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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
Drunken sleep with savage will;

In the dust thy purple pride!
And the sicle to the sword
Lies unchanged, though many a lord,

Noon descends around me now:
Like a weed whose shade is poison,

'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

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Of the olive-sandaled Apennine

And the love which heals all strife
In the south dimly islanded;

Circling, like the breath of life,
And the Alps, whose snows are spread

All things in that sweet abode
High between the clouds and sun;

With its own mild brotherhood:
And of living things each one ;

They, not it would change; and soon
And my spirit which so long

Every sprite beneath the moon
Darkened this swift stream of song,

Would repent its envy vain,
Interpenetrated lie

And the earth grow young again,
By the glory of the sky:
Be it love, light, harmony,
Odour, or the soul of all

Which from heaven like dew doth fall

The awful shadow of some unseen power
Or the mind which feeds this verse,

Floats though unseen among us; visiting
Peopling the lone universe.

This various world with as inconstant wing

As summer winds that creep from flower to lower;
Noon descends, and after noon

Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain
Autumn's evening meets me soon,

It visits with inconstant glance (shower,
Leading the infantine moon,

Each human heart and countenance;
And that one star, which to her

Like hues and harmonies of evening,
Almost seems to minister

Like clouds in starlight widely spread,
Half the crimson light she brings

Like memory of music fled,
From the sunset's radiant springs:

Like aught that for its grace may be
And the soft dreams of the morn,

Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.
Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon

Of human thought or form, where art thou gone?
Why dost thou pass away and leave our state,
This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate?

Ask why the sunlight not forever

Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river;
Why aught should fail and fade that once is shewo;

Why fear and dream and death and birth
Cast on the daylight of this earth

Such gloom, why man has such a scope
For love and hate, despondency and hope?

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(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.



As if


To F

Other flowering isles must be
In the sea of life and agony:
Other spirits float and flee
O'er that gulph: even now, perhaps,
On some rock the wild wave wraps,
With folded wings they waiting sit
For my bark, to pilot it
To some calm and blooming cove,
Where for me, and those I love,
May a windless bower be built,
Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
In a dell 'mid lawny hills,
Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
And soft sunshine, and the sound
Of old forests echoing round,
And the light and smell divine
Of all flowers that breathe and shine:
We may live so happy there,
That the spirits of the air,
Envying us, may even entice
To our healing paradise
The polluting multitude ;
But their rage would be subdued
By that clime divine and calm,
And the winds whose wings rain balm
On the uplifted soul, and leaves
Under which the bright sea heaves;
While each breathless interval
In their whisperings musical
The inspired soul supplies
With its own deep melodies,

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever

To sage or poet these responses given:

Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Hed.
Remain the records of their vain endeavour: (ven,
Frail spells, whose uttered charm might not avail to
From all we hear and all we see, (sever

Doubt, chance, and mutability,
Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains driven,

Or music by the night wind sent
Through strings of some still instrument,

Or moonlight on a midnight stream,
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream.

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Love, hope, and self-esteem, like clouds, depart

And come, for some uncertain moments lent.

Man were immortal, and omnipotent,
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art, (heart
Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his

Thou messenger of sympathies

That wax and wane in lover's eyes ;
Thou, that to human thought art nourishment,

Like darkness to a dying flame !
Depart not as thy shadow came:

Depart not, less the grave should be,
Like life and fear, a dark reality.

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While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped

Poets could but find the same
Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin, With as little toil as they,

And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing Would they ever change their hue
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.

As the light camelions do,
I called on poisonous names with which our youth Suiting it to every ray
I was not heard: I saw them not:

[is fed : Twenty times a day?
When musing deeply on the lot
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing

Poets are on this cold earth,
All vital things that wake to bring

As camelions might be
News of birds and blossoming,

Hidden from their early birth
Sudden, thy shadow fell on me:

In a cave beneath the sea;
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstacy!

Where light is camelions change,

Where love is not poets do:
I vowed that I would dedicate my powers

Fame is love disguised: if few
To thee and thine: have I not kept the vow? Find either, never think it strange

With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now That poets range.
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours [bowers
Each from his voiceless grave: they have in visioned

Yet dare not stain with wealth or power
Of studious zeal or loves delight

A poet's free and heavenly mind :
Outwatched with me the envious night:

If bright camelions should devour
They know that never joy illumed my brow,

Any food but beams and wind,
Unlioked with hope that thou wouldst free

They would grow as earthly soon
This world from its dark slavery,

As their brother lizards are.
That thou, O awful Loveliness,

Children of a sunnier star,
Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot express.

Spirits from beyond the moon,

0, refuse the boon!
The day becomes more solemn and serene

When noon is past: there is a harmony
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky,

Which through the summer is not heard or seen,
As if it could not be, as if it had not been!

Thus let thy power, which like the truth O, wild West Wind, thou breath of autumn's being,
Of nature on my passive youth

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Descended, to my onward life supply

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Its calm, to one who worships thee,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
And every form containing thee,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
To fear himself, and love all human kind.

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
I met a traveller from an antique land,

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)

With living hues and odours, plain and hill:
Who said: two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand, Wild spirit which art moving every where;
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, Thou on whose stream, ʼmid the steep sky's com-

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed :

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:

Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair !"

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread

On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Of some Serce mænad, even from the dim verge
of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

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Camelions feed on light and air:

Poets' food is love and fame:
If in this wide world of care

Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth,
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind,

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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,
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

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,
And tremble, and despoil themselves: O, hear!

Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is thert.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud Blowed.
The morn rains out her beams, and heaven is over-



What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O, uncontroulable! if even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness.

Be thou, spirit fierce,
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought
To sympathy, with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour

With music sweet as love, which overflows her

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its ærial hue

[the view:
Among the flowers and


which screen it from

And, by the incantation of this verse,

spring be far behind?

Like a rose embowered

In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,

Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wing-

If winter comes, can

[ed thieves:

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,

All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass:

Teach us sprite or bird,

Things more true and deep
What sweet thoughts are thine:

Than we mortals dream,
I have never heard

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:
Chorus Hymenæal,

Our sincerest laughter
Or triumphal chaunt,

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
What objects are the fountains

Not to shed a tear,
Of thy happy strain?
What fields or waves, or mountains ?

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
What shapes of sky or plain?. [pain?

Better than all measures What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of

Of delightful sound,

Better than all treasures
With thy clear keen joyance,

That in books are found,
Languor cannot be:

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground !
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:

Teach me half the gladness Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

That thy brain must know,

Such harmonious madness
Waking or asleep,

From my lips would flow,
Thou of death must deem

The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

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