Where it will break at last.

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     173.

     She walks in beauty, like the night
     Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
     And all that's best of dark and bright
     Meets in her aspect and her eyes,
     Thus mellow'd to that tender light
     Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

     One shade the more, one ray the less,
     Had half impair'd the nameless grace
     Which waves in every raven tress
     Or softly lightens o'er her face,
     Where thoughts serenely sweet express
     How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

     And on that cheek, and o'er that brow
     So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
     The smiles that win, the tints that glow
     But tell of days in goodness spent,--
     A mind at peace with all below,
     A heart whose love is innocent.

     LORD BYRON.

     174.

     She was a phantom of delight
     When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
     A lovely apparition, sent
     To be a moment's ornament;
     Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
     Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
     But all things else about her drawn
     From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
     A dancing shape, an image gay,
     To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

     I saw her upon nearer view,
     A spirit, yet a woman too!
     Her household motions light and free,
     And steps of virgin-liberty;
     A countenance in which did meet
     Sweet records, promises as sweet;
     A creature not too bright or good
     For human nature's daily food,
     For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
     Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

     And now I see with eye serene
     The very pulse of the machine;
     A being breathing thoughtful breath,
     A traveller between life and death:
     The reason firm, the temperate will,
     Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
     A perfect woman, nobly plann'd,
     To warn, to comfort, and command;
     And yet a Spirit still, and bright
     With something of an angel-light.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     175.

       She is not fair to outward view
        As many maidens be;
       Her loveliness I never knew
        Until she smiled on me.
       O then I saw her eye was bright,
       A well of love, a spring of light.

       But now her looks are coy and cold,
        To mine they ne'er reply,
       And yet I cease not to behold
        The love-light in her eye:
       Her very frowns are fairer far
       Than smiles of other maidens are.

     H. COLERIDGE.

     176.

     I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;
     Thou needest not fear mine;
     My spirit is too deeply laden
     Ever to burthen thine.

     I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
     Thou needest not fear mine;
     Innocent is the heart's devotion
     With which I worship thine.

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     177. THE LOST LOVE.

     She dwelt among the untrodden ways
       Beside the springs of Dove;
     A maid whom there were none to praise,
       And very few to love.

     A violet by a mossy stone
       Half hidden from the eye!
     --Fair as a star, when only one
       Is shining in the sky.

     She lived unknown, and few could know
       When Lucy ceased to be;
     But she is in her grave, and O!
       The difference to me!

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     178.

     I travell'd among unknown men
       In lands beyond the sea;
     Nor, England! did I know till then
       What love I bore to thee.

     'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
       Nor will I quit thy shore
     A second time, for still I seem
       To love thee more and more.

     Among thy mountains did I feel
       The joy of my desire;
     And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
       Beside an English fire.

     Thy mornings showed, thy nights conceal'd,
       The bowers where Lucy play'd;
     And thine too is the last green field
       That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     179. THE EDUCATION OF NATURE.

     Three years she grew in sun and shower;
     Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
     On earth was never sown;
     This child I to myself will take;
     She shall be mine, and I will make
     A lady of my own.

     "Myself will to my darling be
     Both law and impulse: and with me
     The girl, in rock and plain,
     In earth and heaven, in glade and bower
     Shall feel an overseeing power
     To kindle or restrain.

     "She shall be sportive as the fawn
     That wild with glee across the lawn
     Or up the mountain springs;
     And her's shall be the breathing balm,
     And her's the silence and the calm
     Of mute insensate things.

     "The floating clouds their state shall lend
     To her; for her the willow bend;
     Nor shall she fail to see
     E'en in the motions of the storm
     Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
     By silent sympathy.

     "The stars of midnight shall be dear
     To her; and she shall lean her ear
     In many a secret place
     Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
     And beauty born of murmuring sound
     Shall pass into her face.

     "And vital feelings of delight
     Shall rear her form to stately height,
     Her virgin bosom swell;
     Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
     While she and I together live
     Here in this happy dell."

     Thus Nature spake--The work was done--
     How soon my Lucy's race was run!
     She died, and left to me
     This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
     The memory of what has been,
     And never more will be.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     180.

     A slumber did my spirit seal;
       I had no human fears:
     She seem'd a thing that could not feel
       The touch of earthly years.

     No motion has she now, no force;
       She neither hears nor sees;
     Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course
       With rocks, and stones, and trees!

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     181. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

     A Chieftain to the Highlands bound
     Cries "Boatman, do not tarry!
     And I'll give thee a silver pound
     To row us o'er the ferry!"

     "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle
     This dark and stormy water?"
     "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
     And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

     "And fast before her father's men
     Three days we've fled together,
     For should he find us in the glen,
     My blood would stain the heather.

     "His horsemen hard behind us ride--
     Should they our steps discover,
     Then who will cheer my bonny bride
     When they have slain her lover?"

     Out spoke the hardy Highland wight
     "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:
     It is not for your silver bright,
     But for your winsome lady:--

     "And by my word! the bonny bird
     In danger not shall tarry;
     So though the waves are raging white
     I'll row you o'er the ferry."

     By this the storm grew loud apace,
     The water-wraith was shrieking;
     And in the scowl of heaven each face
     Grew dark as they were speaking.

     But still as wilder blew the wind
     And as the night grew drearer,
     Adown the glen rode arméd men,
     Their trampling sounded nearer.

     "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
     "Though tempests round us gather;
     I'll meet the raging of the skies,
     But not an angry father."

     The boat has left a stormy land,
     A stormy sea before her,--
     When O! too strong for human hand
     The tempest gather'd o'er her.

     And still they row'd amidst the roar
     Of waters fast prevailing:
     Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,--
     His wrath was changed to wailing.

     For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade
     His child he did discover:--
     One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
     And one was round her lover.

     "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
     "Across this stormy water:
     And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
     My daughter!--O my daughter!"

     'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,
     Return or aid preventing:
     The waters wild went o'er his child,
     And he was left lamenting.

     T. CAMPBELL.

     182. JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.

     "Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
       Why weep ye by the tide?
     I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
       And ye sall be his bride:
     And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
       Sae comely to be seen"--
     But aye she loot the tears doon fa'
       For Jock o' Hazeldean.

     "Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
       And dry that cheek so pale;
     Young Frank is chief of Errington
       And lord of Langley-dale;
     His step is first in peaceful ha',
       His sword in battle keen"--
     But aye she loot the tears down fa'
       For Jock o' Hazeldean.

     "A chain of gold ye shall not lack,
       Nor braid to bind your hair,
     Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk
       Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
     And you the foremost o' them a'
       Shall ride our forest queen"--
     But aye she loot the tears down fa'
       For Jock o' Hazeldean.

     The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
       The tapers glimmer'd fair;
     The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
       And dame and knight are there:
     They sought her baith by bower and ha';
       The ladie was not seen!
     She's o'er the Border, and awa'
       Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean.

     SIR W. SCOTT.

     183. FREEDOM AND LOVE.

     How delicious is the winning
     Of a kiss at love's beginning,
     When two mutual hearts are sighing
     For the knot there's no untying!

     Yet remember, 'midst your wooing,
     Love has bliss, but Love has ruing;
     Other smiles may make you fickle,
     Tears for other charms may trickle.

     Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
     Just as fate or fancy carries;
     Longest stays, when sorest chidden;
     Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden.

     Bind the sea to slumber stilly,
     Bind its odour to the lily,
     Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,
     Then bind Love to last for ever.

     Love's a fire that needs renewal
     Of fresh beauty for its fuel:
     Love's wing moults when caged and captured,
     Only free, he soars enraptured.

     Can you keep the bee from ranging
     Or the ringdove's neck from changing?
     No! nor fetter'd Love from dying
     In the knot there's no untying.

     T. CAMPBELL.

     184. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.

     The fountains mingle with the river
     And the rivers with the ocean,
     The winds of heaven mix for ever
     With a sweet emotion;
     Nothing in the world is single,
     All things by a law divine
     In one another's being mingle--
     Why not I with thine?

     See the mountains kiss high heaven
     And the waves clasp one another;
     No sister-flower would be forgiven
     If it disdain'd its brother:
     And the sunlight clasps the earth,
     And the moonbeams kiss the sea--
     What are all these kissings worth,
     If thou kiss not me?

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     185. ECHOES.

     How sweet the answer Echo makes
     To Music at night
     When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
     And far away o'er lawns and lakes
     Goes answering light!

     Yet Love hath echoes truer far
     And far more sweet
     Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
     Of horn or lute or soft guitar
     The songs repeat.

     'Tis when the sigh,--in youth sincere
     And only then,
     The sigh that's breathed for one to hear--
     Is by that one, that only Dear
     Breathed back again.

     T. MOORE.

     186. A SERENADE.

     Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
       The sun has left the lea,
     The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
       The breeze is on the sea.
     The lark, his lay who trill'd all day,
       Sits hush'd his partner nigh;
     Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
       But where is County Guy?

     The village maid steals through the shade
       Her shepherd's suit to hear;
     To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
       Sings high-born Cavalier.
     The star of Love, all stars above,
       Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
     And high and low the influence know--
       But where is County Guy?

     SIR W. SCOTT.

     187. TO THE EVENING STAR.

     Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,
     Companion of retiring day,
     Why at the closing gates of heaven,
     Beloved Star, dost thou delay?

     So fair thy pensile beauty burns
     When soft the tear of twilight flows;
     So due thy plighted love returns
     To chambers brighter than the rose;

     To Peace, to Pleasure, and to love
     So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
     Sure some enamour'd orb above
     Descends and burns to meet with thee.

     Thine is the breathing, blushing hour
     When all unheavenly passions fly,
     Chased by the soul-subduing power
     Of Love's delicious witchery.

     O! sacred to the fall of day
     Queen of propitious stars, appear,
     And early rise, and long delay
     When Caroline herself is here!

     Shine on her chosen green resort
     Whose trees the sunward summit crown,
     And wanton flowers, that well may court
     An angel's feet to tread them down:--

     Shine on her sweetly scented road
     Thou star of evening's purple dome,
     That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
     And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.

     Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
     Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
     Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
     To kiss the cheek of rosy hue:--

     Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,
     Her silken tresses darkly flow
     And fall upon her brow so fair,
     Like shadows on the mountain snow.

     Thus, ever thus, at day's decline
     In converse sweet to wander far--
     O bring with thee my Caroline,
     And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!

     T. CAMPBELL.

     188. TO THE NIGHT.

     Swiftly walk over the western wave,
                 Spirit of Night!
     Out of the misty eastern cave
     Where all the long and lone daylight
     Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
     Which make thee terrible and dear,--
                 Swift be thy flight!

     Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
                 Star-inwrought!
     Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,
     Kiss her until she be wearied out,
     Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
     Touching all with thine opiate wand--
                 Come, long-sought!

     When I arose and saw the dawn,
                 I sigh'd for thee;
     When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
     And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
     And the weary Day turn'd to his rest,
     Lingering like an unloved guest,
                 I sigh'd for thee.

     Thy brother Death came, and cried,
                 Wouldst thou me?
     Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
     Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee
     Shall I nestle near thy side?
     Wouldst thou me?--And I replied
                 No, not thee!

     Death will come when thou art dead,
                 Soon, too soon--
     Sleep will come when thou art fled;
     Of neither would I ask the boon
     I ask of thee, belovéd Night--
     Swift be thine approaching flight,
                 Come soon, soon!

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     189. TO A DISTANT FRIEND.

     Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
     Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
     Of absence withers what was once so fair?
     Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?

     Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,
     Bound to thy service with unceasing care--
     The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
     For nought but what thy happiness could spare.

     Speak!--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
     A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
     Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
     Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow
     'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine--
     Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     190.

          When we two parted
          In silence and tears,
          Half broken-hearted
          To sever for years,
          Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
          Colder thy kiss;
          Truly that hour foretold
          Sorrow to this!

          The dew of the morning
          Sunk chill on my brow;
          It felt like the warning
          Of what I feel now.
          Thy vows are all broken,
          And light is thy fame:
          I hear thy name spoken,
          And share in its shame.

          They name thee before me,
          A knell to mine ear;
          A shudder comes o'er me--
          Why wert thou so dear?
          They know not I knew thee,
          Who knew thee too well:
          Long, long shall I rue thee
          Too deeply to tell.

          In secret we met:
          In silence I grieve
          That thy heart could forget,
          Thy spirit deceive.
          If I should meet thee
          After long years,
          How should I greet thee?--
          With silence and tears.

     LORD BYRON.

     191. HAPPY INSENSIBILITY.

     In a drear-nighted December,
     Too happy, happy Tree
     Thy branches ne'er remember
     Their green felicity:
     The north cannot undo them
     With a sleety whistle through them,
     Nor frozen thawings glue them
     From budding at the prime.

     In a drear-nighted December
     Too happy, happy Brook
     Thy bubblings ne'er remember
     Apollo's summer look;
     But with a sweet forgetting
     They stay their crystal fretting,
     Never, never petting
     About the frozen time.

     Ah! would 'twere so with many
     A gentle girl and boy!
     But were there ever any
     Writhed not at passéd joy?
     To know the change and feel it,
     When there is none to heal it
     Nor numbéd sense to steal it--
     Was never said in rhyme.

     J. KEATS.

     192.

     Where shall the lover rest
      Whom the fates sever
     From his true maiden's breast
      Parted for ever?
     Where, through groves deep and high
      Sounds the far billow,
     Where early violets die
      Under the willow.
        Eleu loro
      Soft shall be his pillow.

     There, through the summer day
      Cool streams are laving:
     There, while the tempests sway,
      Scarce are boughs waving;
     There thy rest shalt thou take,
      Parted for ever,
     Never again to wake
      Never, O never!
        Eleu loro
      Never, O never!

     Where shall the traitor rest,
      He, the deceiver,
     Who would win maiden's breast,
      Ruin, and leave her?
     In the lost battle,
      Borne down by the flying,
     Where mingles war's rattle
      With groans of the dying;
        Eleu loro
      There shall he be lying.

     Her wing shall the eagle flap
      O'er the falsehearted;
     His warm blood the wolf shall lap
      Ere life be parted:
     Shame and dishonour sit
      By his grave ever;
     Blessing shall hallow it
      Never, O never!
        Eleu loro
      Never, O never!

     SIR W. SCOTT.

     193. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.

     "O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
      Alone and palely loitering?
     The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
      And no birds sing.

     "O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
      So haggard and so woe-begone?
     The squirrel's granary is full,
      And the harvest's done.

     "I see a lily on thy brow
      With anguish moist and fever-dew,
     And on thy cheeks a fading rose
      Fast withereth too."

     "I met a lady in the meads,
      Full beautiful--a faery's child,
     Her hair was long, her foot was light,
      And her eyes were wild.

     "I made a garland for her head,
      And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
     She look'd at me as she did love,
      And made sweet moan.

     "I set her on my pacing steed
      And nothing else saw all day long,
     For sidelong would she bend, and sing
      A faery's song.

     "She found me roots of relish sweet,
      And honey wild and manna-dew,
     And sure in language strange she said,
      'I love thee true.'

     "She took me to her elfin grot,
      And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore,
     And there I shut her wild wild eyes
      With kisses four.

     "And there she lulléd me asleep,
      And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide!
     The latest dream I ever dream'd
      On the cold hill's side.

     "I saw pale kings and princes too,
      Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
     They cried--'La belle Dame sans Merci
      Hath thee in thrall!'

     "I saw their starved lips in the gloam
      With horrid warning gapéd wide,
     And I awoke and found me here,
      On the cold hill's side.

     "And this is why I sojourn here
      Alone and palely loitering,
     Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
      And no birds sing."

     J. KEATS.

     194. THE ROVER.

     "A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
       A weary lot is thine!
     To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
       And press the rue for wine.
     A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
       A feather of the blue,
     A doublet of the Lincoln green--
       No more of me you knew,
                   My Love!
     No more of me you knew.

     "The morn is merry June, I trow,
       The rose is budding fain;
     But she shall bloom in winter snow
       Ere we two meet again."
     He turn'd his charger as he spake
       Upon the river shore,
     He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
       Said "Adieu for evermore,
                   My Love!
     And adieu for evermore."

     SIR W. SCOTT.

     195. THE FLIGHT OF LOVE.

     When the lamp is shatter'd,
     The light in the dust lies dead--
     When the cloud is scatter'd,
     The rainbow's glory is shed.
     When the lute is broken,
     Sweet tones are remember'd not;
     When the lips have spoken,
     Loved accents are soon forgot.

     As music and splendour
     Survive not the lamp and the lute,
     The heart's echoes render
     No song when the spirit is mute--
     No song but sad dirges,
     Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,
     Or the mournful surges
     That ring the dead seaman's knell.

     When hearts have once mingled,
     Love first leaves the well-built nest;
     The weak one is singled
     To endure what it once possest.
     O Love! who bewailest
     The frailty of all things here,
     Why choose you the frailest
     For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

     Its passions will rock thee
     As the storms rock the ravens on high;
     Bright reason will mock thee
     Like the sun from a wintry sky.
     From thy nest every rafter
     Will rot, and thine eagle home
     Leave thee naked to laughter,
     When leaves fall and cold winds come.

     P. B. SHELLEY.

     196. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.

     O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,
      And lovers' ears in hearing;
     And love, in life's extremity
      Can lend an hour of cheering.
     Disease had been in Mary's bower
      And slow decay from mourning,
     Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower
      To watch her Love's returning.

     All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
      Her form decay'd by pining,
     Till through her wasted hand, at night,
      You saw the taper shining.
     By fits a sultry hectic hue
      Across her cheek was flying;
     By fits so ashy pale she grew
      Her maidens thought her dying.

     Yet keenest powers to see and hear
      Seem'd in her frame residing;
     Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear
      She heard her lover's riding;
     Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd
      She knew and waved to greet him,
     And o'er the battlement did bend
      As on the wing to meet him.

     He came--he pass'd--an heedless gaze
      As o'er some stranger glancing;
     Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
      Lost in his courser's prancing--

     The castle-arch, whose hollow tone
      Returns each whisper spoken,
     Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
      Which told her heart was broken.

     SIR W. SCOTT

     197. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.

     Earl March look'd on his dying child,
      And smit with grief to view her--
     The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
      Shall be restored to woo her.

     She's at the window many an hour
      His coming to discover:
     And he look'd up to Ellen's bower
      And she look'd on her lover--

     But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
      Though her smile on him was dwelling--
     And am I then forgot--forgot?
      It broke the heart of Ellen.

     In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
      Her cheek is cold as ashes;
     Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
      To lift their silken lashes.

     T. CAMPBELL

     198.

     Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art--
     Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
     And watching, with eternal lids apart,
     Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,

     The moving waters at their priestlike task
     Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
     Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
     Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:--

     No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
     Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast
     To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
     Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;

     Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
     And so live ever,--or else swoon to death.

     J. KEATS.

     199. THE TERROR OF DEATH.

     When I have fears that I may cease to be
     Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
     Before high-piléd books, in charact'ry,
     Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;

     When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
     Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
     And think that I may never live to trace
     Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

     And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!
     That I shall never look upon thee more,
     Never have relish in the fairy power
     Of unreflecting love--then on the shore

     Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
     Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

     J. KEATS.

     200. DESIDERIA.

     Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind--
     I turn'd to share the transport--Oh, with whom
     But Thee--deep buried in the silent tomb,
     That spot which no vicissitude can find?

     Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind--
     But how could I forget thee? Through what power
     Even for the least division of an hour
     Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

     To my most grievous loss?--That thought's return
     Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
     Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,

     Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
     That neither present time, nor years unborn
     Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     201.

     At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping,
           I fly
     To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in
           thine eye;
     And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions
           of air
     To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to
           me there
     And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky!

     Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear
     When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on
           the ear;
     And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison
           rolls,
     I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom
           of Souls
     Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

     T. MOORE.

     202. ELEGY ON THYRZA.

     And thou art dead, as young and fair
       As aught of mortal birth;
     And forms so soft and charms so rare
       Too soon return'd to Earth!
     Though Earth received them in her bed,
     And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
       In carelessness or mirth,
     There is an eye which could not brook
     A moment on that grave to look.

     I will not ask where thou liest low
       Nor gaze upon the spot;
     There flowers and weeds at will may grow
       So I behold them not:
     It is enough for me to prove
     That what I loved and long must love
       Like common earth can rot;
     To me there needs no stone to tell
     'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.

     Yet did I love thee to the last,
       As fervently as thou
     Who didst not change through all the past
       And canst not alter now.
     The love where Death has set his seal
     Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
       Nor falsehood disavow:
     And, what were worse, thou canst not see
     Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

     The better days of life were ours;
       The worst can be but mine:
     The sun that cheers, the storm that lours
       Shall never more be thine.
     The silence of that dreamless sleep
     I envy now too much to weep;
       Nor need I to repine
     That all those charms have pass'd away
     I might have watch'd through long decay.

