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Of beechen green, and shadows num

But here there is no light, berless,

Save what from heaven is with the Singest of summer in full-throated

breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and

winding mossy ways. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Cooled a long age in the deep-delved Nor what soft incense hangs upon the earth,

boughs, Tasting of Flora and the country-green, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each Dance, and Provençal song, and sun

sweet burnt mirth!

Wherewith the seasonable month enO for a beaker full of the warm south,

dows Full of the true, the blissful Hippo- The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree crene,

wild; With beaded bubbles winking at White hawthorn, and the pastoral eg. the brim,

lantine; And purple-stained mouth; Fast-fading violets covered up in That I might drink, and leave the

leaves; world unseen,

And mid-May's eldest child, And with thee fade away into the The coming musk-rose, full of dewy forest dim:

wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

summer eves. What thou among the leaves hast never known,

Darkling I listen; and for many a time The weariness, the fever, and the fret

I have been half in love with easeful Here, where men sit and hear each

Death, other groan;

Called him soft names in many a mused Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray rhyme, hairs,

To take into the air my quiet breath; Where youth grows pale, and spectre- Now more than ever seems it rich to die, thin, and dies;

To cease upon the midnight with no Where but to think is to be full of

pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy And laden-eyed despairs;

soul abroad Where Beauty cannot keep herlustrous

In such an ecstasy! eyes,

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears Or new Love pine at them beyond

in vain to-morrow.

To thy high requiem become a sod. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Thou wast not born for death, immortal Not charioted by Bacchus and his

Bird! pards,

No hungry generations tread thee But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

down; Though the dull brain perplexes and The voice I hear this passing night retards :

was heard Already with thee! tender is the night, In ancient days by emperor and clown: And haply the Queen-Moon is on her Perhaps the self-same song that found a throne,

path Clustered around by all her starry Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, Fays;

sick for home,

sorrow

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on

the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands for

lorn.

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst

not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be

bare; Bold Lover, never, never cans:

thou kiss, Though winning near the goal — yet.

do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast

not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be

fair!

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?

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot

shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring

adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied,

For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy

love! For ever warm and still to be enjoyed, For ever panting and forever

young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high sorrowful

and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parch

ing tongue.

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. Thou still unravished bride of quiet

ness! Thou foster-child of Silence and slow

Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus ex

press A flowery tale more sweetly than our

rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about

thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What

maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to

escape? What pipes and timbrels? What

wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those

unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes,

play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more en

deared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious

priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the

skies, And all her silken flanks with gar

lands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful cita

del, Is emptied of its folk, this pious

morn? And, little town, thy streets for ever

more Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er

return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with

brede Of marble men and maidens over.

wrought,

SONNETS.

With forest branches and the trodden

weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out

of thought As doth eternity. Cold pastoral ! When old age shall this generation

waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAP

MAN'S HOMER.

woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom

thou say'st : Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is

all Ye know on earth, and all ye need

to know.

Much have I travelled in the realms of

gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms

seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his

demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud

and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes Hestared at the Pacific -- and all his men Looked at each other with a wild sur

mise Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

LINES ON 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 bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day Mine host's sign-board 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.

WRITTEN IN JANUARY, 1817. AFTER dark vapors have oppressed our

plains For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle South, and clears away From the sick heavensallunseemlystains. The anxious mouth, relieved from its

pains, Takes as a long-lost right the feel of

May, The eyelids with the passing coolness

play, Like rose leaves with the drip of sum

mer rains. And calmest thoughts come round us, -

as, of leaves Budding, — fruit ripening in stillness, –

autumn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, Sweet Sappho's cheek, a sleeping in

fant's breath, The gradual sand that through an hour

glass runs, A woodland rivulet, -a Poet's death

Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

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WRITTEN IN JANUARY, 1818. WHEN I have fears that I may cease to

be Before my pen has gleaned my teeming

brain, Before high piled books, in charact'ry, Hold like full garners the full-ripened

grain; When I behold, upon the night's starred

face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And feel 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 faery 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.

From hedge to hedge about the new

mown mead: That is the grasshopper's, - he takes

the lead In summer luxury, - he has never done With his delights, for, when tired out

with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant

weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never : On a long winter evening, when the

frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove

there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increas

ing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half

lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy

hills.

ADDRESSED TO HAYDON.

THE HUMAN SEASONS.

GREAT spirits now on earth are sojourn

ing: He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide

awake, Catches his freshness from Archangel's

wing: He of the rose, the violet, the spring, The social smile, the chain for Free

dom's sake: And lo! whose steadfastness would

never take A meaner sound than Raphael's whis

pering And other spirits there are, standing

apart Upon the forehead of the age to come; These, these will give the world another

heart, And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings? – Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb.

Four Seasons fill the measure of the

year; There are four seasons in the mind of

man : He has his lusty Spring, when fancy

clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span: He has his Summer, when luxuriously Spring's honeyed cud of youthful thought

he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his

wings He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER.

KEATS'S LAST SONNET. COME hither, all sweet maidens, soberly, BRIGHT star! would I were steadfast as Down-looking aye, and with a chastened

thou art light,

Not in lone splendor hung aloft the Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, night, And meekly let your fair hands joined And watching, with eternal lids apart, be,

Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, As if so gentle that ye could not see, The moving waters at their priestlike task Untouched, a victim of your beauty of pure ablution round earth's human bright,

shores, Sinking away to his young spirit's night, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Sinking bewildered ʼmid the dreary sea: Of snow upon the mountains and the 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death; Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary No-yet still steadfast, still unchangelips

able, For Hero's cheek, and smiles against | Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening her smile.

breast, O horrid dream! see how his body To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, dips

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest; Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam Still, still to hear her tender-taken awhile:

breath, He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous And so live ever - or else swoon to breath!

death.

moors.

when years

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

1796–1849. [HARTLEY COLERIDGE, son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, was born 19th September, 1796; died 6th January, 1849. Besides some prose writings, we have Poems by Hartley Coleridge, vol. i. (all published) Leeds, 1833; Poems by Hartley Coleridge, with a Memoir of his Life by his Brother, 2 vols., 1851.]

Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is SONNET.

gray, LONG time a child, and still a child,

For I have lost the race I never ran :

A rathe December blights my lagging Had painted manhood on my cheek,

May; was I,

And still I am a child, though I be old, For yet I lived like one not born to die; Time is my debtor for my years untold. A thriftless prodigal of smiles and

tears, No hope I needed, and I knew no fears.

TO A LOFTY BEAUTY, FROM But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep,

HER POOR KINSMAN. and waking, I waked to sleep no more, at once o'er- Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby taking

cries, The vanguard of my age, with all Nor seen thy girlish, sweet vicissitude, arrears

Thy mazy motions, striving to elude, Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor Yet wooing still a parent's watchful man,

eyes,

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