"And when I shall, as, soon or late, I must, Thy glorious works: forbid me to repine; Before my mental eye, and let them shine With borrow'd light from thee, for they are thine!" ERSES TO THE MEMORY OF A CHILD OF SUPERIOR EN DOWMENTS AND EXTRAORDINARY PIETY. It is not length of years which lends The age we honor standeth not In locks of snow, or length of days; For wisdom, which is taught by truth, Its image e'en in infant minds. Thus was this child made early wise, What more could wisdom do for them, Hath led his spirit home to God! Well may his memory be dear, "The brightest star of morning's host," Is that which shines in twilight skies; Its loss inspires a brief regret; And thus the spirit which is gone, There are, who watch'd it to the last; PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. SPIRITS. FIRST FAUN. Canst thou imagine where those spirits live, Which make such delicate music in the woods? We haunt within the least frequented caves And closest coverts, and we know these wilds, Yet never meet them, though we hear them oft; Where may they hide themselves? SECOND FAUN. "T is hard to tell: FIRST FAUN. If such live thus, have others other lives, HAIL to thee blithe spirit! In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest 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 brightning, 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 day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,— Keen as 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, Like a high-born maiden Soul in secret hour, With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden Scattering unbeholden Its acrial hue, Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view; Joyous, clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass: What fields, or waves, or mountains? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With some pain is fraught: * Our sweetest songs are those that tell the 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, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness The world should listen then, as I am listening now. TO HIS SON, SIX YEARS OLD, DURING SICKNESS. SLEEP breathes at last from out thee, My little patient boy; I sit me down, and think Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, The little trembling hand Sorrows I've had, severe ones, Ah, first-born of thy mother, |