Will this unteach us to complain?Or make one mourner weep the less?And thou, who tell'st me to forget,Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;But on thy turf shall roses rearTheir leaves, the earliest of the year,And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
And oft by yon blue gushing streamShall Sorrow lean her drooping head,And feed deep thought with many a dream,And lingering pause and lightly tread;Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
Away! we know that tears are vain,That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:Will this unteach us to complain?Or make one mourner weep the less?And thou, who tell'st me to forget,Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
Lord Byron
When maidens such as Hester dieTheir place ye may not well supply,Though ye among a thousand tryWith vain endeavour.A month or more hath she been dead,Yet cannot I by force be ledTo think upon the wormy bedAnd her together.A springy motion in her gait,A rising step, did indicateOf pride and joy no common rateThat flush'd her spirit:I know not by what name besideI shall it call: if 'twas not pride,It was a joy to that alliedShe did inherit.Her parents held the Quaker rule,Which doth the human feeling cool;But she was train'd in Nature's school,Nature had blest her.A waking eye, a prying mind,A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,Ye could not Hester.My sprightly neighbour! gone beforeTo that unknown and silent shore,Shall we not meet, as heretoforeSome summer morning—When from thy cheerful eyes a rayHath struck a bliss upon the day,A bliss that would not go away,A sweet fore-warning?
When maidens such as Hester dieTheir place ye may not well supply,Though ye among a thousand tryWith vain endeavour.A month or more hath she been dead,Yet cannot I by force be ledTo think upon the wormy bedAnd her together.
A springy motion in her gait,A rising step, did indicateOf pride and joy no common rateThat flush'd her spirit:I know not by what name besideI shall it call: if 'twas not pride,It was a joy to that alliedShe did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule,Which doth the human feeling cool;But she was train'd in Nature's school,Nature had blest her.A waking eye, a prying mind,A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,Ye could not Hester.
My sprightly neighbour! gone beforeTo that unknown and silent shore,Shall we not meet, as heretoforeSome summer morning—When from thy cheerful eyes a rayHath struck a bliss upon the day,A bliss that would not go away,A sweet fore-warning?
C. Lamb
If I had thought thou couldst have died,I might not weep for thee;But I forgot, when by thy side,That thou couldst mortal be:It never through my mind had pastThe time would e'er be o'er,And I on thee should look my last,And thou shouldst smile no more!And still upon that face I look,And think 'twill smile again;And still the thought I will not brookThat I must look in vain!But when I speak—thou dost not sayWhat thou ne'er left'st unsaid;And now I feel, as well I may,Sweet Mary! thou art dead!If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,All cold and all serene—I still might press thy silent heart,And where thy smiles have been.While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,Thou seemest still mine own;But there I lay thee in thy grave—And I am now alone!I do not think, where'er thou art,Thou hast forgotten me;And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,In thinking too of thee:Yet there was round thee such a dawnOf light ne'er seen before,As fancy never could have drawn,And never can restore!
If I had thought thou couldst have died,I might not weep for thee;But I forgot, when by thy side,That thou couldst mortal be:It never through my mind had pastThe time would e'er be o'er,And I on thee should look my last,And thou shouldst smile no more!
And still upon that face I look,And think 'twill smile again;And still the thought I will not brookThat I must look in vain!But when I speak—thou dost not sayWhat thou ne'er left'st unsaid;And now I feel, as well I may,Sweet Mary! thou art dead!
If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,All cold and all serene—I still might press thy silent heart,And where thy smiles have been.While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,Thou seemest still mine own;But there I lay thee in thy grave—And I am now alone!
I do not think, where'er thou art,Thou hast forgotten me;And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,In thinking too of thee:Yet there was round thee such a dawnOf light ne'er seen before,As fancy never could have drawn,And never can restore!
