AH, with the Grape my fading Life provide,And wash my Body whence the Life has died,And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,By some not unfrequented Garden-side....Yon rising Moon that looks for us again—How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;How oft hereafter rising look for usThrough this same Garden—and foronein vain!And when like her, O Sákí, you shall passAmong the Guests star-scatter’d on the Grass,And in your joyous errand reach the spotWhere I made One—turn down an empty Glass!
AH, with the Grape my fading Life provide,And wash my Body whence the Life has died,And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,By some not unfrequented Garden-side....Yon rising Moon that looks for us again—How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;How oft hereafter rising look for usThrough this same Garden—and foronein vain!And when like her, O Sákí, you shall passAmong the Guests star-scatter’d on the Grass,And in your joyous errand reach the spotWhere I made One—turn down an empty Glass!
AH, with the Grape my fading Life provide,And wash my Body whence the Life has died,And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,By some not unfrequented Garden-side....
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again—How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;How oft hereafter rising look for usThrough this same Garden—and foronein vain!
And when like her, O Sákí, you shall passAmong the Guests star-scatter’d on the Grass,And in your joyous errand reach the spotWhere I made One—turn down an empty Glass!
1809-1892
699.
WITH blackest moss the flower-plotsWere thickly crusted, one and all:The rusted nails fell from the knotsThat held the pear to the gable-wall.The broken sheds look’d sad and strange:Unlifted was the clinking latch;Weeded and worn the ancient thatchUpon the lonely moated grange.She only said, ‘My life is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’Her tears fell with the dews at even;Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;She could not look on the sweet heaven,Either at morn or eventide.After the flitting of the bats,When thickest dark did trance the sky,She drew her casement-curtain by,And glanced athwart the glooming flats.She only said, ‘The night is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’Upon the middle of the night,Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:The cock sung out an hour ere light:From the dark fen the oxen’s lowCame to her: without hope of change,In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn,Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed mornAbout the lonely moated grange.She only said, ‘The day is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’About a stone-cast from the wallA sluice with blacken’d waters slept,And o’er it many, round and small,The cluster’d marish-mosses crept.Hard by a poplar shook alway,All silver-green with gnarlèd bark:For leagues no other tree did markThe level waste, the rounding gray.She only said, ‘My life is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’And ever when the moon was low,And the shrill winds were up and away,In the white curtain, to and fro,She saw the gusty shadow sway.But when the moon was very low,And wild winds bound within their cell,The shadow of the poplar fellUpon her bed, across her brow.She only said, ‘The night is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’All day within the dreamy house,The doors upon their hinges creak’d;The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouseBehind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,Or from the crevice peer’d about.Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors,Old footsteps trod the upper floors,Old voices call’d her from without.She only said, ‘My life is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,’I would that I were dead!’The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof,The slow clock ticking, and the soundWhich to the wooing wind aloofThe poplar made, did all confoundHer sense; but most she loathed the hourWhen the thick-moted sunbeam layAthwart the chambers, and the dayWas sloping toward his western bower.Then, said she, ‘I am very dreary,He will not come,’ she said;She wept, ‘I am aweary, aweary,O God, that I were dead!’
WITH blackest moss the flower-plotsWere thickly crusted, one and all:The rusted nails fell from the knotsThat held the pear to the gable-wall.The broken sheds look’d sad and strange:Unlifted was the clinking latch;Weeded and worn the ancient thatchUpon the lonely moated grange.She only said, ‘My life is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’Her tears fell with the dews at even;Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;She could not look on the sweet heaven,Either at morn or eventide.After the flitting of the bats,When thickest dark did trance the sky,She drew her casement-curtain by,And glanced athwart the glooming flats.She only said, ‘The night is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’Upon the middle of the night,Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:The cock sung out an hour ere light:From the dark fen the oxen’s lowCame to her: without hope of change,In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn,Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed mornAbout the lonely moated grange.She only said, ‘The day is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’About a stone-cast from the wallA sluice with blacken’d waters slept,And o’er it many, round and small,The cluster’d marish-mosses crept.Hard by a poplar shook alway,All silver-green with gnarlèd bark:For leagues no other tree did markThe level waste, the rounding gray.She only said, ‘My life is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’And ever when the moon was low,And the shrill winds were up and away,In the white curtain, to and fro,She saw the gusty shadow sway.But when the moon was very low,And wild winds bound within their cell,The shadow of the poplar fellUpon her bed, across her brow.She only said, ‘The night is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’All day within the dreamy house,The doors upon their hinges creak’d;The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouseBehind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,Or from the crevice peer’d about.Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors,Old footsteps trod the upper floors,Old voices call’d her from without.She only said, ‘My life is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,’I would that I were dead!’The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof,The slow clock ticking, and the soundWhich to the wooing wind aloofThe poplar made, did all confoundHer sense; but most she loathed the hourWhen the thick-moted sunbeam layAthwart the chambers, and the dayWas sloping toward his western bower.Then, said she, ‘I am very dreary,He will not come,’ she said;She wept, ‘I am aweary, aweary,O God, that I were dead!’
