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Lashing with melodious wave
Over all between the Po Many a sacred poet's grave,
And the eastern Alpine snow, Mourn its latest nursling fled !
Under the mighty Austrian. . What though thou with all thy dead
Sin smiled so as Sin only can, = Scarce can for this fame repay
And since that time, aye long before, Aught thine own,-oh, rather say,
Both have ruled from shore to shore, Though thy sins and slaveries foul
That incestuous pair, who follow * Overcloud a sunlike soul!
Tyrants as the sun the swallow, * As the ghost of Homer clings
As Repentance follows Crime, -2 Round Scamander's wasting springs;
And as changes follow Time. As divinest Shakespeare's might 1. Fills Avon and the world with light
In thine halls the lamp of learning, 14 Like omniscient power, which he
Padua, now no more is burning ; e Imaged ’mid mortality;
Like a meteor, whose wild way As the love from Petrarch's urn
Is lost over the grave of day, Yet amid yon hills doth burn,
It gleams betrayed and to betray: A quenchless lamp, by which the heart
Once remotest nations came Sees things unearthly; so thou art,
To adore that sacred flame, Mighty spirit: so shall be
When it lit not many a hearth PE The city that did refuge thee.
On this cold and gloomy earth:
Now new fires from antique light Lo, the sun floats up the sky
Spring beneath the wide world's might; Like thought-winged liberty,
But their spark lies dead in thee, Till the universal light
Trampled out by tyranny. Seems to level plain and height;
As the Norway woodman quells, From the sea a mist has spread,
In the depth of piny dells, And the beams of morn lie dead
One light flame among the brakes, On the towers of Venice now,
While the boundless forest shakes, Like its glory long ago.
And its mighty trunks are torn By the skirts of that grey cloud
By the fire thus lowly born: Many-domed Padua proud
The spark beneath his feet is dead, Stands, a peopled solitude,
He starts to see the flames it fed, 'Mid the harvest shining plain,
Howling through the darkened sky Where the peasant heaps his grain
With myriad tongues victoriously, In the garner of his foe,
And sinks down in fear: so thou, And the milk-white oxen slow
O tyranny, beholdest now With the purple vintage strain,
Light around thee, and thou hearest Heaped upon the creaking wain,
The loud flames ascend, and fearest: That the brutal Celt may swill
Grovel on the earth : aye, hide
In the dust thy purple pride!
Noon descends around me now:
'Tis the noon of autumo's glow, Overgrows this region's foizon,
When a soft and purple mist Sheaves of whom are ripe to come
Like a vaporous amethyst, To destruction's harvest home:
Or an air-dissolved star Men must reap the things they sow,
Mingling light and fragrance, far Force from force must ever flow,
From the curved horizon's bound Or worse! but 'tis a bitter woe
To the point of heaven's profound, That love or reason cannot change
Fills the overflowing sky; The despot's rage, the slave's revenge.
And the plains that silent lie
Underneath, the leaves unsodden Padua, thou within whose walls
Where the infant frost has trodden Those mute guests at festivals,
With his morning-winged feet, Son and Mother, Death and Sin,
Whose bright print is gleaming yet; Played at dice for Ezzelin,
And the red and golden vines, Till Death cried, " I win, I win!”
Piercing with their trellised lines And Sin cursed to lose the wager,
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; But Death promised, to assuage her,
The dun and bladed grass no less, That he would petition for
Pointing from this hoary tower Her to be made Vice-Emperor,
In the windless air; the flower When the destined years were o'er,
Glimmering at my feet; the line
Of the olive-sandaled Apennine
And the love which heals all strife
Circling, like the breath of life,
All things in that sweet abode
With its own mild brotherhood:
They, not it would change; and soon
Every sprite beneath the moon
Would repent its envy vain,
And the earth grow young again,
HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY.
The awful shadow of some unseen power
Floats though unseen among us; visiting
This various world with as inconstant wing
As summer winds that creep from flower to lower;
Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain
It visits with inconstant glance (shower,
Each human heart and countenance;
Like hues and harmonies of evening,
Like clouds in starlight widely spread,
Like memory of music fled,
Like aught that for its grace may be
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.
With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon
Of human thought or form, where art thou gone?
Ask why the sunlight not forever
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river;
Why fear and dream and death and birth
Such gloom, why man has such a scope
(Which like winged winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies 'Mid remembered agonies, The frail bark of this lone being.) Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, And its antient pilot, Pain, Sits beside the helm again.
Other flowering isles must be
No voice from some sublimer world hath ever
To sage or poet these responses given:
Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Hed.
Or music by the night wind sent
Or moonlight on a midnight stream,
Love, hope, and self-esteem, like clouds, depart
And come, for some uncertain moments lent.
Man were immortal, and omnipotent,
Thou messenger of sympathies
That wax and wane in lover's eyes ;
Like darkness to a dying flame !
Depart not, less the grave should be,
While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped
Poets could but find the same
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing Would they ever change their hue
As the light camelions do,
[is fed : Twenty times a day?
Poets are on this cold earth,
As camelions might be
Hidden from their early birth
In a cave beneath the sea;
Where light is camelions change,
Where love is not poets do:
Fame is love disguised: if few
With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now That poets range.
Yet dare not stain with wealth or power
A poet's free and heavenly mind :
If bright camelions should devour
Any food but beams and wind,
They would grow as earthly soon
As their brother lizards are.
Children of a sunnier star,
Spirits from beyond the moon,
0, refuse the boon!
When noon is past: there is a harmony
ODE TO THE WEST WIND.
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours, plain and hill:
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some Serce mænad, even from the dim verge
Poets' food is love and fame:
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth,
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Higher still and higher Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: 0, hear!
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun, Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay,
O'er which clouds are brightning, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Thou dost float and run; Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
Like an unbodied joy, whose race is just begun. All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
The pale purple even So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! thou
Melts round thy flight; For whose path, the Atlantic's level powers
Like a star of heaven Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
In the broad daylight The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Keen as are the arrows Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
From one lonely cloud Blowed.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
Drops so bright to see,
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
Be thou, spirit fierce,
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Till the world is wrought
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
which screen it from
And, by the incantation of this verse,
spring be far behind?
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
Till the scent it gives
If winter comes, can
TO A SKYLARK.
Bird thou never wert,
Pourest thy full heart
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
All that ever was
Teach us sprite or bird,
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? Praise of love or wine,
We look before and after, That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught; (thought. Matched with thine would be all
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest But an empty vaunt,
Yet if we could scorn A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
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 What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of
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 Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.