C. Wolfe
He is gone on the mountain,He is lost to the forest,Like a summer-dried fountain,When our need was the sorest.The font reappearingFrom the raindrops shall borrow,But to us comes no cheering,To Duncan no morrow!The hand of the reaperTakes the ears that are hoary,But the voice of the weeperWails manhood in glory.The autumn winds rushingWaft the leaves that are searest,But our flower was in flushingWhen blighting was nearest.Fleet foot on the correi,Sage counsel in cumber,Red hand in the foray,How sound is thy slumber!Like the dew on the mountain,Like the foam on the river,Like the bubble on the fountain,Thou art gone; and for ever!
He is gone on the mountain,He is lost to the forest,Like a summer-dried fountain,When our need was the sorest.The font reappearingFrom the raindrops shall borrow,But to us comes no cheering,To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaperTakes the ears that are hoary,But the voice of the weeperWails manhood in glory.The autumn winds rushingWaft the leaves that are searest,But our flower was in flushingWhen blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,Sage counsel in cumber,Red hand in the foray,How sound is thy slumber!Like the dew on the mountain,Like the foam on the river,Like the bubble on the fountain,Thou art gone; and for ever!
Sir W. Scott
We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.So silently we seem'd to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.For when the morn came dim and sadAnd chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.
We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seem'd to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sadAnd chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.
T. Hood
I saw her in childhood—A bright, gentle thing,Like the dawn of the morn,Or the dews of the spring:The daisies and hare-bellsHer playmates all day;Herself as light-heartedAnd artless as they.I saw her again—A fair girl of eighteen,Fresh glittering with gracesOf mind and of mien.Her speech was all music;Like moonlight she shone;The envy of many,The glory of one.Years, years fleeted over—I stood at her foot:The bud had grown blossom,The blossom was fruit.A dignified mother,Her infant she bore;And look'd, I thought, fairerThan ever before.I saw her once more—'Twas the day that she died;Heaven's light was around her,And God at her side;No wants to distress her,No fears to appal—O then, I felt, thenShe was fairest of all!
I saw her in childhood—A bright, gentle thing,Like the dawn of the morn,Or the dews of the spring:The daisies and hare-bellsHer playmates all day;Herself as light-heartedAnd artless as they.
I saw her again—A fair girl of eighteen,Fresh glittering with gracesOf mind and of mien.Her speech was all music;Like moonlight she shone;The envy of many,The glory of one.
Years, years fleeted over—I stood at her foot:The bud had grown blossom,The blossom was fruit.A dignified mother,Her infant she bore;And look'd, I thought, fairerThan ever before.
I saw her once more—'Twas the day that she died;Heaven's light was around her,And God at her side;No wants to distress her,No fears to appal—O then, I felt, thenShe was fairest of all!
H. F. Lyte
O listen, listen, ladies gay!No haughty feat of arms I tell;Soft is the note, and sad the layThat mourns the lovely Rosabelle.'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.'The blackening wave is edged with white;To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.'Last night the gifted Seer did viewA wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?'''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heirTo-night at Roslin leads the ball,But that my ladye-mother thereSits lonely in her castle-hall.'Tis not because the ring they ride,And Lindesay at the ring rides well,But that my sire the wine will chideIf 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'—O'er Roslin all that dreary nightA wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,And redder than the bright moonbeam.It glared on Roslin's castled rock,It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.Seem'd all on fire that chapel proudWhere Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,Each Baron, for a sable shroud,Sheathed in his iron panoply.Seem'd all on fire within, around,Deep sacristy and altar's pale;Shone every pillar foliage-bound,And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.Blazed battlement and pinnet high,Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—So still they blaze, when fate is nighThe lordly line of high Saint Clair.There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold—Lie buried within that proud chapelle;Each one the holy vault doth hold—But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.And each Saint Clair was buried there,With candle, with book, and with knell;But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sungThe dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
O listen, listen, ladies gay!No haughty feat of arms I tell;Soft is the note, and sad the layThat mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
'The blackening wave is edged with white;To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
'Last night the gifted Seer did viewA wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?'
''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heirTo-night at Roslin leads the ball,But that my ladye-mother thereSits lonely in her castle-hall.
'Tis not because the ring they ride,And Lindesay at the ring rides well,But that my sire the wine will chideIf 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'
—O'er Roslin all that dreary nightA wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,And redder than the bright moonbeam.