WITH blackest moss the flower-plotsWere thickly crusted, one and all:The rusted nails fell from the knotsThat held the pear to the gable-wall.The broken sheds look’d sad and strange:Unlifted was the clinking latch;Weeded and worn the ancient thatchUpon the lonely moated grange.She only said, ‘My life is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’
Her tears fell with the dews at even;Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;She could not look on the sweet heaven,Either at morn or eventide.After the flitting of the bats,When thickest dark did trance the sky,She drew her casement-curtain by,And glanced athwart the glooming flats.She only said, ‘The night is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’
Upon the middle of the night,Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:The cock sung out an hour ere light:From the dark fen the oxen’s lowCame to her: without hope of change,In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn,Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed mornAbout the lonely moated grange.She only said, ‘The day is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’
About a stone-cast from the wallA sluice with blacken’d waters slept,And o’er it many, round and small,The cluster’d marish-mosses crept.Hard by a poplar shook alway,All silver-green with gnarlèd bark:For leagues no other tree did markThe level waste, the rounding gray.She only said, ‘My life is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’
And ever when the moon was low,And the shrill winds were up and away,In the white curtain, to and fro,She saw the gusty shadow sway.But when the moon was very low,And wild winds bound within their cell,The shadow of the poplar fellUpon her bed, across her brow.She only said, ‘The night is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’
All day within the dreamy house,The doors upon their hinges creak’d;The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouseBehind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,Or from the crevice peer’d about.Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors,Old footsteps trod the upper floors,Old voices call’d her from without.She only said, ‘My life is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,’I would that I were dead!’
The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof,The slow clock ticking, and the soundWhich to the wooing wind aloofThe poplar made, did all confoundHer sense; but most she loathed the hourWhen the thick-moted sunbeam layAthwart the chambers, and the dayWas sloping toward his western bower.Then, said she, ‘I am very dreary,He will not come,’ she said;She wept, ‘I am aweary, aweary,O God, that I were dead!’
700.
ON either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky;And thro’ the field the road runs byTo many-tower’d Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,The island of Shalott.Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThro’ the wave that runs for everBy the island in the riverFlowing down to Camelot.Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe Lady of Shalott.By the margin, willow-veil’d,Slide the heavy barges trail’dBy slow horses; and unhail’dThe shallop flitteth silken-sail’dSkimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,The Lady of Shalott?Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,Down to tower’d Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers ‘’Tis the fairyLady of Shalott.’
ON either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky;And thro’ the field the road runs byTo many-tower’d Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,The island of Shalott.Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThro’ the wave that runs for everBy the island in the riverFlowing down to Camelot.Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe Lady of Shalott.By the margin, willow-veil’d,Slide the heavy barges trail’dBy slow horses; and unhail’dThe shallop flitteth silken-sail’dSkimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,The Lady of Shalott?Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,Down to tower’d Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers ‘’Tis the fairyLady of Shalott.’
ON either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky;And thro’ the field the road runs byTo many-tower’d Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThro’ the wave that runs for everBy the island in the riverFlowing down to Camelot.Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veil’d,Slide the heavy barges trail’dBy slow horses; and unhail’dThe shallop flitteth silken-sail’dSkimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,Down to tower’d Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers ‘’Tis the fairyLady of Shalott.’
THERE she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colours gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.And moving thro’ a mirror clearThat hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot:There the river eddy whirls,And there the surly village-churls,And the red cloaks of market girls,Pass onward from Shalott.Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad,Goes by to tower’d Camelot;And sometimes thro’ the mirror blueThe knights come riding two and two:She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror’s magic sights,For often thro’ the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot:Or when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed;‘I am half sick of shadows,’ saidThe Lady of Shalott.
THERE she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colours gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.And moving thro’ a mirror clearThat hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot:There the river eddy whirls,And there the surly village-churls,And the red cloaks of market girls,Pass onward from Shalott.Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad,Goes by to tower’d Camelot;And sometimes thro’ the mirror blueThe knights come riding two and two:She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror’s magic sights,For often thro’ the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot:Or when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed;‘I am half sick of shadows,’ saidThe Lady of Shalott.
THERE she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colours gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.
And moving thro’ a mirror clearThat hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot:There the river eddy whirls,And there the surly village-churls,And the red cloaks of market girls,Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad,Goes by to tower’d Camelot;And sometimes thro’ the mirror blueThe knights come riding two and two:She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror’s magic sights,For often thro’ the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot:Or when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed;‘I am half sick of shadows,’ saidThe Lady of Shalott.