     The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
       Must fall the earliest prey;
     Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
       The leaves must drop away.
     And yet it were a greater grief
     To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
       Than see it pluck'd to-day;
     Since earthly eye but ill can bear
     To trace the change from foul to fair.

     I know not if I could have borne
       To see thy beauties fade;
     The night that follow'd such a morn
       Had worn a deeper shade:
     Thy day without a cloud hath past,
     And thou wert lovely to the last,
       Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
     As stars that shoot along the sky
     Shine brightest as they fall from high.

     As once I wept if I could weep,
       My tears might well be shed
     To think I was not near, to keep
       One vigil o'er thy bed:
     To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
     To fold thee in a faint embrace,
       Uphold thy drooping head;
     And show that love, however vain,
     Nor thou nor I can feel again.

     Yet how much less it were to gain,
       Though thou hast left me free,
     The loveliest things that still remain
       Than thus remember thee!
     The all of thine that cannot die
     Through dark and dread Eternity
       Returns again to me,
     And more thy buried love endears
     Than aught except its living years.

     LORD BYRON.

     203.

     One word is too often profaned
       For me to profane it,
     One feeling too falsely disdain'd
       For thee to disdain it.
     One hope is too like despair
       For prudence to smother,
     And Pity from thee more dear
       Than that from another.

     I can give not what men call love;
       But wilt thou accept not
     The worship the heart lifts above
       And the Heavens reject not:
     The desire of the moth for the star,
       Of the night for the morrow,
     The devotion to something afar
       From the sphere of our sorrow?

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     204. GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK.

       Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
        Pibroch of Donuil
       Wake thy wild voice anew,
        Summon Clan Conuil.
       Come away, come away,
        Hark to the summons!
       Come in your war-array,
        Gentles and commons.

       Come from deep glen, and
        From mountain so rocky;
       The war-pipe and pennon
        Are at Inverlochy.
       Come every hill-plaid, and
        True heart that wears one,
       Come every steel blade, and
        Strong hand that bears one.

       Leave untended the herd,
        The flock without shelter;
       Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
        The bride at the altar;
       Leave the deer, leave the steer,
        Leave nets and barges:
       Come with your fighting gear,
        Broadswords and targes.

       Come as the winds come, when
        Forests are rended,
       Come as the waves come, when
        Navies are stranded:
       Faster come, faster come,
        Faster and faster,
       Chief, vassal, page and groom,
        Tenant and master.

       Fast they come, fast they come;
        See how they gather!
       Wide waves the eagle plume
        Blended with heather.
       Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
        Forward each man set!
       Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
        Knell for the onset!

     SIR W. SCOTT.

     205.

     A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
       A wind that follows fast
     And fills the white and rustling sail
       And bends the gallant mast;
     And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
       While like the eagle free
     Away the good ship flies, and leaves
       Old England on the lee.

     O for a soft and gentle wind!
       I heard a fair one cry;
     But give to me the snoring breeze
       And white waves heaving high;
     And white waves heaving high, my lads,
       The good ship tight and free--
     The world of waters is our home,
       And merry men are we.

     There's tempest in yon hornéd moon,
       And lightning in yon cloud;
     But hark the music, mariners!
       The wind is piping loud;
     The wind is piping loud, my boys,
       The lightning flashes free--
     While the hollow oak our palace is,
       Our heritage the sea.

     A. CUNNINGHAM.

     206.

     Ye Mariners of England
     That guard our native seas!
     Whose flag has braved, a thousand years
     The battle and the breeze!
     Your glorious standard launch again
     To match another foe:
     And sweep through the deep,
     While the stormy winds do blow;
     While the battle rages loud and long
     And the stormy winds do blow.

     The spirits of your fathers
     Shall start from every wave--
     For the deck it was their field of fame,
     And Ocean was their grave:
     Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
     Your manly hearts shall glow,
     As ye sweep through the deep,
     While the stormy winds do blow;
     While the battle rages loud and long
     And the stormy winds do blow.

     Britannia needs no bulwarks,
     No towers along the steep;
     Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
     Her home is on the deep.
     With thunders from her native oak
     She quells the floods below--
     As they roar on the shore,
     When the stormy winds do blow;
     When the battle rages loud and long
     And the stormy winds do blow.

     The meteor flag of England
     Shall yet terrific burn;
     Till danger's troubled night depart
     And the star of peace return.
     Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
     Our song and feast shall flow
     To the fame of your name,
     When the storm has ceased to blow;
     When the fiery fight is heard no more,
     And the storm has ceased to blow.

     T. CAMPBELL.

     207. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

     Of Nelson and the North
     Sing the glorious day's renown,
     When to battle fierce came forth
     All the might of Denmark's crown,
     And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
     By each gun the lighted brand
     In a bold determined hand,
     And the Prince of all the land
     Led them on.

     Like leviathans afloat
     Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
     While the sign of battle flew
     On the lofty British line:
     It was ten of April morn by the chime:
     As they drifted on their path
     There was silence deep as death;
     And the boldest held his breath
     For a time.

     But the might of England flush'd
     To anticipate the scene;
     And her van the fleeter rush'd
     O'er the deadly space between.
     "Hearts of oak!" our captains cried, when each gun
     From its adamantine lips
     Spread a death-shade round the ships,
     Like the hurricane eclipse
     Of the sun.

     Again! again! again!
     And the havoc did not slack,
     Till a feeble cheer the Dane
     To our cheering sent us back;--
     Their shots along the deep slowly boom:--
     Then ceased--and all is wail,
     As they strike the shatter'd sail,
     Or in conflagration pale
     Light the gloom.

     Out spoke the victor then
     As he hail'd them o'er the wave,
     "Ye are brothers! ye are men!
     And we conquer but to save:--
     So peace instead of death let us bring:
     But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
     With the crews, at England's feet,
     And make submission meet
     To our King."

     Then Denmark blest our chief
     That he gave her wounds repose;
     And the sounds of joy and grief
     From her people wildly rose,
     As death withdrew his shades from the day:
     While the sun look'd smiling bright
     O'er a wide and woeful sight,
     Where the fires of funeral light
     Died away.

     Now joy, old England, raise!
     For the tidings of thy might,
     By the festal cities' blaze,
     Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
     And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
     Let us think of them that sleep
     Full many a fathom deep
     By thy wild and stormy steep,
     Elsinore!

     Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
     Once so faithful and so true,
     On the deck of fame that died
     With the gallant good Riou:
     Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
     While the billow mournful rolls
     And the mermaid's song condoles
     Singing glory to the souls
     Of the brave!

     T. CAMPBELL.

     208. ODE TO DUTY

       Stern Daughter of the voice of God!
       O Duty! if that name thou love
       Who art a light to guide, a rod
       To check the erring, and reprove;
       Thou who art victory and law
       When empty terrors overawe;
       From vain temptations dost set free,
     And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

       There are who ask not if thine eye
       Be on them; who, in love and truth
       Where no misgiving is, rely
       Upon the genial sense of youth:
       Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,
       Who do thy work, and know it not:
       Oh! if through confidence misplaced
     They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.

       Serene will be our days and bright
       And happy will our nature be
       When love is an unerring light,
       And joy its own security.
       And they a blissful course may hold
       Ev'n now who, not unwisely bold,
       Live in the spirit of this creed;
     Yet find that other strength, according to their need.

       I, loving freedom, and untried;
       No sport of every random gust,
       Yet being to myself a guide,
       Too blindly have reposed my trust:
       And oft, when in my heart was heard
       Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd
       The task, in smoother walks to stray;
     But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

       Through no disturbance of my soul
       Or strong compunction in me wrought,
       I supplicate for thy controul,
       But in the quietness of thought:
       Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;
       I feel the weight of chance desires;
       My hopes no more must change their name;
     I long for a repose which ever is the same.

       Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
       The Godhead's most benignant grace;
       Nor know we anything so fair
       As is the smile upon thy face:
       Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
       And fragrance in thy footing treads;
       Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;
     And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.

       To humbler functions, awful Power!
       I call thee: I myself commend
       Unto thy guidance from this hour;
       O let my weakness have an end!
       Give unto me, made lowly wise,
       The spirit of self-sacrifice;
       The confidence of reason give;
     And in the light of Truth thy bondman let me live.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     209. ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON.

     Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
     Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art--
     For there thy habitation is the heart--
     The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;

     And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd,
     To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
     Their country conquers with their martyrdom
     And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.

     Chillon! thy prison is a holy place
     And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod
     Until his very steps have left a trace

     Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
     By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!
     For they appeal from tyranny to God.

     LORD BYRON.

     210. ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND.

                      1802.

     Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,
     One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:
     In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
     They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

     There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
     Thou fought'st against him,--but hast vainly striven:
     Thou from thy Alpine holds at length are driven
     Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

     --Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;
     Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left--
     For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be

     That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
     And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
     And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     211. ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC.

     Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee
     And was the safeguard of the West; the worth
     Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
     Venice, the eldest child of liberty.

     She was a maiden city, bright and free;
     No guile seduced, no force could violate;
     And when she took unto herself a mate,
     She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

     And what if she had seen those glories fade,
     Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,--
     Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid

     When her long life hath reach'd its final day:
     Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
     Of that which once was great has pass'd away.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     212. LONDON, MDCCCII.

     O Friend! I know not which way I must look
     For comfort, being, as I am, opprest
     To think that now our life is only drest
     For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,

     Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook
     In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;
     The wealthiest man among us is the best:
     No grandeur now in Nature or in book

     Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
     This is idolatry; and these we adore:
     Plain living and high thinking are no more:

     The homely beauty of the good old cause
     Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
     And pure religion breathing household laws.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     213. THE SAME.

     Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
     England hath need of thee: she is a fen
     Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
     Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

     Have forfeited their ancient English dower
     Of inward happiness. We are selfish men
     O! raise us up, return to us again;
     And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

     Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
     Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
     Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;

     So didst thou travel on life's common way
     In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
     The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     214.

     When I have borne in memory what has tamed
     Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart
     When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
     The student's bower for gold,--some fears unnamed

     I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed?
     Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
     Verily, in the bottom of my heart
     Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

     For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
     In thee a bulwark of the cause of men;
     And I by my affection was beguiled:

     What wonder if a Poet now and then,
     Among the many movements of his mind,
     Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     215. HOHENLINDEN.

     On Linden, when the sun was low,
     All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
     And dark as winter was the flow
        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

     But Linden saw another sight,
     When the drum beat at dead of night
     Commanding fires of death to light
        The darkness of her scenery.

     By torch and trumpet fast array'd
     Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
     And furious every charger neigh'd
        To join the dreadful revelry.

     Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
     Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;
     And louder than the bolts of Heaven
        Far flash'd the red artillery.