It glared on Roslin's castled rock,It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
Seem'd all on fire that chapel proudWhere Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,Each Baron, for a sable shroud,Sheathed in his iron panoply.
Seem'd all on fire within, around,Deep sacristy and altar's pale;Shone every pillar foliage-bound,And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
Blazed battlement and pinnet high,Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—So still they blaze, when fate is nighThe lordly line of high Saint Clair.
There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold—Lie buried within that proud chapelle;Each one the holy vault doth hold—But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.
And each Saint Clair was buried there,With candle, with book, and with knell;But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sungThe dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
Sir W. Scott
I saw where in the shroud did lurkA curious frame of Nature's work;A flow'ret crushéd in the bud,A nameless piece of Babyhood,Was in her cradle-coffin lying;Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:So soon to exchange the imprisoning wombFor darker closets of the tomb!She did but ope an eye, and putA clear beam forth, then straight up shutFor the long dark: ne'er more to seeThrough glasses of mortality.Riddle of destiny, who can showWhat thy short visit meant, or knowWhat thy errand here below?Shall we say, that Nature blindCheck'd her hand, and changed her mindJust when she had exactly wroughtA finish'd pattern without fault?Could she flag, or could she tire,Or lack'd she the Promethean fire(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assureLife of health, and days mature:Woman's self in miniature!Limbs so fair, they might supply(Themselves now but cold imagery)The sculptor to make Beauty by.Or did the stern-eyed Fate descryThat babe or mother, one must die;So in mercy left the stockAnd cut the branch; to save the shockOf young years widow'd, and the painWhen Single State comes back againTo the lone man who, reft of wife,Thenceforward drags a maiméd life?The economy of Heaven is dark,And wisest clerks have miss'd the markWhy human buds, like this, should fall,More brief than fly ephemeralThat has his day; while shrivell'd cronesStiffen with age to stocks and stones;And crabbéd use the conscience searsIn sinners of an hundred years.—Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:Rites, which custom does impose,Silver bells, and baby clothes;Coral redder than those lipsWhich pale death did late eclipse;Music framed for infants' glee,Whistle never tuned for thee;Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,Loving hearts were they which gave them.Let not one be missing; nurse,See them laid upon the hearseOf infant slain by doom perverse.Why should kings and nobles havePictured trophies to their grave,And we, churls, to thee denyThy pretty toys with thee to lie—A more harmless vanity?
I saw where in the shroud did lurkA curious frame of Nature's work;A flow'ret crushéd in the bud,A nameless piece of Babyhood,Was in her cradle-coffin lying;Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:So soon to exchange the imprisoning wombFor darker closets of the tomb!She did but ope an eye, and putA clear beam forth, then straight up shutFor the long dark: ne'er more to seeThrough glasses of mortality.Riddle of destiny, who can showWhat thy short visit meant, or knowWhat thy errand here below?Shall we say, that Nature blindCheck'd her hand, and changed her mindJust when she had exactly wroughtA finish'd pattern without fault?Could she flag, or could she tire,Or lack'd she the Promethean fire(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assureLife of health, and days mature:Woman's self in miniature!Limbs so fair, they might supply(Themselves now but cold imagery)The sculptor to make Beauty by.Or did the stern-eyed Fate descryThat babe or mother, one must die;So in mercy left the stockAnd cut the branch; to save the shockOf young years widow'd, and the painWhen Single State comes back againTo the lone man who, reft of wife,Thenceforward drags a maiméd life?The economy of Heaven is dark,And wisest clerks have miss'd the markWhy human buds, like this, should fall,More brief than fly ephemeralThat has his day; while shrivell'd cronesStiffen with age to stocks and stones;And crabbéd use the conscience searsIn sinners of an hundred years.—Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:Rites, which custom does impose,Silver bells, and baby clothes;Coral redder than those lipsWhich pale death did late eclipse;Music framed for infants' glee,Whistle never tuned for thee;Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,Loving hearts were they which gave them.Let not one be missing; nurse,See them laid upon the hearseOf infant slain by doom perverse.Why should kings and nobles havePictured trophies to their grave,And we, churls, to thee denyThy pretty toys with thee to lie—A more harmless vanity?
