V.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is :
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O, wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

AN ODE,

[WRITTEN, OCTOBER, 1819, BEFORE THE SPANIARUS HAD RECOVERED THEIR LIBERTY.]

ARISE, arise, arise !

There is blood on the earth that denies ye bread;
Be your wounds like eyes

To weep for the dead, the dead, the dead.
What other grief were it just to pay?

Your sons, your wives, your brethren, were they;
Who said they were slain on the battle day?

Awaken, awaken, awaken!

The slave and the tyrant are twin-born foes;
Be the cold chains shaken

To the dust where your kindred repose, repose:
Their bones in the grave will start and move,
When they hear the voices of those they love,
Most loud in the holy combat above.

Wave, wave high the banner!

When Freedom is riding to conquest by:
Though the slaves that fan her

Be Famine and Toil, giving sigh for sigh.

And ye who attend her imperial car,
Lift not your hands in the banded war,
But in her defence whose children ye are.

Glory, glory, glory,

To those who have greatly suffered and done!
Never name in story

Was greater than that which ye shall have won.
Conquerors have conquered their foes alone,

Whose revenge, pride, and power they have overthrown: Ride ye, more victorious, over your own.

Bind, bind every brow

With crownals of violet, ivy, and pine:

Hide the blood-stains now

With hues which sweet nature has made divine:

Green strength, azure hope, and eternity:

But let not the pansy among them be;
Ye were injured, and that means memory.

I.

I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Hath led me who knows how?

To thy chamber window, Sweet!

II.

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream
And the Champak's odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart;

As I must on thine,

O! beloved as thou art !

III.

O lift me from the grass !

I die! I faint! I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas !
My heart beats loud and fast;
Oh! press it to thine own again,
Where it will break at last.

TO SOPHIA.

I.

THOU art fair, and few are fairer,
Of the nymphs of earth or ocean.
They are robes that fit the wearer

Those soft limbs of thine, whose motion

Ever falls and shifts and glances,

As the life within them dances.

II.

Thy deep eyes, a double planet,

Gaze the wisest into madness

With soft clear fire. The winds that fan it
Are those thoughts of gentle gladness
Which, like zephyrs on the billow,
Make thy gentle soul their pillow.