O, could we from death but recover Those hearts as they bounded before, Could the chain for an instant be riven But 'tis past and, though blazoned in story Accurst is the march of that glory Which treads o'er the hearts of the free. Far dearer the grave or the prison, Than the trophies of all, who have risen 281. Those Evening Bells. Those evening bells! those evening bells! Those joyous hours are past away! And so 'twill be when I am gone; That tuneful peal will still ring on, While other bards shall walk these dells, 282. THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE. The turf shall be my fragrant shrine; My choir shall be the moonlight waves, E'en more than music, breathes of Thee! I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, I'll read thy anger in the rack That clouds awhile the day-beam's track; Of sunny brightness breaking through! There's nothing bright, above, below, There's nothing dark, below, above, FERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 1792-1821. (Manual, pp. 411 415.) 283. FROM "ODE TO A SKYLARK.” Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher, From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; 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 bright'ning, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied 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 are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 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, To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone, The ants, the bees, the swallows, reappear; Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead season's bier. The loving birds now pair in every brake, Through wood and stream and field and hill and ocean, God dawned on chaos; in its stream immersed, The lamps of heaven flash with a softer light; All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst, Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight The beauty and the joy of their renewéd might. 285. THE PLAIN OF LOMBARDY. Beneath is spread, like a green sea, Of the waters crystalline; And before that chasm of light, Column, tower, and dome, and spire, Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies: Underneath; the leaves unsodden, And my spirit, which so long Darkened this swift stream of song, Interpenetrated lie By the glory of the sky; Which from heaven like dew doth fall, JOHN KEATS. 1796-1821. (Manual, p. 415.) 286. FROM "ODE TO AUTUMN." Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? |