C. Lamb
A child's a plaything for an hour;Its pretty tricks we tryFor that or for a longer space,—Then tire, and lay it by.But I knew one that to itselfAll seasons could control;That would have mock'd the sense of painOut of a grievéd soul.Thou straggler into loving arms,Young climber up of knees,When I forget thy thousand waysThen life and all shall cease!
A child's a plaything for an hour;Its pretty tricks we tryFor that or for a longer space,—Then tire, and lay it by.
But I knew one that to itselfAll seasons could control;That would have mock'd the sense of painOut of a grievéd soul.
Thou straggler into loving arms,Young climber up of knees,When I forget thy thousand waysThen life and all shall cease!
M. Lamb
Where art thou, my beloved Son,Where art thou, worse to me than dead?Oh find me, prosperous or undone!Or if the grave be now thy bed,Why am I ignorant of the sameThat I may rest; and neither blameNor sorrow may attend thy name?Seven years, alas! to have receivedNo tidings of an only child—To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,And been for evermore beguiled,—Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!I catch at them, and then I miss;Was ever darkness like to this?He was among the prime in worth,An object beauteous to behold;Well born, well bred; I sent him forthIngenuous, innocent, and bold:If things ensued that wanted graceAs hath been said, they were not base;And never blush was on my face.Ah! little doth the young-one dreamWhen full of play and childish cares,What power is in his wildest screamHeard by his mother unawares!He knows it not, he cannot guess;Years to a mother bring distress;But do not make her love the less.Neglect me! no, I suffer'd longFrom that ill thought; and being blindSaid 'Pride shall help me in my wrong:Kind mother have I been, as kindAs ever breathed:' and that is true;I've wet my path with tears like dew,Weeping for him when no one knew.My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,Hopeless of honour and of gain,Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;Think not of me with grief and pain:I now can see with better eyes;And worldly grandeur I despiseAnd fortune with her gifts and lies.Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;They mount—how short a voyage bringsThe wanderers back to their delight!Chains tie us down by land and sea;And wishes, vain as mine, may beAll that is left to comfort thee.Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groanMaim'd, mangled by inhuman men;Or thou upon a desert thrownInheritest the lion's den;Or hast been summon'd to the deepThou, thou, and all thy mates, to keepAn incommunicable sleep.I look for ghosts: but none will forceTheir way to me; 'tis falsely saidThat there was ever intercourseBetween the living and the dead;For surely then I should have sightOf him I wait for day and nightWith love and longings infinite.My apprehensions come in crowds;I dread the rustling of the grass;The very shadows of the cloudsHave power to shake me as they pass:I question things, and do not findOne that will answer to my mind;And all the world appears unkind.Beyond participation lieMy troubles, and beyond relief:If any chance to heave a sighThey pity me, and not my grief.Then come to me, my Son, or sendSome tidings that my woes may end!I have no other earthly friend.
Where art thou, my beloved Son,Where art thou, worse to me than dead?Oh find me, prosperous or undone!Or if the grave be now thy bed,Why am I ignorant of the sameThat I may rest; and neither blameNor sorrow may attend thy name?
Seven years, alas! to have receivedNo tidings of an only child—To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,And been for evermore beguiled,—Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!I catch at them, and then I miss;Was ever darkness like to this?
He was among the prime in worth,An object beauteous to behold;Well born, well bred; I sent him forthIngenuous, innocent, and bold:If things ensued that wanted graceAs hath been said, they were not base;And never blush was on my face.
Ah! little doth the young-one dreamWhen full of play and childish cares,What power is in his wildest screamHeard by his mother unawares!He knows it not, he cannot guess;Years to a mother bring distress;But do not make her love the less.
Neglect me! no, I suffer'd longFrom that ill thought; and being blindSaid 'Pride shall help me in my wrong:Kind mother have I been, as kindAs ever breathed:' and that is true;I've wet my path with tears like dew,Weeping for him when no one knew.
