The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone Or I have dreamed."—"Yes," said the supreme shape, Whose strings touched by thy fingers, all the vast Listened in pain and pleasure at the birth Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not strange That thou shouldst weep, so gifted? Tell me, youth, What sorrow thou canst feel: for I am sad When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy griefs To one who in this lonely isle hath been The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life, From the young day when first thy infant hand Plucked witless the weak flowers, till thine arm Could bend that bow heroic to all times. Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones For prophecies of thee, and for the sake Of loveliness new born."-Apollo then, With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes, Thus answered, while his white melodious throat Throbbed with the syllables: "Mnemosyne! Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how; Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest? Why should I strive to show what from thy lips Would come no mystery? For me, dark, dark, And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes: I strive to search wherefore I am so sad, Until a melancholy numbs my limbs ; And then upon the grass I sit, and moan, - Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet? Goddess benign, point forth some unknown thing: Are there not other regions than this isle? What are the stars? There is the sun, the sun! And the most patient brilliance of the moon! And stars by thousands! Point me out the way To any one particular beauteous star, And I will flit into it with my lyre, And make its silvery splendour pant with bliss. Makes this alarum in the elements, While I here idle listen on the shores Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain,* Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, * Mnemosyne was the goddess of memory. Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush Most like the struggle at the gate of death; : His very hair, his golden tresses famed Her arms as one who prophesied.—At length * * * * * Poems. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. I. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, II. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth. O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, And purple-stainèd mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: III. 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 grey 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, IV. 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: And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown V. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. VI. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, |