ABOW-shot from her bower-eaves,He rode between the barley-sheaves,The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight for ever kneel’dTo a lady in his shield,That sparkled on the yellow field,Beside remote Shalott.The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot;And from his blazon’d baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armour rung,Beside remote Shalott.All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,The helmet and the helmet-featherBurn’d like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot.As often thro’ the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;From underneath his helmet flow’dHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flash’d into the crystal mirror,‘Tirra lirra,’ by the riverSang Sir Lancelot.She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces thro’ the room,She saw the water-lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She look’d down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror crack’d from side to side;‘The curse is come upon me!’ criedThe Lady of Shalott.
ABOW-shot from her bower-eaves,He rode between the barley-sheaves,The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight for ever kneel’dTo a lady in his shield,That sparkled on the yellow field,Beside remote Shalott.The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot;And from his blazon’d baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armour rung,Beside remote Shalott.All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,The helmet and the helmet-featherBurn’d like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot.As often thro’ the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;From underneath his helmet flow’dHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flash’d into the crystal mirror,‘Tirra lirra,’ by the riverSang Sir Lancelot.She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces thro’ the room,She saw the water-lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She look’d down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror crack’d from side to side;‘The curse is come upon me!’ criedThe Lady of Shalott.
ABOW-shot from her bower-eaves,He rode between the barley-sheaves,The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight for ever kneel’dTo a lady in his shield,That sparkled on the yellow field,Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot;And from his blazon’d baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armour rung,Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,The helmet and the helmet-featherBurn’d like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot.As often thro’ the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;From underneath his helmet flow’dHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flash’d into the crystal mirror,‘Tirra lirra,’ by the riverSang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces thro’ the room,She saw the water-lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She look’d down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror crack’d from side to side;‘The curse is come upon me!’ criedThe Lady of Shalott.
IN the stormy east-wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver tower’d Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wroteThe Lady of Shalott.And down the river’s dim expanse—Like some bold seer in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance—With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right—The leaves upon her falling light—Thro’ the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot;And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darkened wholly,Turn’d to tower’d Camelot;For ere she reach’d upon the tideThe first house by the water-side,Singing in her song she died,The Lady of Shalott.Under tower and balcony,By garden-wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,Dead-pale between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they cross’d themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot:But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, ‘She has a lovely face;God in His mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott.’
IN the stormy east-wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver tower’d Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wroteThe Lady of Shalott.And down the river’s dim expanse—Like some bold seer in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance—With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right—The leaves upon her falling light—Thro’ the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot;And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darkened wholly,Turn’d to tower’d Camelot;For ere she reach’d upon the tideThe first house by the water-side,Singing in her song she died,The Lady of Shalott.Under tower and balcony,By garden-wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,Dead-pale between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they cross’d themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot:But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, ‘She has a lovely face;God in His mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott.’
IN the stormy east-wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver tower’d Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wroteThe Lady of Shalott.
And down the river’s dim expanse—Like some bold seer in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance—With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right—The leaves upon her falling light—Thro’ the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot;And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darkened wholly,Turn’d to tower’d Camelot;For ere she reach’d upon the tideThe first house by the water-side,Singing in her song she died,The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,By garden-wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,Dead-pale between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they cross’d themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot:But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, ‘She has a lovely face;God in His mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott.’
701.
IT is the miller’s daughter,And she is grown so dear, so dear,That I would be the jewelThat trembles in her ear:For hid in ringlets day and night,I’d touch her neck so warm and white.And I would be the girdleAbout her dainty dainty waist,And her heart would beat against me,In sorrow and in rest:And I should know if it beat right,I’d clasp it round so close and tight.And I would be the necklace,And all day long to fall and riseUpon her balmy bosom,With her laughter or her sighs:And I would lie so light, so light,I scarce should be unclasp’d at night.
IT is the miller’s daughter,And she is grown so dear, so dear,That I would be the jewelThat trembles in her ear:For hid in ringlets day and night,I’d touch her neck so warm and white.And I would be the girdleAbout her dainty dainty waist,And her heart would beat against me,In sorrow and in rest:And I should know if it beat right,I’d clasp it round so close and tight.And I would be the necklace,And all day long to fall and riseUpon her balmy bosom,With her laughter or her sighs:And I would lie so light, so light,I scarce should be unclasp’d at night.
IT is the miller’s daughter,And she is grown so dear, so dear,That I would be the jewelThat trembles in her ear:For hid in ringlets day and night,I’d touch her neck so warm and white.
And I would be the girdleAbout her dainty dainty waist,And her heart would beat against me,In sorrow and in rest:And I should know if it beat right,I’d clasp it round so close and tight.
And I would be the necklace,And all day long to fall and riseUpon her balmy bosom,With her laughter or her sighs:And I would lie so light, so light,I scarce should be unclasp’d at night.
702.