     But redder yet that light shall glow
     On Linden's hills of stainéd snow;
     And bloodier yet the torrent flow
        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

     'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
     Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
     Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
       Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

     The combat deepens. On, ye Brave
     Who rush to glory, or the grave!
     Wave, Munich all thy banners wave,
        And charge with all thy chivalry!

     Few, few shall part, where many meet!
     The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
     And every turf beneath their feet
        Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

     T. CAMPBELL.

     216. AFTER BLENHEIM.

     It was a summer evening,
       Old Kaspar's work was done,
     And he before his cottage door
       Was sitting in the sun;
     And by him sported on the green
     His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

     She saw her brother Peterkin
       Roll something large and round
     Which he beside the rivulet
       In playing there had found
     He came to ask what he had found
     That was so large and smooth and round.

     Old Kaspar took it from the boy
       Who stood expectant by;
     And then the old man shook his head,
       And with a natural sigh
     "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
     "Who fell in the great victory.

     "I find then in the garden,
       For there's many here about;
     And often when I go to plough
       The ploughshare turns them out.
     For many thousand men," said he,
     "Were slain in that great victory."

     "Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
       Young Peterkin he cries;
     And little Wilhelmine looks up
       With wonder-waiting eyes;
     "Now tell us all about the war,
     And what they fought each other for."

     "It was the English," Kaspar cried,
       "Who put the French to rout;
     But what they fought each other for
       I could not well make out.
     But every body said," quoth he,
     "That 'twas a famous victory.

     "My father lived at Blenheim then,
       Yon little stream hard by;
     They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
       And he was forced to fly:
     So with his wife and child he fled,
     Nor had he where to rest his head.

     "With fire and sword the country round
       Was wasted far and wide,
     And many a childing mother then
       And newborn baby died:
     But things like that, you know, must be
     At every famous victory.

     "They say it was a shocking sight
       After the field was won;
     For many thousand bodies here
       Lay rotting in the sun:
     But things like that, you know, must be
     After a famous victory.

     "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won
       And our good Prince Eugene";
     "Why 'twas a very wicked thing!"
       Said little Wilhelmine;
     "Nay--nay--my little girl," quoth he,
     "It was a famous victory.

     And every body praised the Duke
       Who this great fight did win."
     "But what good came of it at last?"
       Quoth little Peterkin:--
     "Why that I cannot tell," said he,
     "But 'twas a famous victory."

     R. SOUTHEY.

     217. PRO PATRIA MORI.

     When he who adores thee has left but the name
       Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
     O! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
       Of a life that for thee was resign'd!
     Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
       Thy tears shall efface their decree;
     For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
       I have been but too faithful to thee.

     With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
       Every thought of my reason was thine;
     In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
       Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
     O! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
       The days of thy glory to see;
     But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
       Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

     T. MOORE.

     218. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA.

     Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
       As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
     Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
       O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

     We buried him darkly at dead of night,
       The sods with our bayonets turning;
     By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
       And the lantern dimly burning.

     No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
       Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him:
     But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
       With his martial cloak around him.

     Few and short were the prayers we said
       And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
     But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
       And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

     We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
       And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
     That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
       And we far away on the billow!

     Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
       And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him--
     But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
       In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

     But half of our heavy task was done
       When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
     And we heard the distant and random gun
       That the foe was sullenly firing.

     Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
       From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
     We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
       But we left him alone with his glory.

     C. WOLFE.

     219. SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN.

     In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
     Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,
     An old man dwells, a little man,
     I've heard he once was tall.
     Full five-and-thirty years he lived
     A running huntsman merry;
     And still the centre of his cheek
     Is red as a ripe cherry.

     No man like him the horn could sound,
     And hill and valley rang with glee,
     When Echo bandied round and round
     The halloo of Simon Lee.
     In those proud days he little cared
     For husbandry or tillage;
     To blither tasks did Simon rouse
     The sleepers of the village.

     He all the country could outrun,
     Could leave both man and horse behind;
     And often, ere the chase was done,
     He reel'd and was stone-blind.
     And still there's something in the world
     At which his heart rejoices;
     For when the chiming hounds are out,
     He dearly loves their voices.

     But O the heavy change!--bereft
     Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see
     Old Simon to the world is left
     In liveried poverty:
     His master's dead, and no one now
     Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;
     Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
     He is the sole survivor.

     And he is lean and he is sick,
     His body dwindled and awry
     Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
     His legs are thin and dry.
     He has no son, he has no child;
     His wife, an aged woman,
     Lives with him, near the waterfall,
     Upon the village common.

     Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
     Not twenty paces from the door,
     A scrap of land they have, but they
     Are poorest of the poor.
     This scrap of land he from the heath
     Enclosed when he was stronger;
     But what avails the land to them
     Which he can till no longer?

     Oft, working by her husband's side,
     Ruth does what Simon cannot do;
     For she, with scanty cause for pride,
     Is stouter of the two.
     And, though you with your utmost skill
     From labour could not wean them,
     'Tis little, very little, all
     That they can do between them.

     Few months of life has he in store
     As he to you will tell,
     For still, the more he works, the more
     Do his weak ankles swell.
     My gentle reader, I perceive
     How patiently you've waited,
     And now I fear that you expect
     Some tale will be related.

     O reader! had you in your mind
     Such stores as silent thought can bring,
     O gentle reader! you would find
     A tale in everything.
     What more I have to say is short,
     And you must kindly take it;
     It is no tale; but, should you think,
     Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

     One summer-day I chanced to see
     This old man doing all he could
     To unearth the root of an old tree,
     A stump of rotten wood.
     The mattock totter'd in his hand
     So vain was his endeavour
     That at the root of the old tree
     He might have work'd for ever.

     "You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,
     Give me your tool," to him I said;
     And at the word right gladly he
     Received my proffer'd aid.
     I struck, and with a single blow
     The tangled root I sever'd,
     At which the poor old man so long
     And vainly had endeavour'd.

     The tears into his eyes were brought,
     And thanks and praises seem'd to run
     So fast out of his heart, I thought
     They never would have done.
     --I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
     With coldness still returning;
     Alas! the gratitude of men
     Has oftener left me mourning.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     220. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

     I have had playmates, I have had companions
     In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;
     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

     I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
     Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

     I loved a Love once, fairest among women:
     Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--
     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

     I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:
     Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
     Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

     Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
     Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
     Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

     Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
     Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
     So might we talk of the old familiar faces,

     How some they have died, and some they have left me,
     And some are taken from me; all are departed;
     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

     C. LAMB.

     221. THE JOURNEY ONWARDS.

     As slow our ship her foamy track
      Against the wind was cleaving,
     Her trembling pennant still look'd back
      To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
     So loth we part from all we love,
      From all the links that bind us;
     So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
      To those we've left behind us!

     When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
      We talk with joyous seeming--
     With smiles that might as well be tears,
      So faint, so sad their beaming;
     While memory brings us back again
      Each early tie that twined us,
     Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
      To those we've left behind us!

     And when in other climes, we meet
      Some isle or vale enchanting,
     Where all looks flowery wild and sweet,
      And nought but love is wanting;
     We think how great had been our bliss
      If Heaven had but assign'd us
     To live and die in scenes like this,
      With some we've left behind us!

     As travellers oft look back at eve
      When eastward darkly going,
     To gaze upon that light they leave
      Still faint behind them glowing,--
     So, when the close of pleasure's day
      To gloom hath near consign'd us,
     We turn to catch our fading ray
      Of joy that's left behind us.

     T. MOORE.

     222. YOUTH AND AGE.

     There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
     When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
     'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast,
     But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

     Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
     Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:
     The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
     The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

     Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
     It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
     That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
     And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

     Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
     Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
     'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,
     All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.

     O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,
     Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,--
     As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
     So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!

     LORD BYRON.

     223. A LESSON.

     There is a flower, the Lesser Celandine,
     That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,
     And the first moment that the sun may shine,
     Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!

     When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
     Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
     Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm
     In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.

     But lately, one rough day, this flower I past,
     And recognised it, though an alter'd form,
     Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
     And buffeted at will by rain and storm.

     I stopp'd and said with inly-mutter'd voice,
     "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;
     This neither is its courage nor its choice,
     But its necessity in being old.

     "The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;
     It cannot help itself in its decay;
     Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue."
     And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.

     To be a prodigal's favourite--then, worse truth,
     A miser's pensioner--behold our lot!
     O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
     Age might but take the things Youth needed not!

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     224. PAST AND PRESENT.

     I remember, I remember
     The house where I was born,
     The little window where the sun
     Came peeping in at morn;
     He never came a wink too soon
     Nor brought too long a day;
     But now, I often wish the night
     Had 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 set
     The laburnum on his birthday,--
     The tree is living yet!

     I remember, I remember
     Where I was used to swing,
     And thought the air must rush as fresh
     To swallows on the wing;
     My spirit flew in feathers then
     That is so heavy now,
     And summer pools could hardly cool
     The fever on my brow.

     I remember, I remember
     The fir trees dark and high;
     I used to think their slender tops
     Were close against the sky:
     It was a childish ignorance,
     But now 'tis little joy
     To know I'm farther off from Heaven
     Than when I was a boy.

     T. HOOD.

     225. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

     Oft, in the stilly night,
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
     Fond Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me:
        The smiles, the tears
        Of boyhood's years,
      The words of love then spoken;
        The eyes that shone,
        Now dimm'd and gone,
      The cheerful hearts now broken!
     Thus in the stilly night,
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
     Sad Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me.

     When I remember all
      The friends, so link'd together,
     I've seen around me fall
      Like leaves in wintry weather,
        I feel like one
        Who treads alone
      Some banquet-hall deserted,
        Whose lights are fled,
        Whose garlands dead,
      And all but he departed!
     Thus in the stilly night,
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
     Sad Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me.

     T. MOORE.

     226. INVOCATION.

     Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
       Spirit of Delight!
     Wherefore hast thou left me now
       Many a day and night?
     Many a weary night and day
     'Tis since thou art fled away.

     How shall ever one like me
       Win thee back again?
     With the joyous and the free
       Thou wilt scoff at pain.
     Spirit false! thou hast forgot
     All but those who need thee not.

     As a lizard with the shade
       Of a trembling leaf,
     Thou with sorrow art dismay'd;
       Even the sighs of grief
     Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
     And reproach thou wilt not hear.

     Let me set my mournful ditty
       To a merry measure;--
     Thou wilt never come for pity,
       Thou wilt come for pleasure;--
     Pity then will cut away
     Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

     I love all that thou lovest,
       Spirit of Delight!
     The fresh Earth in new leaves drest
       And the starry night;
     Autumn evening, and the morn
     When the golden mists are born.

