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Once I beheld a splendid dream,

a visionary scene of bliss :
truth !- wherefore did thy hated beam

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!
Though gay companions o'er the bowl

dispel awhile the sense of ill;
though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,

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.
Oh! that to me the wings were given

which bear the turtle to her nest
then would I cleave the vault of heaven,

to flee away, and be at rest.

LORD BYRON

164

THE POETS TRANCE ENDED

THE solemn harmony
paused, and the spirit of that mighty singing

to its abyss was suddenly withdrawn;
then as a wild swan, when sublimely winging

its path athwart the thunder-smoke of dawn,
sinks headlong through the aerial golden light

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

165

DESPONDENCY

'AN Love again o'er this sad breast

again his downy plume invest
a heart, by sorrow chilled to stone ?
again expand his infant wing
o'er the dark void of deep despair ?
and bid the roseate blushes spring
e'en from the pallid cheek of care ?
Can the quick pulse of fond alarm
in this cold bosom dare to beat?
the trembling joy, the anxious charm,
the bitter struggling with the sweet?
Ah! no, all cold and dark and void,
scarce beams one spark of genial fire;
the very power of Love destroyed,
O, Life! in mercy too expire.

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SHOP

HOUT for the mighty men,

who died along this shore-
who died within this mountain glen!
for never nobler chieftain's head
was laid on Valour's crimson bed,

nor ever prouder gore
sprang forth, than theirs who won the day
upon thy strand, Thermopylæ!
Shout for the mighty men,

who on the Persian tents,
like lions from their midnight den
bounding on the slumbering deer,
rush'd-a storm of sword and spear ;-

like the roused elements,

let loose from an immortal hand,
to chasten or to crush a land!

G. CROLY

167

THE BOWL

THEN the wearying cares of state

oppress the monarch with their weight,
when from his pomp retired alone
he feels the duties of the throne,
feels that the multitude below
depend on him for weal or woe;
when his powerful will may bless
a realm with peace and happiness,
or with desolating breath
breathe ruin round and woe and death;
oh! give to him the flowing bowl,
bid it humanize his soul;
he shall not feel the empire's weight,
he shall not feel the cares of state,
the bowl shall each dark thought beguile,
and nations live and prosper from his smile.

R. SOUTHEY

168

THE FOLLY OF MAKING TROUBLES

WHEN

THEN we meet as when we part,

why should sighs attend us,
making sad the gayest heart

Heaven is pleased to send us?
Why, when all is bright to-day,

should man choose to borrow
something from the darker ray

destined for to-morrow?

If indeed to-morrow brings

what is like to sear us,
why not seize by both its wings

pleasure, while 'tis near us?
Why still float life's ocean o'er,

missing joys designed us, casting anxious eyes before,

tearful ones behind us?

169

SWEET EVENING HOUR

WEET evening hour! sweet evening hour!

that brings the wild bee to its nest,
the infant to its mother's breast.
Sweet hour! that bids the labourer cease,
that gives the weary team release,
and leads them home, and crowns them there
with rest and shelter, food and care.
() season of soft sounds and hues,
of twilight walks among the dews,
of feelings calm and converse sweet,
and thoughts too shadowy to repeat !
yes, lovely hour! thou art the time
when feelings flow and wishes climb,
when timid souls begin to dare,
and God receives and answers prayer.

170

SPRING

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,
more sweet than softest touch of Doric reed
or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding winds,

and through the stormy deep

breathe thy own tender calm.
Unlock thy copious stores; those tender showers
that drop their sweetness on the infant buds;

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,
and with chaste kisses wooes

the earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil
of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade

protects thy modest blooms
from his severer blaze.

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.
Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell;
for, O! not all that Autumn's lap contains,

nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,
can aught for thee atone.

A. L. BARBAULD

172

FITZEUSTACE'S SONG

WHER

HERE shall the lover rest,

whom the fates sever
from his true maiden's breast,

parted for ever?
Where, through groves deep and high,

sounds the far billow,
where early violets die

under the willow.

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