MET a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear :
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings :
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
OR happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame ;
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts,
History is but the shadow of their shame,
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts.
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,
Staining that heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit
By force or custom? Man who man would be,
Must rule the empire of himself; in ft
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
OET of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return;
Childhood and youth, friendship and love's
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine
Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert às a lone star, whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar :
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude.
In honoured poverty thy voice did weave
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty,-
Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve,
Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY,
OVE Thee !-O Thou, the world's eternal Sire !
Whose palace is the vast infinity,
Time, space, height, depth, O God! are full of
And sun-eyed seraphs tremble and admire. Love Thee!--but Thou art girt with vengeful fire, And mountains quake, and banded nations flee, And terror shakes the wide unfathomed sea, When the heavens rock with Thy tempestuous ire. O Thou! too vast for thought to comprehend, That wast ere time,-shalt be when time is o'er ; Ages and worlds begin-grow old—and end; Systems and suns Thy changeless throne before, Commence and close their cycles :-lost, I bend To earth my prostrate soul, and shudder, and adore! HENRY HART MILMAN.
OVE thee !--oh, clad in human lowliness,
In whom each heart its mortal kindred knows-
Our flesh, our form, our tears, our pains, our
A fellow-wanderer o'er earth's wilderness!
Love thee !—whose every word but breathes to bless!
Through Thee, from long-sealed lips, glad language flows;
The blind their eyes, that laugh with light, unclose ;
And babes, unchid, Thy garment's hem caress.
I see Thee, doomed by bitterest pangs to die,
Up the sad hill, with willing footsteps, move,
With scourge, and taunt, and wanton agony,
While the cross nods, in hideous gloom, above,
Though all-even there-be radiant Deity ! -Speechless I gaze, and my whole soul is Love!
HENRY HART MILMAN.
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