Pluck'd 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 answer'd, while his white melodious throat Throbb'd 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, Like one who once had wings.-O why should I Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liegeless air Yields to my step aspirant? why should I 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. I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where is power? Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity
Makes this alarm in the elements,
While I here idle listen on the shores
In fearless yet in aching ignorance?
O tell me, lonely Goddess! by thy harp, That waileth every morn and eventide, Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves! Mute thou remainest-Mute? yet I can read A wondrous lesson in thy silent face:
Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, grey legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies,
Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal."-Thus the God, While his enkindled eyes, with level glance Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast kept Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne.
Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush All the immortal fairness of his limbs: Most like the struggle at the gate of death; Or liker still to one who should take leave Of pale immortal death, and with a pang As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse Die into life: so young Apollo anguish'd; His very hair, his golden tresses famed Kept undulation round his eager neck. During the pain Mnemosyne upheld
Her arms as one who prophesied.-At length Apollo shriek'd ;-and lo! from all his limbs Celestial
What more felicity can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with liberty?
Fate of the Butterfly.-SPENSER.
TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.
GLORY and Loveliness have pass'd away; For if we wander out in early morn, No wreathed incense do we see upborne Into the east to meet the smiling day :
No crowd of nymphs soft-voiced and young and gay, In woven baskets bringing ears of corn, Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn The shrine of Flora in her early May. But there are left delights as high as these. And I shall ever bless my destiny, That in a time when under pleasant trees Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free, A leafy luxury, seeing I could please
With these poor offerings, a man like thee.
Places of nestling green for poets made.
I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still,
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scanty-leaved, and finely-tapering stems, Had not yet lost their starry diadems
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn, And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; For not the faintest motion could be seen Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. There was wide wandering for the greediest eye, To peer about upon variety;
Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; To picture out the quaint and curious bending Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending: Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free
As though the fanning wings of Mercury Had play'd upon my heels: I was light-hearted, And many pleasures to my vision started; So I straightway began to pluck a posy Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.
A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them; Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them!
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
A filbert-hedge with wild-briar overtwined, And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind Upon their summer thrones; there too should be The frequent-chequer of a youngling tree, That with a score of light green brethren shoots From the quaint mossiness of aged roots: Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters, Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters, The spreading blue-bells: it may haply mourn That such fair clusters should be rudely torn From their fresh beds, and scatter'd thoughtlessly By infant hands, left on the path to die.
Open afresh your round of starry folds, Ye ardent marigolds!
Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, For great Apollo bids
That in these days your praises should be sung On many harps, which he has lately strung; And when again your dewiness he kisses, Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses: So haply when I rove in some far vale, His mighty voice may come upon the gale.
Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight: With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings. Linger awhile upon some bending planks That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, And watch intently Nature's gentle doings: They will be found softer than ringdoves' cooings. How silent comes the water round that bend! Not the minutest whisper does it send
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