And Winter barricades the realms of The sober trader at a tattered cloak Wakes from his dream, and labors for a joke; frost; He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay; Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day! The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, And shows his miseries in distant lands; Condemned a needy suppliant to wait, While ladies interpose and slaves de gaze, With brisker air the silken courtiers [ways. And turn the varied taunt a thousand Of all the griefs that harass the distressed, Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest; Fate never wounds more deep the generous heart, Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart. Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor, No pathless waste, or undiscovered shore ? BEN JONSON. TO DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine: Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. CELIA, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be; The thirst that from the soul doth But thou thereon didst only breathe rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee! WHEN I have fears that I may cease | When I behold, upon the night's to be starred face, Huge, cloudy symbols of a high ro mance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of Chance; moors: Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away. Bards of passion and of mirth No, yet still steadfast, still un-Ye have left your souls on earth! changeable, Pillowed upon my fair love's ripen ing breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest; Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever,- or else swoon to death. ODE ON THE POETS. BARDS of passion and of mirth Ye have left your souls on earth! Have ye souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new? Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon; With the noise of fountains wonder ous And the parle of voices thunderous; Double-lived in regions new! Ye have souls in heaven too, FANCY. EVER let the fancy roam; Open wide the mind's cage-door,- Cloys with tasting. What do then? [her. send To banish Even from her sky. And thou shalt quaff it,-thou shalt hear Distant harvest-carols clear,— Sweet birds antheming the morn; Shaded hyacinth, alway Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, [fays; Clustered around by all her starry But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruittree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; [die, Now more than ever seems it rich to To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain, To thy high requiem become a sod. |