THERE is sweet music here that softer fallsThan petals from blown roses on the grass,Or night-dews on still waters between wallsOf shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.Here are cool mosses deep,And thro’ the moss the ivies creep,And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness,And utterly consumed with sharp distress,While all things else have rest from weariness?All things have rest: why should we toil alone,We only toil, who are the first of things,And make perpetual moan,Still from one sorrow to another thrown:Nor ever fold our wings,And cease from wanderings,Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm;Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,‘There is no joy but calm!’—Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?Lo! in the middle of the wood,The folded leaf is woo’d from out the budWith winds upon the branch, and thereGrows green and broad, and takes no care,Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moonNightly dew-fed; and turning yellowFalls, and floats adown the air.Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light,The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,Drops in a silent autumn night.All its allotted length of days,The flower ripens in its place,Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.Hateful is the dark-blue sky,Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.Death is the end of life; ah, whyShould life all labour be?Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,And in a little while our lips are dumb.Let us alone. What is it that will last?All things are taken from us, and becomePortions and parcels of the dreadful Past.Let us alone. What pleasure can we haveTo war with evil? Is there any peaceIn ever climbing up the climbing wave?All things have rest, and ripen toward the graveIn silence; ripen, fall and cease:Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,With half-shut eyes ever to seemFalling asleep in a half-dream!To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;To hear each other’s whisper’d speech;Eating the Lotos day by day,To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,And tender curving lines of creamy spray;To lend our hearts and spirits whollyTo the influence of mild-minded melancholy;To muse and brood and live again in memory,With those old faces of our infancyHeap’d over with a mound of grass,Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,And dear the last embraces of our wivesAnd their warm tears: but all hath suffer’d change;For surely now our household hearths are cold:Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange:And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.Or else the island princes over-boldHave eat our substance, and the minstrel singsBefore them of the ten years’ war in Troy,And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.Is there confusion in the little isle?Let what is broken so remain.The Gods are hard to reconcile:’Tis hard to settle order once again.Thereisconfusion worse than death,Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,Long labour unto agèd breath,Sore task to hearts worn out with many warsAnd eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)With half-dropt eyelids still,Beneath a heaven dark and holy,To watch the long bright river drawing slowlyHis waters from the purple hill—To hear the dewy echoes callingFrom cave to cave thro’ the thick-twinèd vine—To watch the emerald-colour’d water fallingThro’ many a wov’n acanthus-wreath divine!Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the pine.The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:The Lotos blows by every winding creek:All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone:Thro’ every hollow cave and alley loneRound and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.We have had enough of action, and of motion we,Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething free,Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclinedOn the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’dFar below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’dRound their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful songSteaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are strong;Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;Till they perish and they suffer—some, ’tis whisper’d—down in hellSuffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shoreThan labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
THERE is sweet music here that softer fallsThan petals from blown roses on the grass,Or night-dews on still waters between wallsOf shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.Here are cool mosses deep,And thro’ the moss the ivies creep,And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness,And utterly consumed with sharp distress,While all things else have rest from weariness?All things have rest: why should we toil alone,We only toil, who are the first of things,And make perpetual moan,Still from one sorrow to another thrown:Nor ever fold our wings,And cease from wanderings,Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm;Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,‘There is no joy but calm!’—Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?Lo! in the middle of the wood,The folded leaf is woo’d from out the budWith winds upon the branch, and thereGrows green and broad, and takes no care,Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moonNightly dew-fed; and turning yellowFalls, and floats adown the air.Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light,The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,Drops in a silent autumn night.All its allotted length of days,The flower ripens in its place,Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.Hateful is the dark-blue sky,Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.Death is the end of life; ah, whyShould life all labour be?Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,And in a little while our lips are dumb.Let us alone. What is it that will last?All things are taken from us, and becomePortions and parcels of the dreadful Past.Let us alone. What pleasure can we haveTo war with evil? Is there any peaceIn ever climbing up the climbing wave?All things have rest, and ripen toward the graveIn silence; ripen, fall and cease:Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,With half-shut eyes ever to seemFalling asleep in a half-dream!To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;To hear each other’s whisper’d speech;Eating the Lotos day by day,To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,And tender curving lines of creamy spray;To lend our hearts and spirits whollyTo the influence of mild-minded melancholy;To muse and brood and live again in memory,With those old faces of our infancyHeap’d over with a mound of grass,Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,And dear the last embraces of our wivesAnd their warm tears: but all hath suffer’d change;For surely now our household hearths are cold:Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange:And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.Or else the island princes over-boldHave eat our substance, and the minstrel singsBefore them of the ten years’ war in Troy,And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.Is there confusion in the little isle?Let what is broken so remain.The Gods are hard to reconcile:’Tis hard to settle order once again.Thereisconfusion worse than death,Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,Long labour unto agèd breath,Sore task to hearts worn out with many warsAnd eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)With half-dropt eyelids still,Beneath a heaven dark and holy,To watch the long bright river drawing slowlyHis waters from the purple hill—To hear the dewy echoes callingFrom cave to cave thro’ the thick-twinèd vine—To watch the emerald-colour’d water fallingThro’ many a wov’n acanthus-wreath divine!Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the pine.The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:The Lotos blows by every winding creek:All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone:Thro’ every hollow cave and alley loneRound and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.We have had enough of action, and of motion we,Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething free,Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclinedOn the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’dFar below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’dRound their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful songSteaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are strong;Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;Till they perish and they suffer—some, ’tis whisper’d—down in hellSuffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shoreThan labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
THERE is sweet music here that softer fallsThan petals from blown roses on the grass,Or night-dews on still waters between wallsOf shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.Here are cool mosses deep,And thro’ the moss the ivies creep,And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness,And utterly consumed with sharp distress,While all things else have rest from weariness?All things have rest: why should we toil alone,We only toil, who are the first of things,And make perpetual moan,Still from one sorrow to another thrown:Nor ever fold our wings,And cease from wanderings,Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm;Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,‘There is no joy but calm!’—Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?
