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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,
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 withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
which screen it from
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth,
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 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,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
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.
The whilst full quires around
Then I believe, that at thy birth was set
A SONG TO SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
Forgive me, then, O love-enlarged soul,
But this is to enlarge the liberal air,
Nor yet shall time, a thing not understood,
ZERBINO INSTRUCTED BY THE MUSE.
The daffodils did in the meads appear,
Such pleasure did his face to him convey.
As well by beauty, as his virtue's charm,
That on itself still gazes to this hour.
Unless sad herbs have in its wave been thrown
And say, " Go, fool, and to thy image talk."
For Itys did with weeping song complain ;
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:
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,
And in her hand a myrtle branch she bore,
With bud and blossom beauteously adorn'd,
fosaic The w lo me
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,
That shows the soft delights of spring are near.
I know not, Thenot, sith thy speech is so,
Or happy, or unhappy thee to call;
Whereby into more grief oftimes they fall:
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
Must perish in dark winter's baleful clime.
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;
That violet, to whom all plants are base,
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.
O happy shepherd, yet unhappy too!
The wasteful winter, while you so beguile
Of whate'er crowns the forehead of the year.
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.