FROM ADONAIS: AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS.
He lives, he wakes-'tis death is dead, not he; Mourn not for Adonais. Thou young dawn, Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan! Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou air, Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown O'er the abandon'd earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair!
He is made one with Nature: there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own; Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.
He is a portion of the loveliness
Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear His part, while the one spirit's plastic stress Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling
All new successions to the forms they wear; Torturing the unwilling dross that checks its flight To its own likeness, as each mass may bear; And bursting in its beauty and its might
From trees and beasts and men, into the Heaven's light.
The splendours of the firmament of time May be eclipsed, but are extinguish'd not; Like stars to their appointed height they climb, And death is a low mist which cannot blot The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, And love and life contend in it, for what Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air.
The inheritors of unfulfill'd renown
Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought,
Far in the unapparent. Chatterton Rose pale, his solemn agony had not
Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought And as he fell, and as he lived and loved, Sublimely mild, a spirit without spot, Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved : Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved.
And many more, whose names on earth are dark, But whose transmitted effluence cannot die So long as fire outlives the parent spark, Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. "Thou art become as one of us," they cry; "It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long Swung blind in unascended majesty,
Silent, alone amid a heaven of song.
Assume thy winged throne, thou vesper of our throng."
THE SERPENT IS SHUT OUT FROM PARADISE.
THE serpent is shut out from paradise. The wounded deer must seek the herb no more In which its heart-cure lies:
The widow'd dove must cease to haunt a bower, Like that from which its mate with feigned sighs Fled in the April hour.
I too must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain.
Of hatred I am proud,-with scorn content; Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown Itself indifferent.
But, not to speak of love, pity alone Can break a spirit already more than bent. The miserable one
Turns the mind's poison into food,— Its medicine is tears,-its evil good.
Therefore if now I see you seldomer, Dear, gentle friend! know that I only fly Your looks, because they stir Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die:
The very comfort that they minister I scarce can bear, yet I,
Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn. So deeply is the arrow gone,
When I return to my cold home, you ask Why I am not as I have ever been.
You spoil me for the task
Of acting a forced part on life's dull scene,- Of wearing on my brow the idle mask Of author, great or mean.
In the world's carnival I sought Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.
Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot With various flowers, and every one still said, She loves me- -loves me not."
And if this meant a vision long since fled- If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thought- If it meant-but I dread
To speak what you may know too well: Still there was truth in the sad oracle.
The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home; No bird so wild but has its quiet nest, Whence it no more would roam; The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast Burst like a bursting heart, and die in peace, And thus at length find rest. Doubtless there is a place of peace Where my weak heart and all its throbs shall cease. I ask'd her, yesterday, if she believed That I had resolution. One who had
Would ne'er have thus relieved His heart with words,-but what his judgment bade Would do, and leave the scorner unreprieved. These verses are too sad
To send to you, but that I know, Happy yourself, you feel another's wo.
WHAT art thou, Freedom? Oh! could slaves Answer from their living graves This demand, tyrants would flee Like a dream's dim imagery.
Thou art not, as impostors say, A shadow soon to pass away, A superstition, and a name Echoing from the cave of Fame. For the labourer thou art bread And a comely table spread, From his daily labour come, In a neat and happy home.
Thou art clothes, and fire, and food For the trampled multitude: No-in countries that are free Such starvation cannot be, As in England now we see. To the rich thou art a check; When his foot is on the neck Of his victim, thou dost make That he treads upon a snake. Thou art Justice-ne'er for gold May thy righteous laws be sold, As laws are in England :-thou Shieldest alike the high and low..... Thou art Peace-never by thee Would blood and treasure wasted be, As tyrants wasted them, when all Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul. What if English toil and blood Was pour'd forth, even as a flood? It availed, O Liberty!
To dim, but not extinguish thee!
Thou art Love: the rich have kist Thy feet, and like him following Christ, Given their substance to the free,
And through the rough world follow'd thee. Oh turn their wealth to arms, and make War for thy beloved sake,
On wealth and war and fraud; whence they Drew the power which is their prey. Science, and poetry, and thought, Are thy lamps; they make the lot Of the dwellers in a cot
Such, they curse their maker not. Spirit, patience, gentleness,
All that can adorn and bless,
Art thou: let deeds, not words, express
Thine exceeding loveliness.