Lo! in the middle of the wood,The folded leaf is woo’d from out the budWith winds upon the branch, and thereGrows green and broad, and takes no care,Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moonNightly dew-fed; and turning yellowFalls, and floats adown the air.Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light,The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,Drops in a silent autumn night.All its allotted length of days,The flower ripens in its place,Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.Death is the end of life; ah, whyShould life all labour be?Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,And in a little while our lips are dumb.Let us alone. What is it that will last?All things are taken from us, and becomePortions and parcels of the dreadful Past.Let us alone. What pleasure can we haveTo war with evil? Is there any peaceIn ever climbing up the climbing wave?All things have rest, and ripen toward the graveIn silence; ripen, fall and cease:Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,With half-shut eyes ever to seemFalling asleep in a half-dream!To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;To hear each other’s whisper’d speech;Eating the Lotos day by day,To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,And tender curving lines of creamy spray;To lend our hearts and spirits whollyTo the influence of mild-minded melancholy;To muse and brood and live again in memory,With those old faces of our infancyHeap’d over with a mound of grass,Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,And dear the last embraces of our wivesAnd their warm tears: but all hath suffer’d change;For surely now our household hearths are cold:Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange:And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.Or else the island princes over-boldHave eat our substance, and the minstrel singsBefore them of the ten years’ war in Troy,And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.Is there confusion in the little isle?Let what is broken so remain.The Gods are hard to reconcile:’Tis hard to settle order once again.Thereisconfusion worse than death,Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,Long labour unto agèd breath,Sore task to hearts worn out with many warsAnd eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)With half-dropt eyelids still,Beneath a heaven dark and holy,To watch the long bright river drawing slowlyHis waters from the purple hill—To hear the dewy echoes callingFrom cave to cave thro’ the thick-twinèd vine—To watch the emerald-colour’d water fallingThro’ many a wov’n acanthus-wreath divine!Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the pine.
The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:The Lotos blows by every winding creek:All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone:Thro’ every hollow cave and alley loneRound and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.We have had enough of action, and of motion we,Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething free,Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclinedOn the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’dFar below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’dRound their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful songSteaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are strong;Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;Till they perish and they suffer—some, ’tis whisper’d—down in hellSuffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shoreThan labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
703.
DEEP on the convent-roof the snowsAre sparkling to the moon:My breath to heaven like vapour goes:May my soul follow soon!The shadows of the convent-towersSlant down the snowy sward,Still creeping with the creeping hoursThat lead me to my Lord:Make Thou my spirit pure and clearAs are the frosty skies,Or this first snowdrop of the yearThat in my bosom lies.As these white robes are soil’d and dark,To yonder shining ground;As this pale taper’s earthly spark,To yonder argent round;So shows my soul before the Lamb,My spirit before Thee;So in mine earthly house I am,To that I hope to be.Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,Thro’ all yon starlight keen,Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,In raiment white and clean.He lifts me to the golden doors;The flashes come and go;All heaven bursts her starry floors,And strows her lights below,And deepens on and up! the gatesRoll back, and far withinFor me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,To make me pure of sin.The sabbaths of Eternity,One sabbath deep and wide—A light upon the shining sea—The Bridegroom with his bride!
DEEP on the convent-roof the snowsAre sparkling to the moon:My breath to heaven like vapour goes:May my soul follow soon!The shadows of the convent-towersSlant down the snowy sward,Still creeping with the creeping hoursThat lead me to my Lord:Make Thou my spirit pure and clearAs are the frosty skies,Or this first snowdrop of the yearThat in my bosom lies.As these white robes are soil’d and dark,To yonder shining ground;As this pale taper’s earthly spark,To yonder argent round;So shows my soul before the Lamb,My spirit before Thee;So in mine earthly house I am,To that I hope to be.Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,Thro’ all yon starlight keen,Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,In raiment white and clean.He lifts me to the golden doors;The flashes come and go;All heaven bursts her starry floors,And strows her lights below,And deepens on and up! the gatesRoll back, and far withinFor me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,To make me pure of sin.The sabbaths of Eternity,One sabbath deep and wide—A light upon the shining sea—The Bridegroom with his bride!
