« ElőzőTovább »
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
Soul in secret hour
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
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
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
But an empty vaunt
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
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 :
Our sincerest laughter
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;
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,
That to hear her so complain
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
AT midnight, in the month of June,
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
O, lady bright, can it be right,
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs from the tree-top
Above the closed and fringèd lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! O, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king ; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo !
The palm and may make country houses gay,
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
The Battle of Naseby
(BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITHLINKS-OF-IRON, SERGEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT)
OH! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North, With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?