The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame

Over his living head like heaven is bent,
An early but enduring monument,
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song
In sorrow.

A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift.

Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of eternity.
O thou,

Adonais. xxx.

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.

xxxii.

lii.

Ode to the West Wind.

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams
Beside a pumice isle in Baia's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon.

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not;

Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;

Ibid.

The Cloud. iv.

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

To a Skylark. Line 86.

Kings are like stars, they rise and set, they have

The worship of the world, but no repose.1

1 See Bacon, page 166.

Hellas. Line 195.

The moon of Mahomet

Arose, and it shall set;

While, blazoned as on heaven's immortal noon,

The cross leads generations on.

Hellas. Line 221.

The world's great age begins anew,

The golden years return,

The earth doth like a snake renew

Her winter weeds outworn.

What! alive, and so bold, O earth?

Line 1060.

Written on hearing the News of the Death of Napoleon
All love is sweet,

Given or returned. Common as light is love,
And its familiar voice wearies not ever.
They who inspire it most are fortunate,
As I am now; but those who feel it most
Are happier still.1

Prometheus Unbound. Act ü. Sc. 6.

Those who inflict must suffer, for they see
The work of their own hearts, and this must be
Our chastisement or recompense.

Julian and Maddalo. Line 482.

Most wretched men

Are cradled into poetry by wrong:

They learn in suffering what they teach in song.

I could lie down like a tired child,

And weep away the life of care

Which I have borne, and yet must bear.

2

Line 544.

Stanzas written in Dejection, near Naples. Stanza 4.

Peter was dull; he was at first

Dull, - oh so dull, so very dull !
Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed,
Still with this dulness was he cursed!
Dull, beyond all conception, dull.

Peter Bell the Third.

Part vii. zi

1 The pleasure of love is in loving. We are much happier in the passion we feel than in that we inspire. - ROCHEFOUCAULD: Maxim 259.

2 See Butler, page 216.

Of some world far from ours,

Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one. To Jane. The keen Stars were twinkling,

The desire of the moth for the star,

Of the night for the morrow,

The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow.

One Word is too often profaned.

You lie under a mistake,1

For this is the most civil sort of lie

That can be given to a man's face. I now

Say what I think.

Translation of Calderon's Magico Prodigioso. Scene i.

How wonderful is Death!

Death and his brother Sleep.

Power, like a desolating pestilence,

Queen Mab. i.

Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience,
Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,
Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame
A mechanized automaton.

1 See Swift, page 292.

Heaven's ebon vault

Studded with stars unutterably bright,

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love has spread

To curtain her sleeping world.

Queen Mab. in

Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.1

A Defence of Poetry.

J. HOWARD PAYNE. 1792-1852.

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; 2
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which sought through the world is ne'er met with else-
where.

An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain,
Oh give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds singing gayly, that came at my call,
Give me them, and that peace of mind dearer than all.
Home, Sweet Home. (From the opera of “Clari, the
Maid of Milan.")

SEBA SMITH. 1792-1868.

The cold winds swept the mountain-height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And 'mid the cheerless hours of night

A mother wandered with her child:
As through the drifting snows she press'd,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

1 See Coleridge, page 504.

The Snow Storm.

2 Home is home, though it be never so homely. - CLARKE : Paramiologia, p. 101. (1639.)

JOHN KEBLE. 1792-1866.

The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we ought to ask.

Why should we faint and fear to live alone,
Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die?
Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh.

Morning.

The Christian Year. Twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity.
'Tis sweet, as year by year we lose
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse
How grows in Paradise our store.

Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live;
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I dare not die.

Burial of the Dead.

Evening.