DEEP on the convent-roof the snowsAre sparkling to the moon:My breath to heaven like vapour goes:May my soul follow soon!The shadows of the convent-towersSlant down the snowy sward,Still creeping with the creeping hoursThat lead me to my Lord:Make Thou my spirit pure and clearAs are the frosty skies,Or this first snowdrop of the yearThat in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soil’d and dark,To yonder shining ground;As this pale taper’s earthly spark,To yonder argent round;So shows my soul before the Lamb,My spirit before Thee;So in mine earthly house I am,To that I hope to be.Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,Thro’ all yon starlight keen,Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the golden doors;The flashes come and go;All heaven bursts her starry floors,And strows her lights below,And deepens on and up! the gatesRoll back, and far withinFor me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,To make me pure of sin.The sabbaths of Eternity,One sabbath deep and wide—A light upon the shining sea—The Bridegroom with his bride!
704.
THE splendour falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
THE splendour falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
THE splendour falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
705.
NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,And all thy heart lies open unto me.Now slides the silent meteor on, and leavesA shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,And slips into the bosom of the lake:So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slipInto my bosom and be lost in me.
NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,And all thy heart lies open unto me.Now slides the silent meteor on, and leavesA shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,And slips into the bosom of the lake:So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slipInto my bosom and be lost in me.
NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leavesA shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,And slips into the bosom of the lake:So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slipInto my bosom and be lost in me.
706.
COME down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?But cease to move so near the Heavens, and ceaseTo glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine,To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;And come, for Love is of the valley, come,For Love is of the valley, come thou downAnd find him; by the happy threshold, he,Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,Or red with spirted purple of the vats,Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walkWith Death and Morning on the silver horns,Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice,That huddling slant in furrow-cloven fallsTo roll the torrent out of dusky doors:But follow; let the torrent dance thee downTo find him in the valley; let the wildLean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leaveThe monstrous ledges there to slope, and spillTheir thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,That like a broken purpose waste in air:So waste not thou; but come; for all the valesAwait thee; azure pillars of the hearthArise to thee; the children call, and IThy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro’ the lawn,The moan of doves in immemorial elms,And murmuring of innumerable bees.
COME down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?But cease to move so near the Heavens, and ceaseTo glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine,To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;And come, for Love is of the valley, come,For Love is of the valley, come thou downAnd find him; by the happy threshold, he,Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,Or red with spirted purple of the vats,Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walkWith Death and Morning on the silver horns,Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice,That huddling slant in furrow-cloven fallsTo roll the torrent out of dusky doors:But follow; let the torrent dance thee downTo find him in the valley; let the wildLean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leaveThe monstrous ledges there to slope, and spillTheir thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,That like a broken purpose waste in air:So waste not thou; but come; for all the valesAwait thee; azure pillars of the hearthArise to thee; the children call, and IThy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro’ the lawn,The moan of doves in immemorial elms,And murmuring of innumerable bees.
COME down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?But cease to move so near the Heavens, and ceaseTo glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine,To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;And come, for Love is of the valley, come,For Love is of the valley, come thou downAnd find him; by the happy threshold, he,Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,Or red with spirted purple of the vats,Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walkWith Death and Morning on the silver horns,Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice,That huddling slant in furrow-cloven fallsTo roll the torrent out of dusky doors:But follow; let the torrent dance thee downTo find him in the valley; let the wildLean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leaveThe monstrous ledges there to slope, and spillTheir thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,That like a broken purpose waste in air:So waste not thou; but come; for all the valesAwait thee; azure pillars of the hearthArise to thee; the children call, and IThy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro’ the lawn,The moan of doves in immemorial elms,And murmuring of innumerable bees.
707.
(ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, MDCCCXXXIII)
FAIR ship, that from the Italian shoreSailest the placid ocean-plainsWith my lost Arthur’s loved remains,Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er.So draw him home to those that mournIn vain; a favourable speedRuffle thy mirror’d mast, and leadThro’ prosperous floods his holy urn.All night no ruder air perplexThy sliding keel, till Phosphor, brightAs our pure love, thro’ early lightShall glimmer on the dewy decks.Sphere all your lights around, above;Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,My friend, the brother of my love;My Arthur, whom I shall not seeTill all my widow’d race be run;Dear as the mother to the son,More than my brothers are to me.
FAIR ship, that from the Italian shoreSailest the placid ocean-plainsWith my lost Arthur’s loved remains,Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er.So draw him home to those that mournIn vain; a favourable speedRuffle thy mirror’d mast, and leadThro’ prosperous floods his holy urn.All night no ruder air perplexThy sliding keel, till Phosphor, brightAs our pure love, thro’ early lightShall glimmer on the dewy decks.Sphere all your lights around, above;Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,My friend, the brother of my love;My Arthur, whom I shall not seeTill all my widow’d race be run;Dear as the mother to the son,More than my brothers are to me.
FAIR ship, that from the Italian shoreSailest the placid ocean-plainsWith my lost Arthur’s loved remains,Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er.
