But 'tis past-and, tho' blazon'd in story Which treads o'er the hearts of the free. Far dearer the grave or the prison, Than the trophies of all, who have risen 295. THOSE EVENING BELLS. Those evening bells! those evening bells! And sing your praise, sweet evening bells! 296. THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE. The turf shall be my fragrant shrine; My choir shall be the moonlight waves, I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, I'll read thy anger in the rack That clouds awhile the day-beam's track; Of sunny brightness breaking through! There's nothing dark, below, above, Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1821. (Manual, pp. 438-443.) 297. TO A SKYLARK, Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, 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 bright'ning, 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 day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen 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 overflowed. 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, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soul in secret hour, With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower. Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Its aërial 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 scent these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, 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 hymenaal, Or triumphal chaunt, Matched 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 could come near. Better than all measures Of delight and sound, That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 298. RETURNING SPRING. Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone, Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead seasons' bier. Through wood and stream and field and hill and ocean, A quickening life from the earth's heart has burst, As it has ever done, with change and motion, From the great morning of the world when first God dawned on chaos; in its stream immersed, The lamps of heaven flash with a softer light; All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst, Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight The beauty and the joy of their renewed might. 299. THE PLAIN OF LOMBARDY. And before that chasm of light, Column, tower, and dome, and spire, Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies : |