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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 withered leaves to quicken a new birth!

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,

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,

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 saddest But an empty valint,

Yet if we could scorn Athing wherein we feel there is some bidden want.

Hate, and pride, and fear; What objects are the fountains

If we were things born

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
Vhat 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 Chou 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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The whilst full quires around
With silver hymns, and dulcet harmony,
Make laud unto the glorious throne of grace,
And fill thy ears with true felicity;
Such is the happy place,
Which thou by thy heroic toil hast won,
Such is the place, to which my sacred verses rud.


Then I believe, that at thy birth was set
Some purer planet in the lofty sky,
Which a sweet influence did on earth beget;
That all the shepherds which on ground did lie,
Beholding there that unexampled light,
That made like day the night,
Were fill'd with hope and great expectancy,
That Pan himself would on the earth appear,
To bless th' unbounded year.





Spirit, whose bliss beyond this cloudy sphere
Is with the rising, and the setting light,
Who, far remov'd from all that grieves us here,
For ever happy, and for ever bright,
Yet lookest down with pity from on high,
'Midst airs of immortality :
O, with what pure and never-ending song,
Song, that uplift upon the wings of love,
May gain access to that celestial throng,
Shall I now soar above,
And in the silver flood of morning play,
And view thy face, and brighten into day?

Forgive me, then, O love-enlarged soul,
Or love itself in pure felicity,
If, questioning my nature's fast controul,
I slip my bonds, and wander unto thee;
But, ah! too well I know
That this may not be so,
Till that prefixed doom from heav'n be spent:
Then for a little while,
If measure may beguile,
Let thy sweet deeds become my argument;
That all the wide hereafter may behold
Thy mind more perfect than refined gold.

But this is to enlarge the liberal air,
And pour fresh light into the diamond,
To herald that the fragrant rose is fair,
And that the sun in beauty doth abound;
So vain, and so excessful is the thought
To add to Sidney aught:
Yet cannot I forego the sweet delight,
More sweet to me than music or the spring,
Or than the starry beams of summer's night,
Thy sweetest praise, O Astrophel, to sing;
Till the wide woods, to which I teach the same,
Shall echo with thy name;
And ev'ry fount that in the valley flows,
Shall stay it's fall, and murmur at the close.

Nor yet shall time, a thing not understood,
Nor weary space forbid me my desire;
The nimble mind can travel where it would,
More swift than winds, or than the greedy fire;
So shall my thoughts aspire
To that eternal seat, where thou art laid
Thy golden locks, that in wide splendour flow,
Crowned with lilies, and with violets,
And amaranth, which that good angel sets
With joy upon thy radiant head to blow;
(Soft flow'rs, unknown to woe,

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It was the jolly, and earth-teeming spring;

The daffodils did in the meads appear,
That still their pensive heads do lowly fling,
As shedding for Narcissus' fate a tear;
Whom beauty to that sad event did bring,
That loved in a stream himself too dear,
And pined with the vain delight away;

Such pleasure did his face to him convey.
Now Dian, for he was to Dian dear,

As well by beauty, as his virtue's charm,
Perceiving how he lov'd that mirror clear,
In which his fatal beauty did him harm,
Would not remove him, as it may appear,
But with soft pity did his fate disarm;
She turn'd him to a pale, and silken flow'r,

That on itself still gazes to this hour.
No fountain, be its silver water pure,

Unless sad herbs have in its wave been thrown
By those that can the charmed moon allure
To leave her sphere, but reckons for its own
The pale narcissus, that with passion pure
Still feeds upon itself; but, newly blown,
The nymphs will pluck it from its tender stalk,

And say, " Go, fool, and to thy image talk."
And Procne, in the marble plains of air,

For Itys did with weeping song complain ;
But time had somewhat soften'd her despair,
And pity did prevail through all the straia;
And yet her restless passage did declare
The fatal wrongs of Tereus did remain ;
Her weeping song, upon the silv'ry brim,
Resounded of poor Itys, and of him.

In brightness without shade;

That in the blissful meads of heav'n are found ;)

So swiftly from the impious king she fled,

“ I tell you, you shall walk the shades of night, And swiftly has e'er since pursu'd her flight, And hear the song, that can turn back the day, Still weeping for the cruel rage, that shed

For hell, Zerbino, opens to my might, The guiltless soul of Itys, in despite

And upward to the morning I can stray: Of that vile king ;-but whither am I led

The muse I am, that offer to your sight In soft description from the wand'ring knight?

The banks of Lethe, and the starry way: Zerbino through the valley took his way:

No harm shall meet you on your sacred road; The zephyrs with his golden crest did play, For virtue in all worlds hath her abode. As much delighted with the beauteous fruit,

“ 'Tis virtue, not your golden arms, can save That, like a banquet, on his helm y-shone,

Your soul from Evil, that with wand'ring flight When joyous marriage doth with parents suit,

Doth journey on the wing of Care, and brave And the sweet music is so touch'd, and blown

The fine perdition of the beamy light; From shawm, and trumpet, dulcimer, and lute,

For rest is not her consort, by the wave That Jealousy with love doth look thereon ;

Of Stygian darkness, or the crystal height; And Hymen with a golden song doth tell,

But with an iron plume she beats the air, How the pure marriage doth with angels dwell!

Incessant on her journey of despair:

“ Not feared by the mind, whose beauteous thought The shrill cicada deafen'd with her song

Is dear to angels, and with angel's wing The sultry air, and made the hills to quake;

O'er - shadow'd, when to depths of darkness The fishes to the depth of rivers throng,

brought, The birds within the leaves a descant make; The heat doth do their pretty music wrong:

And fed with nectar of immortal spring: Now, quitting the cold woods, the speckled snake,

Then come, Zerbino, without fear of aught,

As Virgil did of old, the poet's king, Exulting in the burning light, displays

Ascend with me into the crystal air, His forked tongue, and revels in the blaze.

And see what love, and what delights are there. Enduring not the flashing beams of day,

“ I will you show the palace of the moon, The knight betook him to a flow'ry shade, Wherein in gentle slumber as he lay,

And take you in the track of Phæbus' car, The restless fancy such amusement made,

In all his glorious altitude at noon; With revel in his thoughts, and elfish play,

Where you may wonder, how each little star, It seem'd he wander'd in a beauteous glade,

Like pearl, upon the milky air is strewn;

And see the world diminish'd from afar:
Where silv'ry orange, and the myrtle sweet,
In soft embraces o'er his head did meet.

Awake, Zerbino, for the sun is high,

And we ere night must to Olympus fly. He deem'd he heard, and so he truly did,

“ Awake, Zerbino!" and the knight awoke, A song, of sweetness to ascend the sky,

And saw before him, on the flow'ry ground, And rest amid the bliss to us forbid,

The beauteous Muse, that like an angel spoke, Until indeed our latest moments fly,

More soft than is in spring the thunder's sound: And all, that to our earthly sight was hid,

A golden plume from each fair shoulder broke, In radiant prospect doth before us lie;

And with a laurel leaf her hair was bound; He deem'd he heard a tender virgin sing

Her hair, that like Italian harvest shone, This song of love, and anthem for a king.

When burning Ætna flameth them upon! “ O youthful guest, whose lineaments divine

She stood in height as stately, and as tall, Bespeak you of the blood of kings to be,

As some fair temple, to Diana dear, That softly wander on these shores of mine,

On which the golden light of Heav'n doth fall, Where all things of delight you well may see, That staineth with its face the silver year: If to diviner wisdom you incline,

Round which, when Jove doth to his daughter call, And thirst for fruit of immortality,

The golden-hoofed harts do start for fear, Zerbino, to your sight I will declare

And Ay into the sacred woods again: What wonders are in earth, in sea, in air.

So stood the Muse upon the flow'ry plain.

“ The silv'ry dragons to the team of thought,

That feed upon the pleasure of the air,
From out their silent caverns shall be brought,
And yoked to the wheel; do you prepare,
Zerbino, as when greatest things are wrought,
To fortify your breast with sacred prayer;
For in a little space you shall behold
The courts of amber, and the gates of gold!

And in her hand a myrtle branch she bore,

With bud and blossom beauteously adorn'd,
And shining leaves, a very plenteous store;
Which she had fairly pluck'd, and not suborn'd,
From off the bright, and ever-sacred floor,
With which the house of Phæbus is adorn'd:
The little bees of that celestial air
Still murmur'd in its leaves, and blossome fair.

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On whatso forehead she that myrtle laid,

Methinks, already on my reeds 1 blow, In yet unpractis'd youth, and flow'ring age,

And charm the world with glory of my song; That sacred head was by her counsel sway'd: For winter now is gone, and with it woe, Nor can he in the foaming chase engage, And sparkling summer will be here ere long; Nor practise yet the gainful merchant's trade, Then cast I here away the winter's wrong: Nor seek of mighty war the iron rage,

This day I call the fairest of the year,
Nor yet to love can yield bis spirit pure;

That shows the soft delights of spring are near.
But is her pupil, and must so endure.
But wisest kings, that with a sacred eye

I know not, Thenot, sith thy speech is so,
Behold their subjects, and allot to each

Or happy, or unhappy thee to call;
Their gracious smiles, and equal majesty, But youthful minds cannot endure with woe,
With condescension of their awful speech, But of soft joy, and hope are prodigal,
When they approve th’immortal poësy,

Whereby into more grief oftimes they fall:
Protect the man, that can with wisdom teach But let not the like case in thee be found,
What virtue to true spirits doth unfold,

Who shall, I think, in happiness abound. By great example of the times of old.

But, foolish boy, is summer then so near? They fill him with deep cups of Bacchus old, The grass-hoppers are wiser far than thee; And bless him with the fat of venison;

And Philomel can better count the year, The while some ancient tale is strictly told, That finds it not of promise yet so free, And reverend age doth give its benison

But foreign to our meads she still would be; To what the stately tables do uphold:

All prodigal delights before their time
Then music, that is sure a denizen

Must perish in dark winter's baleful clime.
Of Phæbus' court, with some immortal air,
The light digestion doth for him prepare.

The wint'ry wind, which is but sleeping now,

Shall blow throughout the reeds, of which you boast, So then upon the stringed harp he sings

Ere from the river's brink, to breathe your row, A song, that may delight Olympian Jove,

You gather the soft stalks, that to their cost Of something, which he learnt beside the springs

Must to and fro in the wild storm be tost; Of Helicon, that with eternal love

But not the less their music will be sweet, (meet. He fills the feast, and to sweet madness brings

When with the spring, and with your voice they The breast of him, who from his throne above

I think you see the summer in the face Doth bow his ear to catch the sacred song,

Of that divine, and merest paragon;
And drinketh with delight the music strong.

That violet, to whom all plants are base,
That star, that is but joy to look upon,

With whom you would be in the world alone;

And fain would die, so in her sight to die,

And count it gain, and cheap felicity.
The softer season now will soon be here,

O happy shepherd, yet unhappy too!
To clothe the world in purple, and in green; 'Twas here you saw the lovely summer smile;
And Philomel, that rules the warbling year, Forgetful, that the coming days renew
Her gentle descants will ensue, between

The wasteful winter, while you so beguile
The flow'ring orange, and the myrtle green; Yourself with love, and softly smoothe your style;
And Phæbus, who too much his course delays, Wherein in silver songs we soon shall hear
Enthron'd in joy, will lengthen out the days.

Of whate'er crowns the forehead of the year.
Then shall we lie amid the meads again,

The fault of age, which age may yet amend; And crown our locks with garlands of the spring,

But wot you well, that women's hearts are light, And from our slender pipes breathe out a strain

And purpose frail; when fairest they intend, Of joyous welcome, and sweet revelling,

They oft are seen to wander from the right; To which the shepherds, and their nymphs will sing; So folly, and so fraud their leaves may blight: And ever, 'gainst the warm and summer hours,

But some as lovely, and as fix'd in soul, The laughing Pan we will y-bind in flow'rs.

As that fair star, that lights the northern pole. For now, the bitter cold of winter past,

And so may she, to whom your vows are due, The lovely mavis singeth on the bough;

With fair requital those sweet vows repay; And I, who thought the cruel time surpast

But lose not soul and honour in her view, All other ills, which I have felt till now,

Nor think within her arms to make delay To Pan, and Flora will renew my vow;

Of time and season, that for none can stay; And eke to Phæbus, that with golden ray,

For lovers, that the summer antedate, O happy light! doth over-crown the day.

Will scant endure, when those soft days abate.


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