My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,Hopeless of honour and of gain,Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;Think not of me with grief and pain:I now can see with better eyes;And worldly grandeur I despiseAnd fortune with her gifts and lies.
Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;They mount—how short a voyage bringsThe wanderers back to their delight!Chains tie us down by land and sea;And wishes, vain as mine, may beAll that is left to comfort thee.
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groanMaim'd, mangled by inhuman men;Or thou upon a desert thrownInheritest the lion's den;Or hast been summon'd to the deepThou, thou, and all thy mates, to keepAn incommunicable sleep.
I look for ghosts: but none will forceTheir way to me; 'tis falsely saidThat there was ever intercourseBetween the living and the dead;For surely then I should have sightOf him I wait for day and nightWith love and longings infinite.
My apprehensions come in crowds;I dread the rustling of the grass;The very shadows of the cloudsHave power to shake me as they pass:I question things, and do not findOne that will answer to my mind;And all the world appears unkind.
Beyond participation lieMy troubles, and beyond relief:If any chance to heave a sighThey pity me, and not my grief.Then come to me, my Son, or sendSome tidings that my woes may end!I have no other earthly friend.
W. Wordsworth
Waken, lords and ladies gay,On the mountain dawns the day;All the jolly chase is hereWith hawk and horse and hunting-spear;Hounds are in their couples yelling,Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,Merrily merrily mingle they,'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'Waken, lords and ladies gay,The mist has left the mountain gray,Springlets in the dawn are steaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green;Now we come to chant our lay'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'Waken, lords and ladies gay,To the greenwood haste away;We can show you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can show the marks he madeWhen 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;You shall see him brought to bay;'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'Louder, louder chant the layWaken, lords and ladies gay!Tell them youth and mirth and gleeRun a course as well as we;Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;Think of this, and rise with day,Gentle lords and ladies gay!
Waken, lords and ladies gay,On the mountain dawns the day;All the jolly chase is hereWith hawk and horse and hunting-spear;Hounds are in their couples yelling,Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,Merrily merrily mingle they,'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
Waken, lords and ladies gay,The mist has left the mountain gray,Springlets in the dawn are steaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green;Now we come to chant our lay'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
Waken, lords and ladies gay,To the greenwood haste away;We can show you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can show the marks he madeWhen 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;You shall see him brought to bay;'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
Louder, louder chant the layWaken, lords and ladies gay!Tell them youth and mirth and gleeRun a course as well as we;Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;Think of this, and rise with day,Gentle lords and ladies gay!
Sir W. Scott
Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eyeBoth with thy nest upon the dewy ground?Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,Those quivering wings composed, that music still!To the last point of vision, and beyondMount, daring warbler!—that love-prompted strain—'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond—Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to singAll independent of the leafy Spring.Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;A privacy of glorious light is thine,Whence thou dost pour upon the world a floodOf harmony, with instinct more divine;Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam—True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.
Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eyeBoth with thy nest upon the dewy ground?Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
To the last point of vision, and beyondMount, daring warbler!—that love-prompted strain—'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond—Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to singAll independent of the leafy Spring.
Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;A privacy of glorious light is thine,Whence thou dost pour upon the world a floodOf harmony, with instinct more divine;Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam—True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.
W. Wordsworth
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire,The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.In the golden lightningOf the sunken sunO'er which clouds are brightening,Thou dost float and run,Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heavenIn the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clearUntil we hardly see, we feel that it is there.All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to seeAs from thy presence showers a rain of melody;—Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:Like a glow-worm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aerial hueAmong the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:Like a rose embower'dIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflower'd,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd thieves.Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awaken'd flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chauntMatch'd with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.Waking or asleepThou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet if we could scornHate, and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now!
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire,The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightningOf the sunken sunO'er which clouds are brightening,Thou dost float and run,Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heavenIn the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clearUntil we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to seeAs from thy presence showers a rain of melody;—
Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aerial hueAmong the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embower'dIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflower'd,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd thieves.
Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awaken'd flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chauntMatch'd with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleepThou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scornHate, and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now!
P. B. Shelley