Let a great assembly be Of the fearless and the free, On some spot of English ground, Where the plains stretch wide around. Let the blue sky overhead,
The green earth, on which ye tread, All that must eternal be, Witness the solemnity. From the corners uttermost Of the bounds of English coast; From every hut, village, and town, Where those who live and suffer, moan For others' misery, or their own: From the workhouse and the prison,
Where pale as corpses newly risen, Women, children, young, and old, Groan for pain, and weep for cold; From the haunts of daily life, Where is waged the daily strife
With common wants and common cares, Which sow the human heart with tares. Lastly, from the palaces,
Where the murmur of distress Echoes, like the distant sound Of a wind, alive around;
Those prison-halls of wealth and fashion, Where some few feel such compassion For those who groan, and toil, and wail, As must make their brethren pale; Ye who suffer woes untold,
Or to feel, or to behold
Your lost country bought and sold With a price of blood and gold. Let a vast assembly be,
And with great solemnity Declare with ne'er said words, that ye Are, as God has made ye, free!
Be your strong and simple words Keen to wound as sharpen'd swords, And wide as targes let them be, With their shade to cover ye. Let the tyrants pour around With a quick and startling sound, Like the loosening of a sea, Troops of arm'd emblazonry. Let the charged artillery drive, Till the dead air seems alive With the clash of clanging wheels, And the tramp of horses' heels. Let the fixéd bayonet
Gleam with sharp desire to wet Its bright point in English blood, Looking keen as one for food. Let the horseman's scimitars Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars. Thirsting to eclipse their burning In a sea of death and mourning. Stand ye, calm and resolute, Like a forest close and mute,
With folded arms, and looks which are Weapons of an unvanquish'd war. And let panic, who outspeeds The career of armed steeds, Pass, a disregarded shade, Through your phalanx undismay'd. Let the laws of your own land, Good or ill, between ye stand, Hand to hand, and foot to foot, Arbiters of the dispute.
The old laws of England-they Whose reverend heads with age are gray, Children of a wiser day;
And whose solemn voice must be Thine own echo-Liberty!
On those who first should violate Such sacred heralds in their state, Rest the blood that must ensue ; And it will not rest on you. And if then the tyrants dare,
Let them ride among you there;
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew;
What they like, that let them do. With folded arms and steady eyes, And little fear, and less surprise, Look upon them as they slay, Till their rage has died away: Then they will return with shame, To the place from which they came, And the blood thus shed will speak In hot blushes on their cheek:
Every woman in the land
Will point at them as they stand- They will hardly dare to greet Their acquaintance in the street; And the bold, true warriors,
Who have hugg'd danger in the wars, Will turn to those who would be free, Ashamed of such base company: And that slaughter to the nation Shall steam up like inspiration, Eloquent, oracular,
A volcano heard afar:
And these words shall then become Like oppression's thunder'd doom, Ringing through each heart and brain, Heard again-again--again! Rise like lions after slumber In unvanquishable number!
Shake your chains to earth, like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you: Ye are many-they are few!
SWIFTER far than summer's flight, Swifter far than youth's delight, Swifter far than happy night,
Art thou come and gone:
As the earth when leaves are dead, As the night when sleep is sped, As the heart when joy is fled, I am left alone, alone.
The swallow summer comes again, The owlet night resumes her reign, But the wild swan youth is fain
To fly with thee, false as thou. My heart each day desires the morrow, Sleep itself is turn'd to sorrow, Vainly would my winter borrow
Sunny leaves from any bough.
Lilies for a bridal bed, Roses for a matron's head, Violets for a maiden dead,
Pansies let my flowers be: On the living grave I bear, Scatter them without a tear, Let no friend, however dear,
Waste one hope, one fear for me.
THE SUN IS WARM, THE SKY IS CLEAR.
THE sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple moon's transparent light: The breath of the moist air is light, Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight,
The winds, the birds, the ocean-floods, The city's voice itself is soft, like solitude's.
I see the deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown: I see the waves upon the shore,
Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone,
The lightning of the noontide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that content, surpassing wealth,
The sage in meditation found,
And walk'd with inward glory crown'd- Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround—
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure : To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear, Till death, like sleep, might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan; They might lament-for I am one
Whom men love not-and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yet.
THE HOURS, FROM PROMETHEUS. CARS drawn by rainbow-winged steeds, Which trample the dim winds: in each there stands A wild-eyed charioteer, urging their flight. Some look behind, as fiends pursued them there, And yet I see no shapes but the keen stars: Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, and drink With eager lips the wind of their own speed, As if the thing they loved fled on before, [locks And now, even now, they clasp'd it. Their bright Stream like a comet's flashing hair: they all Sweep onward.
LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.
THE fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle- Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdain'd its brother: And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea ;- What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me 1
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shades for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one,
When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 't is my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, Lightning my pilot sits,
In a cavern under is fetter'd the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning-star shines dead.
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun's throne with the burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chain'd to my chair, Is the million-colour'd bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, While the moist earth was laughing below.
I see the deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown: I see the waves upon the shore,
Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone,
The lightning of the noontide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found, And walk'd with inward glory crown'd- Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Other I see whom these surround-
Smiling they live and call life pleasure;— To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care
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