His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness-to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:-
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
GREAT SPIRITS NOW ON EARTH ARE SOJOURNING
GREAT spirits now on earth are sojourning; He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing; He of the rose, the violet, the spring,
The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake: And lo!-whose steadfastness would never take A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. And other spirits there are standing apart Upon the forehead of the age to come; These, these will give the world another heart And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings in the human mart? Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb.
WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high-piléd books, in charact❜ry
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour! That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the fairy power Of unreflecting love-then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
BRIGHT STAR! would I were steadfast as thou art:- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:-
No-yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever, or else swoon to death.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR [1775-1864]
Ан, what avails the sceptred race! Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee.
TWENTY years hence my eyes may grow, If not quite dim, yet rather so;
Yet yours from others they shall know, Twenty years hence.
Twenty years hence, though it may hap That I be call'd to take a nap
In a cool cell where thunder-clap Was never heard,
There breathe but o'er my arch of grass A not too sadly sigh'd 'Alas!'
And I shall catch, ere you can pass, That winged word.
PROUD WORD YOU NEVER SPOKE
PROUD Word you never spoke, but you will speak Four not exempt from pride some future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek, Over my open volume you will say,
'This man loved me '-then rise and trip away.
HERE, ever since you went abroad, If there be change, no change I see: I only walk our wonted road, The road is only walk'd by me.
Yes; I forgot; a change there is— Was it of that you bade me tell? I catch at times, at times I miss The sight, the tone, I know so well.
STAND close around, ye Stygian set, With Dirce in one boat convey'd! Or Charon, seeing, may forget That he is old and she a shade.
CORINNA TO TANAgra, from Athens TANAGRA! think not I forget
Thy beautifully storied streets; Be sure my memory bathes yet
In clear Thermodon, and yet greets The blithe and liberal shepherd-boy, Whose sunny bosom swells with joy When we accept his matted rushes
Upheav'd with sylvan fruit; away he bounds, and blushes.
A gift I promise: one I see
Which thou with transport wilt receive,
The only proper gift for thee,
Of which no mortal shall bereave
In later times thy mouldering walls, Until the last old turret falls;
A crown, a crown from Athens won,
A crown no God can wear, beside Latona's son.
There may be cities who refuse
To their own child the honours due, And look ungently on the Muse;
But ever shall those cities rue The dry, unyielding, niggard breast, Offering no nourishment, no rest,
To that young head which soon shall rise Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.
Sweetly where cavern'd Dirce flows Do white-arm'd maidens chant my lay, Flapping the while with laurel-rose
The honey-gathering tribes away; And sweetly, sweetly Attic tongues Lisp your Corinna's early songs;
To her with feet more graceful come
The verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home.
O let thy children lean aslant
Against the tender mother's knee, And gaze into her face, and want
To know what magic there can be In words that urge some eyes to dance, While others as in holy trance
Look up to heaven: be such my praise!
Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphic bays.
MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL
MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry: Oh! if you felt the pain I feel! But oh, who ever felt as I? No longer could I doubt him true- All other men may use deceit; He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet.
WELL I remember how you smiled To see me write your name upon The soft sea-sand-'O! what a child! You think you're writing upon stone!'
I have since written what no tide Shall ever wash away, what men Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide And find Ianthe's name again.
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