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PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Yet not the golden islands
And vesper bells that rose the boughs along; Gleaming in yon flood of light,
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng
From a true lover, -shadowed my mind's eye. Paving that gorgeous dome, So fair, so wonderful a sight
O Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things, As Mab's ethereal palace could afford.
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, l'et likest evening's vault, that fairy Hall !
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,
The welcome stall to the o'crlabored steer ; Heaven, low resting on the wave, it spread Its floors of tlashing light,
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, Its vast and azure dome,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, Its fertile golden islands
Are gathered round us by thy look of rest ; Floating on a silver sea ;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. Whilst suns their mingling beamings darted
Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the Through clouds of circumambient darkness,
heart And pearly battlements around
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day Looked o'er the immense of heaven.
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay :
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns.
EVENING IN PARADISE.
Now came still evening on, and twilight gray Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft,
Had in her sober livery all things clad ;
Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird,
Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale ;
She all night long her amorous descant sung. And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with
Silence was pleased : now glowed the firmament prayer.
With living sapphires ; Hesperus, that led Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer!
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love!
Rising in clouded majesty, at length Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare
Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. Ave Maria ! O that face so fair !
When Adam thus to Eve : “Fair consort, the Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty
Of night, and all things now retired to rest, What though 't is but a pictured image ? - Mind us of like repose, since God hath set strike,
Labor and rest, as day and night, to men That painting is no idol, -'t is too like. Successive ; and the timely dew of sleep, Sreet hour of twilight ! in the solitude
Now falling with soft slumberous weight, inclines of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Our eyelids. Other creatures all day long Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Rove idle, unemployed, and less need rest; Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er
Man hath his daily work of body or mind To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood,
Appointed, which declares his dignity, Evergreen forest ; which Boccaccio's lore
And the regard of Heaven on all his ways;
While other animals unactive range,
And of their doings God takes no account.
To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,
With first approach of light, we must be risen, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, And at our pleasant labor, to reform Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, / Yon flowery arbors, yonder alleys green,
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, Thy brother Death came, and cried,
“Wouldst thou me?” More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth. Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums,
Murmured like a noontide bee, That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unșmooth,
“Shall I nestle near thy side ? Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease ; Wouldst thou me ?” — And I replied, Meanwhile, as Nature wills, night bids us rest.”
“No, not thee!”
Soon, too soon,
I ask of thee, beloved Night,
Come soon, soon !
Thee, from report divine, and heard thy name, And these the gems of heaven, her starry train : Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, But neither breath of morn, when she ascends
This glorious canopy of light and blue ? With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers, Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night And lo! creation widened in man's view. With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, Who could have thought such darkness lay con. Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.”
cealed Thus talking, hand in hand alone they passed Within thy beams, o Sun! or who could find, On to their blissful bower.
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood rerealed,
Why do we then shun death with anxious strife ?
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life? SWIFTLY walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night !
How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh Which make thee terrible and dear,
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear Swift be thy light !
Were discord to the speaking quietude Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon Star-inwrought;
vault, Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,
Studded with stars unutterably bright, Kiss her until she be wearied out;
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur Then wander o'er city and sea and land,
rolls, Touching all with thine opiate wand,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow ; When I arose and saw the dawn,
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend, I sighed for thee ;
So stainless that their white and glittering spires
A metaphor of peace — all form a scene
Where musing solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness; Where silence undisturbed might watch alone, So cold, so bright, so still.
The orb of day
distant thunder mutters awfully;
his windsand lightnings, tracks his prey; n deep yawns, – the vessel finds a grave th its jagged gulf.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendor shrinking from distress! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Ofallthat flattered, followed, sought, and sued; This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude !
Night is the time for rest :
How sweet, when labors close, To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed!
Night is the time for dreams :
The gay romance of life,
Mix in fantastic strife;
To plough the classic field,
Its wealthy furrows yield;
FROM “CHILDE HAROLD."
Death hath but little left him to destroy! Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be
a boy? Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, To gaze on Dian's waye-reflected sphere, The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possessed A thought, and claims the homage of a tear;
A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.
Night is the time to weep :
To wet with unseen tears
The joys of other years ;
Night is the time to watch :
O'er ocean's dark expanse,
The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the homesick mind All we have loved and left behind.
To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
This is not solitude; 't is but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her
Night is the time for care :
Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of Despair
Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host, Summoned to die by Cæsar's ghost.
Night is the time to think :
When, from the eye, the soul Takes flight; and on the utmost brink
Of yonder starry pole
Discerns beyond the abyss of night
What stays thee from the clouded noons, The dawn of uncreated light.
Thy sweetness from its proper place ?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer moons ?
Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
The little speedwell's darling blue,
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, And commune there alone with God.
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.
O thou, new-year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to burst a frozen bud,
And flood a fresher throat with song.
Now fades the last long streak of snow;
Now bourgeons every maze of quick
About the flowering squares, and thick
By ashen roots the violets blow.
Now rings the woodland loud and long,
The distance takes a lovelier hue, I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night
And drowned in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.
Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
The flocks are whiter down the vale, Stoop o'er me from above ;
And milkier every milky sail
On winding stream or distant sea ;
Where now the seamew pipes, or dives
In yonder greening gleam, and fly
The happy birds, that change their sky
To build and brood, that live their lives Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
From land to land ; and in my breast My spirit drank repose ;
Spring wakens too ; and my regret The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,
Becomes an April violet, From those deep cisterns flows.
And buds and blossoms like the rest.
What man has borne before !
DIE DOWN, O DISMAL DAY! Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Die down, o dismal day, and let me live ; Descend with broad-winged flight,
And come, blue deeps, magnificently strewn
With colored clouds,-large, light, and fugitive, -
By upper winds through pompous motions blown.
Shagging the mountain tops. O God ! make free
This barren shackled earth, so deadly cold, IN MEMORIAM."
Breathe gently forth thy spring, till winter flies
In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold,
While she performs her customed charities ; () sweet new-ycar, delaying long :
I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare,
O God, forone clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Come with bows bent and with emptying of
Maiden most perfect, lady of light,
With a noise of winds and many rivers,
With a clamor of waters, and with might; Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, Bind on thy sandals, 0 thou most fleet, With the woodbine alternating,
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet !
For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,
Round the feet of the day and the feet of the Waiting for the May.
night. Ah ! my heart is sick with longing,
Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, Longing for the May,
Fold our hands round her knees and cling? Longing to escape from study,
O that man's heart were as fire and could spring To the young face fair and ruddy,
Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!
For the stars and the winds are unto her
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,
And the southwest-wind and the west-wind. Sighing for the May,
For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of shows and sins ;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins ;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,
And the oat is heard above the lyre,
And the hooféd heel of a satyr crushes
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.
And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Follows with dancing and fills with delight
The Mænad and the Bassarid;
And soft as lips that laugh and hide,
The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,
Over her eyebrows shading her eyes ; The mother of months in meadow or plain
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Fills the shadows and windy places
Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ;
The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, And the brown bright nightingale amorous
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves Is half assuaged for Itylus,
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces ;
The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.