28.Song.
The wretch condemn'd with life to part,Still, still on hope relies;And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,Bids expectation rise.Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light,Adorns and cheers the way;And still, as darker grows the night,Emits a brighter ray.1816 Edition.
The wretch condemn'd with life to part,Still, still on hope relies;And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light,Adorns and cheers the way;And still, as darker grows the night,Emits a brighter ray.
1816 Edition.
29.Elegy written in a Country Church-yard.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me.Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,The moping owl does to the moon complainOf such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,Molest her ancient solitary reign.Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her evening care;No children run to lisp their sire's return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke.Let not ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the poor.The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,Await alike th' inevitable hour.The paths of glory lead but to the grave.Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.Can storied urn, or animated bust,Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre:But knowledge to their eyes her ample pageRich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,The little tyrant of his fields withstood,Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation's eyes,Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;Forbade to wade thro' slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of luxury and prideWith incense kindled at the Muse's flame.Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;Along the cool sequester'd vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenour of their way.Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,The place of fame and elegy supply:And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;If chance, by lonely contemplation led,Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,—Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawnBrushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn:'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,His listless length at noontide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by.'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree;Another came; nor yet beside the rill,Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:'The next, with dirges due in sad arraySlow through the church-way path we saw him borne:—Approach and read (for thou canst read) the layGrav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'The Epitaph.Here rests his head upon the lap of earthA youth, to fortune and to fame unknown:Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,And melancholy mark'd him for her own.Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear,He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)The bosom of his Father and his God.Mitford's Text.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,The moping owl does to the moon complainOf such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her evening care;No children run to lisp their sire's return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke.
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,Await alike th' inevitable hour.The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre:
But knowledge to their eyes her ample pageRich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,The little tyrant of his fields withstood,Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;Forbade to wade thro' slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of luxury and prideWith incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;Along the cool sequester'd vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,The place of fame and elegy supply:And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;If chance, by lonely contemplation led,Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,—
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawnBrushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn:
'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,His listless length at noontide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree;Another came; nor yet beside the rill,Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:
'The next, with dirges due in sad arraySlow through the church-way path we saw him borne:—Approach and read (for thou canst read) the layGrav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'
The Epitaph.
Here rests his head upon the lap of earthA youth, to fortune and to fame unknown:Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,And melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear,He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)The bosom of his Father and his God.
Mitford's Text.
30.To R. T. H. B.
Out of the night that covers me,Black as the Pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud.Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbowed.Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the Horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds, and shall find, me unafraid.It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll,I am the master of my fate:I am the captain of my soul.
Out of the night that covers me,Black as the Pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud.Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the Horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll,I am the master of my fate:I am the captain of my soul.
31.I. M.Margaritæ Sorori(1886)
A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;And from the west,Where the sun, his day's work ended,Lingers as in content,There falls on the old, grey cityAn influence luminous and serene,A shining peace.The smoke ascendsIn a rosy-and-golden haze. The spiresShine, and are changed. In the valleyShadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,Closing his benediction,Sinks, and the darkening airThrills with a sense of the triumphing night—Night with her train of starsAnd her great gift of sleep.So be my passing!My task accomplished and the long day done,My wages taken, and in my heartSome late lark singing,Let me be gathered to the quiet west,The sundown splendid and serene,Death.1898 Edition.
A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;And from the west,Where the sun, his day's work ended,Lingers as in content,There falls on the old, grey cityAn influence luminous and serene,A shining peace.
The smoke ascendsIn a rosy-and-golden haze. The spiresShine, and are changed. In the valleyShadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,Closing his benediction,Sinks, and the darkening airThrills with a sense of the triumphing night—Night with her train of starsAnd her great gift of sleep.So be my passing!My task accomplished and the long day done,My wages taken, and in my heartSome late lark singing,Let me be gathered to the quiet west,The sundown splendid and serene,Death.
1898 Edition.
32.Virtue.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky:The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;For thou must die.Sweet rose, whose hue angry and braveBids the rash gazer wipe his eye:Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie;My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like season'd timber, never gives;But though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.1633 Edition.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky:The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue angry and braveBids the rash gazer wipe his eye:Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie;My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like season'd timber, never gives;But though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.
