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Once I beheld a splendid dream,
a visionary scene of bliss :
awake me to a world like this?
I loved—but those I loved are gone;
had friends—my early friends are fled: how cheerless feels the heart alone
when all its former hopes are dead!
dispel awhile the sense of ill;
the heart-the heart-is lonely still.
163 How dull! to hear the voice of those
whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, have made, though neither friends nor foes,
associates of the festive hour, Give me again a faithful few,
in years and feelings still the same, and I will fly the midnight crew,
where boisterous joy is but a name.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men
I seek to shun, not hate mankind; my breast requires the sullen glen,
whose gloom may suit a darkened mind.
which bear the turtle to her nest
to flee away, and be at rest.
THE POETS TRANCE ENDED
THE solemn harmony
to its abyss was suddenly withdrawn;
its path athwart the thunder-smoke of dawn,
on the heavy sounding plain,
when the bolt has pierced its brain; as summer clouds dissolve unburthened of their rain; as a far taper fades with fading night;
as a brief insect dies with dying day, my song, its pinions disarrayed of might,
drooped; o'er it closed the echoes far away of the great voice which did its flight sustain, as waves which lately paved his watery way hiss round a drowner's head in their tempestuous play.
P. B. SHELLEY
'AN Love again o'er this sad breast
again his downy plume invest
HOUT for the mighty men,
who died along this shore-
nor ever prouder gore
who on the Persian tents,
like the roused elements,
let loose from an immortal hand,
THEN the wearying cares of state
oppress the monarch with their weight,
THE FOLLY OF MAKING TROUBLES
THEN we meet as when we part,
why should sighs attend us,
Heaven is pleased to send us?
should man choose to borrow
destined for to-morrow?
If indeed to-morrow brings
what is like to sear us,
pleasure, while 'tis near us?
missing joys designed us, casting anxious eyes before,
tearful ones behind us?
SWEET EVENING HOUR
WEET evening hour! sweet evening hour!
that brings the wild bee to its nest,
WEET daughter of a rough and stormy sire,
whose unshorn locks with leaves
and swelling buds are crowned; from the green islands of eternal youth (crowned with fresh blooms and ever-springing shade)
turn, hither turn thy step,
O thou, whose powerful voice,
and through the stormy deep
breathe thy own tender calm.
and silent dews that swell
the milky ear's green stem. 171 O nymph! approach, while yet the temperate sun, with bashful forehead, through the cool moist air
throws his young maiden beams,
the earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil
protects thy modest blooms
Sweet is thy reign, but short: the red dog-star shall scorch thy tresses; and the mower's sithe
thy greens, thy flowerets all,
remorseless shall destroy.
nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,
A. L. BARBAULD
HERE shall the lover rest,
whom the fates sever
parted for ever?
sounds the far billow,
under the willow.