The garden, once fair, became cold and foul, Swift summer into the autumn flow'd, The rose-leaves, like flakes of crimson now, The lilies were drooping, and white, and wan, And Indian plants, of scent and hue Were mass'd into the common clay. And the leaves, brown, yellow, and grey, and red, And white, with the whiteness of what is dead, Like troops of ghosts on the dry winds past; Their whistling noise made the birds aghast. And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds Till they clung round many a sweet flower's stem, The water-blooms under the rivulet Fell from the stalks on which they were set, Then the rain came down, and the broken stalks Between the time of the wind and the snow, Whose coarse leaves were splash'd with many a speck, Like the water-snake's belly and the toad's back. And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank, And the dock, and the henbane, and hemlock dank, Stretch'd out its long and hollow shank, And stifled the air till the dead wind stank. And plants, at whose names the verse feels loath, And agarics and fungi, with mildew and mould, Their mass rotted off them, flake by flake, Till the thick stalk stuck like a murderer's stake; Where rags of loose flesh yet tremble on high, Infecting the winds that wander by. Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum, And hour by hour, when the air was still, And unctuous meteors from spray to spray The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid, For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon sap As blood to a heart that will beat no more. For Winter came : the wind was his whip: He had torn the cataracts from the hills, His breath was a chain, which without a sound The earth, and the air, and the water bound; He came, fiercely driven in his chariot-throne By the tenfold blasts of the arctic zone. Then the weeds which were forms of living death And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant First there came down a thawing rain, And its dull drops froze on the boughs again, Then there steam'd up a freezing dew Which to drops of the thaw-rain grew; And a northern whirlwind, wand'ring about When winter had gone and spring came back, [darnels, But the mandrakes, and toad-stools, and docks, and Rose like the dead from their ruined charnels. SHELLEY. A GRANDSIRE'S TALE. THE tale I tell was told me long ago; Yet mirthful ones, since heard, have pass'd away, Maintain'd that lingering spell which age endears, And while he told his tale his eyes were dim with tears. But not with tears of sorrow ;-for the eye Is often wet with joy and gratitude; And well his faltering voice, and tear, and sigh, Declared a heart by thankfulness subdued: Brief feelings of regret might there intrude, Like clouds which shade awhile the moon's fair light; But meek submission soon her power renew'd, And patient smiles, by tears but made more bright, Confess'd that God's decree was wise, and good, and right. |