     I love snow, and all the forms
       Of the radiant frost;
     I love waves, and winds, and storms,
       Everything almost
     Which is Nature's, and may be
     Untainted by man's misery.

     I love tranquil solitude,
       And such society
     As is quiet, wise, and good;
       Between thee and me
     What diff'rence? but thou dost possess
     The things I seek, not love them less.

     I love Love--though he has wings,
       And like light can flee,
     But above all other things,
       Spirit, I love thee--
     Thou art love and life! O come!
     Make once more my heart thy home!

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     227. STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.

         The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
         The waves are dancing fast and bright,
         Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
         The purple noon's transparent light:
         The breath of the moist air is light
         Around its unexpanded buds;
         Like many a voice of one delight--
         The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'--
     The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

         I see the Deep's untrampled floor
         With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
         I see the waves upon the shore
         Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown;
         I sit upon the sands alone;
         The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
         Is flashing round me, and a tone
         Arises from its measured motion--
     How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

         Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
         Nor peace within nor calm around,
         Nor that Content, surpassing wealth,
         The sage in meditation found,
         And walked with inward glory crown'd--
         Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;
         Others I see whom these surround--
         Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
     To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

         Yet now despair itself is mild
         Even as the winds and waters are;
         I could lie down like a tired child,
         And weep away the life of care
         Which I have borne, and yet must bear,
         Till death like sleep might steal on me,
         And I might feel in the warm air
         My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
     Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     228. THE SCHOLAR.

     My days among the Dead are past;
     Around me I behold,
     Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
     The mighty minds of old:
     My never-failing friends are they,
     With whom I converse day by day.

     With them I take delight in weal
     And seek relief in woe;
     And while I understand and feel
     How much to them I owe,
     My cheeks have often been bedew'd
     With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

     My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
     I live in long-past years,
     Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
     Partake their hopes and fears,
     And from their lessons seek and find
     Instruction with an humble mind.

     My hopes are with the Dead; anon
     My place with them will be,
     And I with them shall travel on
     Through all Futurity;
     Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
     That will not perish in the dust.

     R. SOUTHEY.

     229. THE MERMAID TAVERN.

     Souls of Poets dead and gone
     What Elysium have ye known,
     Happy field or mossy cavern,
     Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
     Have ye tippled drink more fine
     Than mine host's Canary wine?
     Or are fruits of Paradise
     Sweeter than those dainty pies
     Of Venison? O generous food!
     Drest as though bold Robin Hood
     Would, with his Maid Marian,
     Sup and browse from horn and can.

       I have heard that on a day
     Mine host's signboard flew away
     Nobody knew whither, till
     An astrologer's old quill
     To a sheepskin gave the story--
     Said he saw you in your glory
     Underneath a new-old Sign
     Sipping beverage divine,
     And pledging with contented smack
     The Mermaid in the Zodiac!
       Souls of poets dead and gone
     What Elysium have ye known--
     Happy field or mossy cavern--
     Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

     J. KEATS.

     230. THE PRIDE OF YOUTH.

     Proud Maisie is in the wood,
      Walking so early;
     Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
      Singing so rarely.

     "Tell me, thou bonny bird,
      When shall I marry me?"
     --"When six braw gentlemen
      Kirkward shall carry ye."

     "Who makes the bridal bed,
      Birdie, say truly?"
     --"The gray-headed sexton
      That delves the grave duly.

     "The glowworm o'er grave and stone
      Shall light thee steady;
     The owl from the steeple sing
      Welcome, proud lady!"

     SIR W. SCOTT.

     231. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

         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 garments
         Clinging like cerements;
         Whilst the wave constantly
         Drips 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 her
         Now is pure womanly.

         Make no deep scrutiny
         Into her mutiny
         Rash and undutiful:
         Past all dishonour,
         Death has left on her
         Only the beautiful.

         Still, for all slips of hers,
         One of Eve's family--
         Wipe those poor lips of hers
         Oozing so clammily.

         Loop up her tresses
         Escaped from the comb,
         Her fair auburn tresses;
         Whilst wonderment guesses
         Where was her home?

         Who was her father?
         Who was her mother?
         Had she a sister?
         Had she a brother?
         Or was there a dearer one
         Still, and a nearer one
         Yet, than all other?

         Alas! for the rarity
         Of Christian charity
         Under the sun!
         O! it was pitiful!
         Near a whole city full,
         Home she had none.

         Sisterly, brotherly,
         Fatherly, motherly
         Feelings had changed:
         Love, by harsh evidence,
         Thrown from its eminence;
         Even God's providence
         Seeming estranged.

         Where the lamps quiver
         So far in the river,
         With many a light
         From window and casement,
         From garret to basement,
         She stood, with amazement,
         Houseless by night.

         The bleak wind of March
         Made 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 where
         Out of the world!

         In she plunged boldly,
         No matter how coldly
         The 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 frigidly
         Stiffen too rigidly,
         Decently, kindly,
         Smooth and compose them;
         And her eyes, close them,
         Staring so blindly!

         Dreadfully staring
         Thro' muddy impurity,
         As when with the daring
         Last look of despairing
         Fix'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!

     T. HOOD.

     232. ELEGY.

       O snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!
       On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
       But on thy turf shall roses rear
       Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
     And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

       And oft by yon blue gushing stream
       Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
       And feed deep thought with many a dream,
       And lingering pause and lightly tread;
     Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!

       Away! we know that tears are vain,
       That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
       Will this unteach us to complain?
       Or make one mourner weep the less?
       And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
     Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

     LORD BYRON.

     233. HESTER.

     When maidens such as Hester die
     Their place ye may not well supply,
     Though ye among a thousand try
            With vain endeavour.
     A month or more hath she been dead,
     Yet cannot I by force be led
     To think upon the wormy bed
            And her together.

     A springy motion in her gait,
     A rising step, did indicate
     Of pride and joy no common rate,
            That flush'd her spirit:
     I know not by what name beside
     I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,
     It was a joy to that allied,
            She did inherit.

     Her parents held the Quaker rule
     Which doth the human feeling cool;
     But she was train'd in Nature's school;
            Nature had blest her.
     A waking eye, a prying mind;
     A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;
     A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind;
            Ye could not Hester.

     My sprightly neighbour! gone before
     To that unknown and silent shore,
     Shall we not meet, as heretofore
            Some summer morning--
     When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
     Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
     A bliss that would not go away,
            A sweet fore-warning?

     C. LAMB.

     234. CORONACH.

     He is gone on the mountain,
       He is lost to the forest
     Like a summer-dried fountain,
       When our need was the sorest.
     The fount reappearing
       From the raindrops shall borrow,
     But to us comes no cheering,
       To Duncan no morrow!

     The hand of the reaper
       Take the ears that are hoary,
     But the voice of the weeper
       Wails manhood in glory.
     The autumn winds rushing
       Waft the leaves that are serest,
     But our flower was in flushing
       When blighting was nearest.

     Fleet foot on the correi,
       Sage counsel in cumber,
     Red hand in the foray,
       How sound is thy slumber!
     Like the dew on the mountain,
       Like the foam on the river,
     Like the bubble on the fountain,
       Thou art gone, and for ever!

     SIR W. SCOTT.

     235. THE DEATH BED.

     We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
      Her breathing soft and low,
     As in her breast the wave of life
      Kept heaving to and fro.

     But when the morn came dim and sad
      And chill with early showers,
     Her quiet eyelids closed--she had
      Another morn than ours.

     T. HOOD.

     236. ROSABELLE.

     O listen, listen, ladies gay!
      No haughty feat of arms I tell;
     Soft is the note, and sad the lay
      That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

     "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew,
      And, gentle lady, deign to stay!
     Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
      Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

     "The blackening wave is edged with white;
      To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
     The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
      Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh.

     "Last night the gifted Seer did view
      A wet shroud swathed round lady gay;
     Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
      Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?

     "'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
      To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
     But that my lady-mother there
      Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

     "'Tis not because the ring they ride,
      And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
     But that my sire the wine will chide
      If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."

     --O'er Roslin all that dreary night
      A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
     'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,
      And redder than the bright moonbeam.

     It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
      It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
     'Twas seen from Dryden's grove of oak,
      And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

     Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud
      Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,
     Each baron, for a sabled shroud,
      Sheathed in his iron panoply.

     Seem'd all on fire within, around,
      Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
     Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
      And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.

     Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
      Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--
     So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
      The lordly line of high Saint Clair.

     There are twenty of Roslin's baron's bold
      Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
     Each one the holy vault doth hold,
      But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!

     And each Saint Clair was buried there
      With candle, with book, and with knell;
     But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
      The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

     SIR W. SCOTT.

     237. ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN.

     I saw where in the shroud did lurk
     A curious frame of Nature's work;
     A flow'ret crushéd in the bud,
     A nameless piece of Babyhood
     Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
     Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
     So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
     For darker closets of the tomb!
     She did but ope an eye, and put
     A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
     For the long dark: ne'er more to see
     Through glasses of mortality.
     Riddle of destiny, who can show
     What thy short visit meant, or know
     What thy errand here below?
     Shall we say, that Nature blind
     Check'd her hand, and changed her mind
     Just when she had exactly wrought
     A finish'd pattern without fault?
     Could she flag, or could she tire,
     Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
     (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
     That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
     Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
     Life of health, and days mature:
     Woman's self in miniature!
     Limbs so fair, they might supply
     (Themselves now but cold imagery)
     The sculptor to make Beauty by.
     Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry
     That babe or mother, one must die;
     So in mercy left the stock
     And cut the branch; to save the shock
     Of young years widow'd, and the pain
     When Single State comes back again
     To the lone man who, reft of wife,
     Thenceforward drags a maiméd life?
     The economy of Heaven is dark,
     And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark
     Why human buds, like this, should fall,
     More brief than fly ephemeral
     That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
     Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
     And crabbéd use the conscience sears
     In sinners of an hundred years.
     --Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
     Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:
     Rites, which custom does impose,
     Silver bells, and baby clothes;
     Coral redder than those lips
     Which pale death did late eclipse;
     Music framed for infants' glee,
     Whistle never tuned for thee;
     Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
     Loving hearts were they which gave them.
     Let not one be missing; nurse,
     See them laid upon the hearse
     Of infant slain by doom perverse.
     Why should kings and nobles have
     Pictured trophies to their grave,
     And we, churls, to thee deny
     Thy pretty toys with thee to lie--
     A more harmless vanity?