So draw him home to those that mournIn vain; a favourable speedRuffle thy mirror’d mast, and leadThro’ prosperous floods his holy urn.
All night no ruder air perplexThy sliding keel, till Phosphor, brightAs our pure love, thro’ early lightShall glimmer on the dewy decks.
Sphere all your lights around, above;Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,My friend, the brother of my love;
My Arthur, whom I shall not seeTill all my widow’d race be run;Dear as the mother to the son,More than my brothers are to me.
IHEAR the noise about thy keel;I hear the bell struck in the night;I see the cabin-window bright;I see the sailor at the wheel.Thou bring’st the sailor to his wife,And travell’d men from foreign lands;And letters unto trembling hands;And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life.So bring him: we have idle dreams:This look of quiet flatters thusOur home-bred fancies: O to us,The fools of habit, sweeter seemsTo rest beneath the clover sod,That takes the sunshine and the rains,Or where the kneeling hamlet drainsThe chalice of the grapes of God;Than if with thee the roaring wellsShould gulf him fathom-deep in brine;And hands so often clasp’d in mine,Should toss with tangle and with shells.
IHEAR the noise about thy keel;I hear the bell struck in the night;I see the cabin-window bright;I see the sailor at the wheel.Thou bring’st the sailor to his wife,And travell’d men from foreign lands;And letters unto trembling hands;And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life.So bring him: we have idle dreams:This look of quiet flatters thusOur home-bred fancies: O to us,The fools of habit, sweeter seemsTo rest beneath the clover sod,That takes the sunshine and the rains,Or where the kneeling hamlet drainsThe chalice of the grapes of God;Than if with thee the roaring wellsShould gulf him fathom-deep in brine;And hands so often clasp’d in mine,Should toss with tangle and with shells.
IHEAR the noise about thy keel;I hear the bell struck in the night;I see the cabin-window bright;I see the sailor at the wheel.
Thou bring’st the sailor to his wife,And travell’d men from foreign lands;And letters unto trembling hands;And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life.
So bring him: we have idle dreams:This look of quiet flatters thusOur home-bred fancies: O to us,The fools of habit, sweeter seems
To rest beneath the clover sod,That takes the sunshine and the rains,Or where the kneeling hamlet drainsThe chalice of the grapes of God;
Than if with thee the roaring wellsShould gulf him fathom-deep in brine;And hands so often clasp’d in mine,Should toss with tangle and with shells.
CALM is the morn without a sound,Calm as to suit a calmer grief,And only thro’ the faded leafThe chestnut pattering to the ground:Calm and deep peace on this high wold,And on these dews that drench the furze,And all the silvery gossamersThat twinkle into green and gold:Calm and still light on yon great plainThat sweeps with all its autumn bowers,And crowded farms and lessening towers,To mingle with the bounding main:Calm and deep peace in this wide air,These leaves that redden to the fall;And in my heart, if calm at all,If any calm, a calm despair:Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,And waves that sway themselves in rest,And dead calm in that noble breastWhich heaves but with the heaving deep.
CALM is the morn without a sound,Calm as to suit a calmer grief,And only thro’ the faded leafThe chestnut pattering to the ground:Calm and deep peace on this high wold,And on these dews that drench the furze,And all the silvery gossamersThat twinkle into green and gold:Calm and still light on yon great plainThat sweeps with all its autumn bowers,And crowded farms and lessening towers,To mingle with the bounding main:Calm and deep peace in this wide air,These leaves that redden to the fall;And in my heart, if calm at all,If any calm, a calm despair:Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,And waves that sway themselves in rest,And dead calm in that noble breastWhich heaves but with the heaving deep.
CALM is the morn without a sound,Calm as to suit a calmer grief,And only thro’ the faded leafThe chestnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,And on these dews that drench the furze,And all the silvery gossamersThat twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plainThat sweeps with all its autumn bowers,And crowded farms and lessening towers,To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,These leaves that redden to the fall;And in my heart, if calm at all,If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,And waves that sway themselves in rest,And dead calm in that noble breastWhich heaves but with the heaving deep.
TO-night the winds begin to riseAnd roar from yonder dropping day:The last red leaf is whirl’d away,The rooks are blown about the skies;The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d,The cattle huddled on the lea;And wildly dash’d on tower and treeThe sunbeam strikes along the world:And but for fancies, which averThat all thy motions gently passAthwart a plane of molten glass,I scarce could brook the strain and stirThat makes the barren branches loud;And but for fear it is not so,The wild unrest that lives in woeWould dote and pore on yonder cloudThat rises upward always higher,And onward drags a labouring breast,And topples round the dreary west,A looming bastion fringed with fire.
TO-night the winds begin to riseAnd roar from yonder dropping day:The last red leaf is whirl’d away,The rooks are blown about the skies;The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d,The cattle huddled on the lea;And wildly dash’d on tower and treeThe sunbeam strikes along the world:And but for fancies, which averThat all thy motions gently passAthwart a plane of molten glass,I scarce could brook the strain and stirThat makes the barren branches loud;And but for fear it is not so,The wild unrest that lives in woeWould dote and pore on yonder cloudThat rises upward always higher,And onward drags a labouring breast,And topples round the dreary west,A looming bastion fringed with fire.
