« ElőzőTovább »
'How far less blest am I than them!
'My spirits flag-my hopes decay-
Thus sore and sad that Lady grieved
And ere the dawn of day appear'd,
The death-bell thrice was heard to ring;
The mastiff howl'd at village door,
And in that manor now no more
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball: For ever since that dreary hour
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.
The village maids, with fearful glance,
Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.
Full many a traveller oft hath sigh'd,
W. F. MICKLE.
To a Skylark
HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest:
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 embodied 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
Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.
All the earth and air
As, when night is bare,
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,
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
With music sweet as love which overflows her bower :
Like a glow-worm golden
Its aërial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view :
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showers
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.
Or triumphal chaunt,
Match'd with thine, would be all
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
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 :
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
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 :
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,
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 ;
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then as I am listening now!
P. B. SHELLEY.
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Save the nightingale alone.
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain ;
-Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
King Pandion, he is dead,
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
AT midnight, in the month of June,