     C. LAMB.

     238. THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET.

     Where art thou, my beloved Son,
     Where art thou, worse to me than dead!
     Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
     Or if the grave be now thy bed,
     Why am I ignorant of the same
     That I may rest; and neither blame
     Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

     Seven years, alas! to have received
     No tidings of an only child--
     To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,
     And be for evermore beguiled,--
     Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
     I catch at them, and then I miss;
     Was ever darkness like to this?

     He was among the prime in worth,
     An object beauteous to behold;
     Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
     Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
     If things ensued that wanted grace,
     As hath been said, they were not base;
     And never blush was on my face.

     Ah! little doth the young-one dream,
     When full of play and childish cares,
     What power is in his wildest scream,
     Heard by his mother unawares!
     He knows it not, he cannot guess:
     Years to a mother bring distress;
     But do not make her love the less.

     Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long
     From that ill thought; and being blind
     Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong:
     Kind mother have I been, as kind
     As ever breathed": and that is true;
     I've wet my path with tears like dew,
     Weeping for him when no one knew.

     My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
     Hopeless of honour and of gain,
     O! do not dread thy mother's door,
     Think not of me with grief and pain:
     I now can see with better eyes;
     And worldly grandeur I despise
     And fortune with her gifts and lies.

     Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings
     And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
     They mount--how short a voyage brings
     The wanderers back to their delight!
     Chains tie us down by land and sea;
     And wishes, vain as mine, may be
     All that is left to comfort thee.

     Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan
     Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;
     Or thou upon a desert thrown
     Inheritest the lion's den;
     Or hast been summoned to the deep,
     Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep
     An incommunicable sleep.

     I look for ghosts: but none will force
     Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
     That there was ever intercourse
     Between the living and the dead;
     For surely then I should have sight
     Of him I wait for day and night
     With love and longings infinite.

     My apprehensions come in crowds;
     I dread the rustling of the grass;
     The very shadows of the clouds
     Have power to shake me as they pass;
     I question things, and do not find
     One that will answer to my mind;
     And all the world appears unkind.

     Beyond participation lie
     My troubles, and beyond relief:
     If any chance to heave a sigh
     They pity me, and not my grief.
     Then come to me, my Son, or send
     Some tidings that my woes may end!
     I have no other earthly friend.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     239. HUNTING SONG.

     Waken, lords and ladies gay,
     On the mountain dawns the day;
     All the jolly chase is here
     With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
     Hounds are in their couples yelling,
     Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
     Merrily merrily mingle they,
     "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

     Waken, lords and ladies gay,
     The mist has left the mountains gray,
     Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
     Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,
     And foresters have busy been
     To track the buck in thicket green;
     Now we come to chant our lay
     "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

     Waken, lords and ladies gay,
     To the greenwood haste away;
     We can show you where he lies,
     Fleet of foot and tall of size;
     We can show the marks he made
     When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
     You shall see him brought to bay;
     "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

     Louder, louder chant the lay
     Waken, lords and ladies gay!
     Tell them youth and mirth and glee
     Run a course as well as we;
     Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
     Staunch as hound and fleet as hawk;
     Think of this, and rise with day
     Gentle lords and ladies gay!

     SIR W. SCOTT.

     240. TO THE SKYLARK.

     Ethereal Minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
     Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
     Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
     Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
     Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
     Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

     To the last point of vision, and beyond,
     Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain
     --'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond--
     Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
     Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
     All independent of the leafy Spring.

     Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
     A privacy of glorious light is thine;
     Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
     Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
     Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam--
     True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     241. TO A SKYLARK.

             Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
               Bird thou never wert,
             That from heaven, or near it
               Pourest thy full heart
     In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

             Higher still and higher
               From the earth thou springest,
             Like a cloud of fire;
               The blue deep thou wingest,
     And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

             In the golden lightning
               Of the sunken sun
             O'er which clouds are brightening,
               Thou dost float and run,
     Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

             The pale purple even
               Melts around thy flight;
             Like a star of heaven
               In the broad daylight
     Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:

             Keen as are the arrows
               Of that silver sphere,
             Whose intense lamp narrows
               In the white dawn clear
     Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

             All the earth and air
               With thy voice is loud,
             As, when night is bare,
               From one lonely cloud
     The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.

             What thou art we know not;
               What is most like thee?
             From rainbow clouds there flow not
               Drops so bright to see
     As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

             Like a poet hidden
               In the light of thought,
             Singing hymns unbidden
               Till the world is wrought
     To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

             Like a high-born maiden
               In a palace tower,
             Soothing her love-laden
               Soul in secret hour
     With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

             Like a glow-worm golden
               In a dell of dew,
             Scattering unbeholden
               Its aerial hue
     Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

             Like a rose embower'd
               In its own green leaves,
             By warm winds deflower'd,
               Till the scent it gives
     Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-wingéd thieves.

             Sound of vernal showers
               On the twinkling grass,
             Rain-awaken'd flowers,
               All that ever was
     Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

             Teach us, sprite or bird,
               What sweet thoughts are thine:
             I have never heard
               Praise of love or wine
     That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

             Chorus hymeneal
               Or triumphal chaunt
             Match'd with thine, would be all
               But an empty vaunt--
     A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

             What objects are the fountains
               Of thy happy strain?
             What fields, or waves, or mountains?
               What shapes of sky or plain?
     What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

             With thy clear keen joyance
               Languor cannot be:
             Shadow of annoyance
               Never came near thee:
     Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

             Waking or asleep
               Thou of death must deem
             Things more true and deep
               Than we mortals dream,
     Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

             We look before and after,
               And pine for what is not:
             Our sincerest laughter
               With some pain is fraught;
     Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

             Yet if we could scorn
               Hate, and pride, and fear;
             If we were things born
               Not to shed a tear,
     I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

             Better than all measures
               Of delightful sound,
             Better than all treasures
               That in books are found,
     Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

             Teach me half the gladness
               That thy brain must know,
             Such harmonious madness
               From my lips would flow
     The world should listen then, as I am listening now!

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     242. THE GREEN LINNET.

     Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
     Their snow white blossoms on my head,
     With brightest sunshine round me spread
     Of Spring's unclouded weather,
     In this sequester'd nook how sweet
     To sit upon my orchard-seat!
     And birds and flowers once more to greet,
     My last year's friends together.

     One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
     In all this covert of the blest:
     Hail to Thee, far above the rest
     In joy of voice and pinion!
     Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
     Presiding Spirit here to-day
     Dost lead the revels of the May,
     And this is thy dominion.

     While birds, and butterflies, and flowers
     Make all one band of paramours,
     Thou, ranging up and down the bowers
     Art sole in thy employment;
     A Life, a Presence like the air,
     Scattering thy gladness without care,
     Too blest with any one to pair;
     Thyself thy own enjoyment.

     Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
     That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
     Behold him perch'd in ecstasies,
     Yet seeming still to hover;
     There, where the flutter of his wings
     Upon his back and body flings
     Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
     That cover him all over.

     My dazzled sight he oft deceives--
     A brother of the dancing leaves;
     Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
     Pours forth his song in gushes,
     As if by that exulting strain
     He mock'd and treated with disdain
     The voiceless Form he chose to feign
     While fluttering in the bushes.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     243. TO THE CUCKOO.

       O blithe new-comer! I have heard,
       I hear thee and rejoice:
       O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
       Or but a wandering Voice?

       While I am lying on the grass
       Thy twofold shout I hear;
       From hill to hill it seems to pass,
       At once far off and near.

       Though babbling only to the vale
       Of sunshine and of flowers,
       Thou bringest unto me a tale
       Of visionary hours.

       Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
       Even yet thou art to me
       No bird, but an invisible thing,
       A voice, a mystery;

       The same whom in my school-boy days
       I listen'd to; that Cry
       Which made me look a thousand ways
       In bush, and tree, and sky.

       To seek thee did I often rove
       Through woods and on the green;
       And thou wert still a hope, a love;
       Still long'd for, never seen!

       And I can listen to thee yet;
       Can lie upon the plain
       And listen, till I do beget
       That golden time again.

       O blesséd bird! the earth we pace
       Again appears to be
       An unsubstantial, fairy place;
       That is fit home for Thee!

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     244. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.

     My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
      My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
     Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
      One 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-wingéd Dryad of the trees,
          In some melodious plot
      Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
       Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

     O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
      Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvéd 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-stainéd mouth;
      That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
       And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

     Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
      What thou among the leaves hast never known,
     The weariness, the fever, and the fret
      Here, 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 sorrow
          And leaden-eyed despairs;
      Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
       Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

     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 blown
       Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

     I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
      Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
     But, in embalméd darkness, guess each sweet
      Wherewith the seasonable month endows
     The 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.

     Darkling I listen; and for many a time
      I have been half in love with easeful Death,
     Call'd him soft names in many a muséd 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 abroad
          In such an ecstasy!
      Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
       To thy high requiem become a sod.

     Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
      No hungry generations tread thee down;
     The voice I hear this passing night was heard
      In ancient days by emperor and clown:
     Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
      Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
       She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
          The same that oft-times hath
      Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
       Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

     Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
      To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
     Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
      As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
     Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
      Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
       Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
          In the next valley-glades:
      Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
       Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?

     J. KEATS.

     245. UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

              _Sept._ 3, 1802.

     Earth has not anything to show more fair:
     Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
     A sight so touching in its majesty:
     This City now doth like a garment wear
     The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
     Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
     Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
     All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

     Never did sun more beautifully steep
     In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
     Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

     The river glideth at his own sweet will:
     Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
     And all that mighty heart is lying still!

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     246. OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT.

     I met a traveller from an antique land
     Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
     Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand
     Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
     And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
     Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
     Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
     The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;
     And on the pedestal these words appear:
     "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
     Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
     Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
     Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
     The lone and level sands stretch far away.

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     247. COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY,
          1803.

     Degenerate Douglas! O the unworthy lord!
     Whom mere despite of heart could so far please
     And love of havoc (for with such disease
     Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word

     To level with the dust a noble horde,
     A brotherhood of venerable trees,
     Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these
     Beggar'd and outraged!--Many hearts deplored

     The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain
     The traveller at this day will stop and gaze
     On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:

     For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
     And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
     And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     248. ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER.

     Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
     --The lovely cottage in the guardian nook
     Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
     Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!

     But covet not the abode--O do not sigh
     As many do, repining while they look;
     Intruders who would tear from Nature's book
     This precious leaf with harsh impiety:

     --Think what the home would be if it were thine,
     Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window, door,
     The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,

     The roses to the porch which they entwine:
     Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day
     On which it should be touch'd would melt away!

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     249. TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE.

     Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
     Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
     Twice seven consenting years have shed
     Their utmost bounty on thy head:
     And these grey rocks, this household lawn,
     These trees--a veil just half withdrawn,
     This fall of water that doth make
     A murmur near the silent lake,
     This little bay, a quiet road
     That holds in shelter thy abode;
     In truth together ye do seem
     Like something fashion'd in a dream;
     Such forms as from their covert peep
     When earthly cares are laid asleep!
     But, O fair Creature! in the light
     Of common day, so heavenly bright,
     I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,
     I bless thee with a human heart;
     God shield thee to thy latest years!
     I neither know thee nor thy peers:
     And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.

     With earnest feeling I shall pray
     For thee when I am far away;
     For never saw I mien or face
     In which more plainly I could trace
     Benignity and home-bred sense
     Ripening in perfect innocence.
     Here scatter'd like a random seed,
     Remote from men, Thou dost not need
     The embarrass'd look of shy distress,
     And maidenly shamefacedness:
     Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
     The freedom of a mountaineer:
     A face with gladness overspread,
     Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;
     And seemliness complete, that sways
     Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
     With no restraint, but such as springs
     From quick and eager visitings
     Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
     Of thy few words of English speech:
     A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife
     That gives thy gestures grace and life!
     So have I, not unmoved in mind,
     Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
     Thus beating up against the wind.

     What hand but would a garland cull
     For thee who art so beautiful?
     O happy pleasure! here to dwell
     Beside thee in some heathy dell;
     Adopt your homely ways and dress,
     A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
     But I could frame a wish for thee
     More like a grave reality:
     Thou art to me but as a wave
     Of the wild sea: and I would have
     Some claim upon thee, if I could,
     Though but of common neighbourhood.
     What joy to hear thee, and to see!
     Thy elder brother I would be,
     Thy father, anything to thee.

     Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
     Hath led me to this lonely place.
     Joy have I had; and going hence
     I bear away my recompense.
     In spots like these it is we prize
     Our memory, feel that she hath eyes:
     Then why should I be loth to stir?
     I feel this place was made for her;
     To give new pleasure like the past,
     Continued long as life shall last.
     Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
     Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
     For I, methinks, till I grow old
     As fair before me shall behold
     As I do now, the cabin small,
     The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
     And Thee, the spirit of them all!

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     250. THE REAPER.

     Behold her, single in the field,
     Yon solitary Highland Lass!
     Reaping and singing by herself;
     Stop here, or gently pass!
     Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
     And sings a melancholy strain;
     O listen! for the vale profound
     Is overflowing with the sound.

     No nightingale did ever chaunt
     More welcome notes to weary bands
     Of travellers in some shady haunt,
     Among Arabian sands:
     No sweeter voice was ever heard
     In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
     Breaking the silence of the seas
     Among the farthest Hebrides.

     Will no one tell me what she sings?
     Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
     For old, unhappy, far-off things,
     And battles long ago:
     Or is it some more humble lay,
     Familiar matter of to-day?
     Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
     That has been, and may be again?

     Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
     As if her song could have no ending;
     I saw her singing at her work,
     And o'er the sickle bending;
     I listen'd till I had my fill;
     And, as I mounted up the hill,
     The music in my heart I bore
     Long after it was heard no more.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     251. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.

     At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears
     Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
     Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard
     In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

     'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
     A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
     Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
     And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

     Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale
     Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;
     And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
     The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

     She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade
     The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
     The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
     And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     252. TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR.

     Ariel to Miranda:--Take
     This slave of music, for the sake
     Of him who is the slave of thee;
     And teach it all the harmony
     In which thou canst, and only thou,
     Make the delighted spirit glow,
     Till joy denies itself again
     And, too intense, is turn'd to pain;
     For by permission and command
     Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
     Poor Ariel sends this silent token
     Of more than ever can be spoken;
     Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
     From life to life, must still pursue
     Your happiness, for thus alone
     Can Ariel ever find his own;
     From Prospero's enchanted cell,
     As the mighty verses tell,
     To the throne of Naples he
     Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
     Flitting on, your prow before,
     Like a living meteor.
     When you die, the silent Moon,
     In her interlunar swoon
     Is not sadder in her cell
     Than deserted Ariel;
     When you live again on earth,
     Like an unseen Star of birth
     Ariel guides you o'er the sea
     Of life from your nativity:--
     Many changes have been run
     Since Ferdinand and you begun
     Your course of love, and Ariel still
     Has track'd your steps and served your will.
     Now in humbler, happier lot,
     This is all remember'd not;
     And now, alas! the poor sprite is
     Imprison'd for some fault of his
     In a body like a grave--
     From you he only dares to crave
     For his service and his sorrow
     A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.

     The artist who this viol wrought
     To echo all harmonious thought,
     Fell'd a tree, while on the steep
     The woods were in their winter sleep,
     Rock'd in that repose divine
     On the wind-swept Apennine;
     And dreaming, some of autumn past,
     And some of spring approaching fast,
     And some of April buds and showers,
     And some of songs in July bowers,
     And all of love; and so this tree,--
     O that such our death may be!--
     Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
     To live in happier form again:
     From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,
     The artist wrought this loved Guitar;
     And taught it justly to reply
     To all who question skilfully
     In language gentle as thine own;
     Whispering in enamour'd tone
     Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
     And summer winds in sylvan cells;
     --For it had learnt all harmonies
     Of the plains and of the skies,
     Of the forests and the mountains,
     And the many-voicéd fountains;
     The clearest echoes of the hills,
     The softest notes of falling rills,
     The melodies of birds and bees,
     The murmuring of summer seas,
     And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
     And airs of evening; and it knew
     That seldom-heard mysterious sound
     Which, driven on its diurnal round,
     As it floats through boundless day,
     Our world enkindles on its way:
     --All this it knows, but will not tell
     To those who cannot question well
     The spirit that inhabits it;
     It talks according to the wit
     Of its companions; and no more
     Is heard than has been felt before
     By those who tempt it to betray
     These secrets of an elder day:
     But, sweetly as its answers will
     Flatter hands of perfect skill,
     It keeps its highest holiest tone
     For one beloved Friend alone.

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     253. THE DAFFODILS.

       I wander'd lonely as a cloud
       That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
       When all at once I saw a crowd,
       A host of golden daffodils,
       Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
       Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

       Continuous as the stars that shine
       And twinkle on the milky way,
       They stretch'd in never-ending line
       Along the margin of a bay:
       Ten thousand saw I at a glance
       Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

       The waves beside them danced; but they
       Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:--
       A Poet could not but be gay
       In such a jocund company!
       I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
       What wealth the show to me had brought;

       For oft, when on my couch I lie
       In vacant or in pensive mood,
       They flash upon that inward eye
       Which is the bliss of solitude;
       And then my heart with pleasure fills,
       And dances with the daffodils.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     254. TO THE DAISY.

       With little here to do or see
       Of things that in the great world be,
       Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee
           For thou art worthy,
       Thou unassuming commonplace
       Of Nature, with that homely face,
       And yet with something of a grace,
           Which love makes for thee!

       Oft on the dappled turf at ease
       I sit and play with similes,
       Loose types of things through all degrees,
           Thoughts of thy raising;
       And many a fond and idle name
       I give to thee, for praise or blame,
       As is the humour of the game,
           While I am gazing.

       A nun demure, of lowly port;
       Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
       In thy simplicity the sport
           Of all temptations;
       A queen in crown of rubies drest;
       A starveling in a scanty vest;
       Are all, as seem to suit thee best,
           Thy appellations.

       A little Cyclops, with one eye
       Staring to threaten and defy,
       That thought comes next--and instantly
           The freak is over,
       The shape will vanish, and behold!
       A silver shield with boss of gold
       That spreads itself, some fairy bold
           In fight to cover.

       I see thee glittering from afar--
       And then thou art a pretty star,
       Not quite so fair as many are
           In heaven above thee!
       Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
       Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;--
       May peace come never to his nest,
           Who shall reprove thee!

       Sweet Flower! for by that name at last
       When all my reveries are past
       I call thee and to that cleave fast,
           Sweet silent Creature!
       That breath'st with me in sun and air,
       Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
       My heart with gladness, and a share
           Of thy meek nature!

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     255. ODE TO AUTUMN.

     Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
     Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
     Conspiring with him how to load and bless
     With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves 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 shells
     With 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'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

     Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store?
     Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
     Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
     Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
     Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
     Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
     Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers;
     And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep
     Steady thy laden head across a brook;
     Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
     Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

     Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
     Think not of them,--thou hast thy music too,
     While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
     And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
     Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
     Among the river sallows, borne aloft
     Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
     And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
     Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
     The redbreast whistles from a garden croft;
     And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

     J. KEATS.

     256. ODE TO WINTER.

          _Germany_, _December_, 1800.

     When first the fiery mantled Sun
     His heavenly race began to run,
     Round the earth and ocean blue
     His children four the Seasons flew:--
      First, in green apparel dancing,
     The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;
      Rosy Summer next advancing,
     Rush'd into her sire's embrace--
     Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
      For ever nearest to his smiles,
     On Calpe's olive-shaded steep
      Or India's citron-cover'd isles.
     More remote and buxom-brown,
      The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
     A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
      A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

     But howling Winter fled afar
     To hills that prop the polar star;
     And loves on deer-borne car to ride
     With barren darkness at his side
     Round the shore where loud Lofoden
      Whirls to death the roaring whale,
     Round the hall where Runic Odin
      Howls his war-song to the gale--
     Save when adown the ravaged globe
      He travels on his native storm,
     Deflowering Nature's grassy robe
      And trampling on her faded form;
     Till light's returning Lord assume
      The shaft that drives him to his northern fields,
     Of power to pierce his raven plume
      And crystal-cover'd shield.

     O sire of storms! whose savage ear
     The Lapland drum delights to hear,
     When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye
     Implores thy dreadful deity--
     Archangel! Power of desolation!
      Fast descending as thou art,
     Say, hath mortal invocation
      Spells to touch thy stony heart:
     Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,
     And gently rule the ruin'd year;
     Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare
     Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear:
     To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
      Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
     And gently on the orphan head
      Of Innocence descend.

     But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!
     The sailor on his airy shrouds,
     When wrecks and beacons strew the deep
     And spectres walk along the deep.
     Milder yet thy snowy breezes
      Pour on yonder tented shores,
     Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
      Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
     O winds of Winter! list ye there
      To many a deep and dying groan?
     Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,
      At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?
     Alas! e'en your unhallow'd breath
      May spare the victim fallen low;
     But Man will ask no truce to death,
      No bounds to human woe.

     T. CAMPBELL.

     257. YARROW UNVISITED.

               1803.

     From Stirling castle we had seen
     The mazy Forth unravell'd,
     Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
     And with the Tweed had travell'd;
     And when we came to Clovenford,
     Then said my "winsome Marrow."
     "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
     And see the Braes of Yarrow."

     "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
     Who have been buying, selling,
     Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
     Each maiden to her dwelling!
     On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
     Hares couch, and rabbits burrow,
     But we will downward with the Tweed,
     Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

     "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
     Both lying right before us;
     And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
     The lintwhites sing in chorus;
     There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land
     Made blythe with plough and harrow:
     Why throw away a needful day
     To go in search of Yarrow?

     "What's Yarrow but a river bare
     That glides the dark hills under?
     There are a thousand such elsewhere
     As worthy of your wonder."
     --Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
     My true-love sighed for sorrow,
     And look'd me in the face, to think
     I thus could speak of Yarrow!

     "O green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,
     And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
     Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
     But we will leave it growing.
     O'er hilly path, and open strath,
     We'll wander Scotland thorough;
     But, though so near, we will not turn
     Into the dale of Yarrow.

     "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
     The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
     The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake
     Float double, swan and shadow!
     We will not see them; will not go
     To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
     Enough if in our hearts we know
     There's such a place as Yarrow.

     "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown;
     It must, or we shall rue it:
     We have a vision of our own;
     Ah! why should we undo it?
     The treasured dreams of times long past,
     We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
     For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
     'Twill be another Yarrow.

     "If care with freezing years should come
     And wandering seem but folly,--
     Should we be loth to stir from home,
     And yet be melancholy;
     Should life be dull, and spirits low,
     'Twill soothe us in our sorrow
     That earth has something yet to show,
     The bonny Holms of Yarrow!"

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     258. YARROW VISITED.

               _September_, 1814.

     And is this--Yarrow?--This is the Stream
     Of which my fancy cherish'd
     So faithfully, a waking dream,
     An image that hath perish'd?
     O that some minstrel's harp were near
     To utter notes of gladness
     And chase this silence from the air,
     That fills my heart with sadness!

     Yet why?--a silvery current flows
     With uncontroll'd meanderings;
     Nor have these eyes by greener hills
     Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
     And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
     Is visibly delighted;
     For not a feature of those hills
     Is in the mirror slighted.

     A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,
     Save where that pearly whiteness
     Is round the rising sun diffused,
     A tender hazy brightness;
     Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
     All profitless dejection;
     Though not unwilling here to admit
     A pensive recollection.

     Where was it that the famous Flower
     Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
     His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
     On which the herd is feeding:
     And haply from this crystal pool,
     Now peaceful as the morning,
     The water-Wraith ascended thrice,
     And gave his doleful warning.

     Delicious is the Lay that sings
     The haunts of happy lovers,
     The path that leads them to the grove,
     The leafy grove that covers:
     And pity sanctifies the verse
     That paints, by strength of sorrow,
     The unconquerable strength of love;
     Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!

     But thou that didst appear so fair
     To fond imagination
     Dost rival in the light of day
     Her delicate creation:
     Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
     A softness still and holy:
     The grace of forest charms decay'd,
     And pastoral melancholy.

     That region left, the vale unfolds
     Rich groves of lofty stature,
     With Yarrow winding through the pomp
     Of cultivated Nature;
     And rising from those lofty groves
     Behold a ruin hoary,
     The shatter'd front of Newark's Towers,
     Renown'd in Border story.

     Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
     For sportive youth to stray in,
     For manhood to enjoy his strength,
     And age to wear away in!
     Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
     A covert for protection
     Of studious ease and generous cares,
     And every chaste affection!

     How sweet on this autumnal day
     The wild-wood fruits to gather,
     And on my true-love's forehead plant
     A crest of blooming heather!
     And what if I enwreathed my own?
     'Twere no offence to reason;
     The sober hills thus deck their brows
     To meet the wintry season.

     I see--but not by sight alone
     Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
     A ray of Fancy still survives--
     Her sunshine plays upon thee!
     Thy ever-youthful waters keep
     A course of lively pleasure;
     And gladsome notes my lips can breathe
     Accordant to the measure.

     The vapours linger round the heights,
     They melt, and soon must vanish;
     One hour is theirs, nor more is mine--
     Sad thought! which I would banish,
     But that I know, where'er I go,
     Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
     Will dwell with me, to heighten joy
     And cheer my mind in sorrow.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     259. THE INVITATION.

     Best and Brightest, come away,
     Fairer far than this fair day,
     Which, like thee, to those in sorrow
     Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
     To the rough year just awake
     In its cradle on the brake.
     The brightest hour of unborn Spring
     Through the winter wandering,
     Found, it seems, the halcyon morn
     To hoar February born;
     Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
     It kiss'd the forehead of the earth,
     And smiled upon the silent sea,
     And bade the frozen streams be free,
     And waked to music all their fountains,
     And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
     And like a prophetess of May
     Strew'd flowers upon the barren way,
     Making the wintry world appear
     Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.

     Away, away, from men and towns,
     To the wild wood and the downs--
     To the silent wilderness
     Where the soul need not repress
     Its music, lest it should not find
     An echo in another's mind,
     While the touch of Nature's art
     Harmonises heart to heart.

     Radiant Sister of the Day
     Awake! arise! and come away!
     To the wild woods and the plains,
     And the pools where winter rains
     Image all their roof of leaves,
     Where the pine its garland weaves
     Of sapless green, and ivy dun,
     Round stems that never kiss the sun,
     Where the lawns and pastures be
     And the sandhills of the sea,
     Where the melting hoar-frost wets
     The daisy-star that never sets,
     And wind-flowers and violets
     Which yet join not scent to hue
     Crown the pale year weak and new;
     When the night is left behind
     In the deep east, dim and blind,
     And the blue noon is over us,
     And the multitudinous
     Billows murmur at our feet,
     Where the earth and ocean meet,
     And all things seem only one
     In the universal Sun.

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     260. THE RECOLLECTION.

     Now the last day of many days
     All beautiful and bright as thou,
     The loveliest and the last, is dead,
     Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
     Up, do thy wonted work! come, trace
     The epitaph of glory fled,
     For now the Earth has changed its face,
     A frown is on the Heaven's brow.

     We wander'd to the Pine Forest
      That skirts the Ocean's foam;
     The lightest wind was in its nest,
      The tempest in its home.
     The whispering waves were half asleep,
      The clouds were gone to play,
     And on the bosom of the deep
      The smile of Heaven lay;
     It seem'd as if the hour were one
      Sent from beyond the skies
     Which scatter'd from above the sun
      A light of Paradise!

     We paused amid the pines that stood
      The giants of the waste,
     Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
      As serpents interlaced,--
     And soothed by every azure breath
      That under heaven is blown
     To harmonies and hues beneath,
      As tender as its own:
     Now all the tree-tops lay asleep
      Like green waves on the sea,
     As still as in the silent deep
      The ocean-woods may be.

     How calm it was!--the silence there
      By such a chain was bound,
     That even the busy woodpecker
      Made stiller by her sound
     The inviolable quietness;
      The breath of peace we drew
     With its soft motion made not less
      The calm that round us grew.
     There seem'd from the remotest seat
      Of the wide mountain waste
     To the soft flower beneath our feet
      A magic circle traced
     A spirit interfused around,
      A thrilling silent life;
     To momentary peace it bound
      Our mortal nature's strife;--
     And still I felt the centre of
      The magic circle there
     Was one fair Form that fill'd with love
      The lifeless atmosphere.

     We paused beside the pools that lie
      Under the forest bough;
     Each seemed as 'twere a little sky
      Gulf'd in a world below;
     A firmament of purple light
      Which in the dark earth lay,
     More boundless than the depth of night
      And purer than the day--
     In which the lovely forests grew
      As in the upper air,
     More perfect both in shape and hue
      Than any spreading there.
     There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
      And through the dark green wood
     The white sun twinkling like the dawn
      Out of a speckled cloud.
     Sweet views which in our world above
      Can never well be seen
     Were imaged by the water's love
      Of that fair forest green:
     And all was interfused beneath
      With an Elysian glow,
     An atmosphere without a breath,
      A softer day below.
     Like one beloved the scene had lent
      To the dark water's breast
     Its very leaf and lineament
      With more than truth exprest;
     Until an envious wind crept by,
      Like an unwelcome thought
     Which from the mind's too faithful eye
      Blots one dear image out.
     --Though Thou art ever fair and kind,
      The forests ever green,
     Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind,
      Than calm in waters seen!

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     261. BY THE SEA.

     It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
     The holy time is quiet as a nun
     Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
     Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

     The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
     Listen! the mighty being is awake,
     And doth with his eternal motion make
     A sound like thunder--everlastingly.

     Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
     If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought
     Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

     Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
     And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
     God being with thee when we know it not.

     W. WORDSWORTH.

     262. TO THE EVENING STAR.

     Star that bringest home the bee,
     And sett'st the weary labourer free!
     If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou
       That send'st it from above,
     Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
       Are sweet as hers we love.

     Come to the luxuriant skies,
     Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
     Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard
       And songs when toil is done,
     From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
       Curls yellow in the sun.

     Star of love's soft interviews,
     Parted lovers on thee muse;
     Their remembrancer in Heaven
       Of thrilling vows thou art,
     Too delicious to be riven
       By absence from the heart.

     T. CAMPBELL.

     263. DATUR HORA QUIETI.

     The sun upon the lake is low,
      The wild birds hush their song,
     The hills have evening's deepest glow,
      Yet Leonard tarries long.
     Now all whom varied toil and care
      From home and love divide,
     In the calm sunset may repair
      Each to the loved one's side.

     The noble dame on turret high,
      Who waits her gallant knight,
     Looks to the western beam to spy
      The flash of armour bright.
     The village maid, with hand on brow
      The level ray to shade,
     Upon the footpath watches now
      For Colin's darkening plaid.

     Now to their mates the wild swans row,
      By day they swam apart,
     And to the thicket wanders slow
      The hind beside the hart.
     The woodlark at his partner's side
      Twitters his closing song--
     All meet whom day and care divide,
      But Leonard tarries long!

     SIR W. SCOTT.

     264. TO THE MOON.

         Art thou pale for weariness
       Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
         Wandering companionless
       Among the stars that have a different birth,--
     And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
     That finds no object worth its constancy?

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     265.

       A widow bird sate mourning for her Love
         Upon a wintry bough;
       The frozen wind crept on above,
         The freezing stream below.

       There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
         No flower upon the ground,
       And little motion in the air
         Except the mill-wheel's sound.

     P.B. SHELLEY.

     266. TO SLEEP.

     A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
     One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
     Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
     Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;--