1633 Edition.
33.To the Virgins, to make much of Time.
1. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying:And this same flower that smiles to-day,To-morrow will be dying.2. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,The higher he's a-getting;The sooner will his race be run,And nearer he's to setting.3. That age is best, which is the first,When youth and blood are warmer;But being spent, the worse, and worstTimes, still succeed the former.4. Then be not coy, but use your time;And while ye may, go marry:For having lost but once your prime,You may for ever tarry.
1. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying:And this same flower that smiles to-day,To-morrow will be dying.
2. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,The higher he's a-getting;The sooner will his race be run,And nearer he's to setting.
3. That age is best, which is the first,When youth and blood are warmer;But being spent, the worse, and worstTimes, still succeed the former.
4. Then be not coy, but use your time;And while ye may, go marry:For having lost but once your prime,You may for ever tarry.
34.To Anthea, who may command him anything.
1. Bid me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be:Or bid me love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee.2. A heart as soft, a heart as kind,A heart as sound and free,As in the whole world thou canst find,That heart I'll give to thee.3. Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,To honour thy decree:Or bid it languish quite away,And't shall do so for thee.4. Bid me to weep, and I will weep,While I have eyes to see:And having none, yet I will keepA heart to weep for thee.5. Bid me despair, and I'll despair,Under that cypress tree:Or bid me die, and I will dareE'en death, to die for thee.6. Thou art my life, my love, my heart,The very eyes of me:And hast command of every part,To live and die for thee.Grosart's Text.
1. Bid me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be:Or bid me love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee.
2. A heart as soft, a heart as kind,A heart as sound and free,As in the whole world thou canst find,That heart I'll give to thee.
3. Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,To honour thy decree:Or bid it languish quite away,And't shall do so for thee.
4. Bid me to weep, and I will weep,While I have eyes to see:And having none, yet I will keepA heart to weep for thee.
5. Bid me despair, and I'll despair,Under that cypress tree:Or bid me die, and I will dareE'en death, to die for thee.
6. Thou art my life, my love, my heart,The very eyes of me:And hast command of every part,To live and die for thee.
Grosart's Text.
35.The Death Bed.
We watch'd her breathing through the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.So silently we seem'd to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.For when the morn came dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.
We watch'd her breathing through the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seem'd to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.
36.The Bridge of Sighs.
"Drown'd! drown'd!"—Hamlet.One more Unfortunate,Weary of breath,Rashly 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 shiver;But not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river:Mad from life's history,Glad to death's mystery,Swift to be hurl'd—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 humbly,As if praying dumbly,Over her breast!Owning her weakness,Her evil behaviour,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour!
"Drown'd! drown'd!"—Hamlet.
One more Unfortunate,Weary of breath,Rashly 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 shiver;But not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river:Mad from life's history,Glad to death's mystery,Swift to be hurl'd—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 humbly,As if praying dumbly,Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,Her evil behaviour,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour!
37.I Remember, I Remember.
I remember, I remember,The house where I was born,The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soon,Nor brought too long a day,But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away!I remember, I remember,The roses, red and white,The violets, and the lily cups,Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birth-day,—The tree is living yet!I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers then,That is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow!I remember, I rememberThe fir trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance,But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from Heav'nThan when I was a boy.1862-3 Edition.
I remember, I remember,The house where I was born,The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soon,Nor brought too long a day,But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,The roses, red and white,The violets, and the lily cups,Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birth-day,—The tree is living yet!
I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers then,That is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow!
I remember, I rememberThe fir trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance,But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from Heav'nThan when I was a boy.
1862-3 Edition.
38.To Celia.
Drink to me, only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss but in the cup,And I'll not look for wine.The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,Doth ask a drink divine:But might I of Jove's nectar sup,I would not change for thine.I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring thee,As giving it a hope, that thereIt could not wither'd be.But thou thereon didst only breathe,And sent'st it back to me:Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself, but thee.Cunningham's Text.