TO-night the winds begin to riseAnd roar from yonder dropping day:The last red leaf is whirl’d away,The rooks are blown about the skies;
The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d,The cattle huddled on the lea;And wildly dash’d on tower and treeThe sunbeam strikes along the world:
And but for fancies, which averThat all thy motions gently passAthwart a plane of molten glass,I scarce could brook the strain and stir
That makes the barren branches loud;And but for fear it is not so,The wild unrest that lives in woeWould dote and pore on yonder cloud
That rises upward always higher,And onward drags a labouring breast,And topples round the dreary west,A looming bastion fringed with fire.
THOU comest, much wept for: such a breezeCompell’d thy canvas, and my prayerWas as the whisper of an airTo breathe thee over lonely seas.For I in spirit saw thee moveThro’ circles of the bounding sky,Week after week: the days go by:Come quick, thou bringest all I love.Henceforth, wherever thou mayst roamMy blessing, like a line of light,Is on the waters day and night,And like a beacon guards thee home.So may whatever tempest marsMid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark;And balmy drops in summer darkSlide from the bosom of the stars.So kind an office hath been done,Such precious relics brought by thee;The dust of him I shall not seeTill all my widow’d race be run.
THOU comest, much wept for: such a breezeCompell’d thy canvas, and my prayerWas as the whisper of an airTo breathe thee over lonely seas.For I in spirit saw thee moveThro’ circles of the bounding sky,Week after week: the days go by:Come quick, thou bringest all I love.Henceforth, wherever thou mayst roamMy blessing, like a line of light,Is on the waters day and night,And like a beacon guards thee home.So may whatever tempest marsMid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark;And balmy drops in summer darkSlide from the bosom of the stars.So kind an office hath been done,Such precious relics brought by thee;The dust of him I shall not seeTill all my widow’d race be run.
THOU comest, much wept for: such a breezeCompell’d thy canvas, and my prayerWas as the whisper of an airTo breathe thee over lonely seas.
For I in spirit saw thee moveThro’ circles of the bounding sky,Week after week: the days go by:Come quick, thou bringest all I love.
Henceforth, wherever thou mayst roamMy blessing, like a line of light,Is on the waters day and night,And like a beacon guards thee home.
So may whatever tempest marsMid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark;And balmy drops in summer darkSlide from the bosom of the stars.
So kind an office hath been done,Such precious relics brought by thee;The dust of him I shall not seeTill all my widow’d race be run.
NOW, sometimes in my sorrow shut,Or breaking into song by fits,Alone, alone, to where he sits,The Shadow cloak’d from head to foot,Who keeps the keys of all the creeds,I wander, often falling lame,And looking back to whence I came,Or on to where the pathway leads;And crying, How changed from where it ranThro’ lands where not a leaf was dumb;But all the lavish hills would humThe murmur of a happy Pan:When each by turns was guide to each,And Fancy light from Fancy caught,And Thought leapt out to wed with ThoughtEre Thought could wed itself with Speech;And all we met was fair and good,And all was good that Time could bring,And all the secret of the SpringMoved in the chambers of the blood;And many an old philosophyOn Argive heights divinely sang,And round us all the thicket rangTo many a flute of Arcady.
NOW, sometimes in my sorrow shut,Or breaking into song by fits,Alone, alone, to where he sits,The Shadow cloak’d from head to foot,Who keeps the keys of all the creeds,I wander, often falling lame,And looking back to whence I came,Or on to where the pathway leads;And crying, How changed from where it ranThro’ lands where not a leaf was dumb;But all the lavish hills would humThe murmur of a happy Pan:When each by turns was guide to each,And Fancy light from Fancy caught,And Thought leapt out to wed with ThoughtEre Thought could wed itself with Speech;And all we met was fair and good,And all was good that Time could bring,And all the secret of the SpringMoved in the chambers of the blood;And many an old philosophyOn Argive heights divinely sang,And round us all the thicket rangTo many a flute of Arcady.
NOW, sometimes in my sorrow shut,Or breaking into song by fits,Alone, alone, to where he sits,The Shadow cloak’d from head to foot,
Who keeps the keys of all the creeds,I wander, often falling lame,And looking back to whence I came,Or on to where the pathway leads;And crying, How changed from where it ranThro’ lands where not a leaf was dumb;But all the lavish hills would humThe murmur of a happy Pan:
When each by turns was guide to each,And Fancy light from Fancy caught,And Thought leapt out to wed with ThoughtEre Thought could wed itself with Speech;
And all we met was fair and good,And all was good that Time could bring,And all the secret of the SpringMoved in the chambers of the blood;
And many an old philosophyOn Argive heights divinely sang,And round us all the thicket rangTo many a flute of Arcady.