Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy ? II. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, III. Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed For ever piping songs for ever new; All breathing human passion far above, IV. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. V. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other wo Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. ODE TO PSYCHE. O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung, Even into thine own soft-couched ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?. I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed, But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? O latest-born and loveliest vision far Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. O brightest! though too late for antique vows, Yet even in these days so far retired Fluttering among the faint Olympians, Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane Where branched thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain, Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreathed trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, FANCY. EVER let the Fancy roam, At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Then let winged Fancy wander Through the thought still spread beyond her: Open wide the mind's cage door, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. O sweet Fancy! let her loose; The sear faggot blazes bright, When the soundless earth is muffled, And the caked snow is shuffled From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; To banish Even from her sky. Fancy, high-commission'd:-send her! |