Drink to me, only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss but in the cup,And I'll not look for wine.The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,Doth ask a drink divine:But might I of Jove's nectar sup,I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring thee,As giving it a hope, that thereIt could not wither'd be.But thou thereon didst only breathe,And sent'st it back to me:Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself, but thee.
Cunningham's Text.
39.On first looking into Chapman's Homer.
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow'd Homer rul'd as his demesne;Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyesHe star'd at the Pacific—and all his menLooked at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow'd Homer rul'd as his demesne;Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyesHe star'd at the Pacific—and all his menLooked at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
40.Ode to a Nightingale.
1.My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness painsMy sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drainsOne minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,But being too happy in thine happiness,—That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,In some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of summer in full-throated ease.2.O for a draught of vintage! that hath beenCool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,Tasting of Flora and the country green,Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South,Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,And purple-stained mouth;That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,And with thee fade away into the forest dim:3.Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forgetWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fretHere, where men sit and hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;Where but to think is to be full of sorrowAnd leaden-ey'd despairs,Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.4.Away! away! for I will fly to thee,Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy,Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;But here there is no light,Save what from heaven is with the breezes blownThrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.5.I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweetWherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;And mid-May's eldest child,The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.6.Darkling I listen; and, for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death,Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,To take into the air my quiet breath;Now more than ever seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroadIn such an ecstasy!Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—To thy high requiem become a sod.7.Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that oft-times hathCharm'd magic casements, opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.8.Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fadesPast the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deepIn the next valley-glades:Was it a vision, or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?
1.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness painsMy sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drainsOne minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,But being too happy in thine happiness,—That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,In some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
2.
O for a draught of vintage! that hath beenCool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,Tasting of Flora and the country green,Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South,Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,And purple-stained mouth;That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
3.
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forgetWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fretHere, where men sit and hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;Where but to think is to be full of sorrowAnd leaden-ey'd despairs,Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
4.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy,Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;But here there is no light,Save what from heaven is with the breezes blownThrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
5.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweetWherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;And mid-May's eldest child,The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
6.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death,Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,To take into the air my quiet breath;Now more than ever seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroadIn such an ecstasy!Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—To thy high requiem become a sod.
7.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that oft-times hathCharm'd magic casements, opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
8.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fadesPast the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deepIn the next valley-glades:Was it a vision, or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?
41.Ode on aGrecian Urn.
1.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-fring'd legend haunts about thy shapeOf deities or mortals, or of both,In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?2.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!3.Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shedYour leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;And, happy melodist, unwearied,For ever piping songs for ever new;More happy love! more happy, happy love!For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,For ever panting, and for ever young;All breathing human passion far above,That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.4.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.5.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.
1.
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-fring'd legend haunts about thy shapeOf deities or mortals, or of both,In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
2.
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!
3.
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shedYour leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;And, happy melodist, unwearied,For ever piping songs for ever new;More happy love! more happy, happy love!For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,For ever panting, and for ever young;All breathing human passion far above,That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
4.
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.
5.
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.
42.ToAutumn.
1.Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease,For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.2.Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers:And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.3.Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,—And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble softThe red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
1.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease,For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
2.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers:And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
3.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,—And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble softThe red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
43.Ode onMelancholy.
1.No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twistWolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'dBy nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;Make not your rosary of yew-berries,Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth beYour mournful Psyche, nor the downy owlA partner in your sorrow's mysteries;For shade to shade will come too drowsily,And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.2.But when the melancholy fit shall fallSudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,And hides the green hill in an April shroud;Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,Or on the wealth of globed peonies;Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.3.She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lipsBidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:Ay, in the very temple of DelightVeil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongueCan burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
1.
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twistWolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'dBy nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;Make not your rosary of yew-berries,Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth beYour mournful Psyche, nor the downy owlA partner in your sorrow's mysteries;For shade to shade will come too drowsily,And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
2.
But when the melancholy fit shall fallSudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,And hides the green hill in an April shroud;Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,Or on the wealth of globed peonies;Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
3.
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lipsBidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:Ay, in the very temple of DelightVeil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongueCan burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,And be among her cloudy trophies hung.