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The Spirit be loves remains; And 1 all the while bask in heaven's bhie smile. Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 31

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes.

And his burning plumes outspread, I-eaps on the back of my sailing rack.

When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag.

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardours of rest and of love, 4'1 And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

That orMd maiden with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o 'er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear, 50 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee.

Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone.

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; 6fl The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel ami swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent, sea.
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,—

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which T march

With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Ib the million-coloured bow; 70 The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove.

While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky; T pass through the pores of the ocenn and shores;

T change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain

The pavilion of heaven is bare. And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams

Build up the blue dome of air, 80 1 silently laugh at my own cenotaph,1

And out of the caverns of rain. Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb.

1 arise and unbuild it again.


Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever

singest. 1"

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill

delight, 20

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,
I'ntil we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare.
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is

overflowed. sn

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,

I An empt}- tomb.

Singing 11 11111 — unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeiled

not: 40

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace-tower. Soothing her love-laden Sold in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like :i glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew. Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it

from the view: 50

Like a rose embowered

In its own green leaves. By warm winds deflowered. Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet those heavywingfcd thieves:

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers.
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, ami fresh, thy music doth

surpass. 60

Teach us. sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

('horns Hymeneal,

Or triumphal chant,
Matched with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden

want. 70

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyanec

Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest. but ne'er knew love's sad

satiety. sn

Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,

And (line for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of

saddest thought. 90

Yet if we could scorn

Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures

Of delightful sound. Better than all treasures That in books are found. Thy skill to poet were, thou scorncr of the

ground! l°*

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know.
Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as T am listening

The Grave Ok Keats


Oo thou to Rome,—at once the Paradise,
The grave, the city, and the wilderness;

* "John Keats died at Home of a consumption. In Ids twenty-fourth I twenty-sixth J vear. on the [22d] day of {February), 1821 :*and wa* hurled In the romantic and lonely cemeterv of the Protestants in that city, under the pyr amid which is the tomb of Oesiius and the massy walls and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome. The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death to think that one should be burled in so sweet a place."—From Shellev's Preface. "Adonaia" is of course a poetical name for Keats. The elegy was the outcome of Shelley s noble indignation over a death which he somewhat mistaicenly supposed was immedi ate y due to the savage criticism of Keats's reviewers—"Wretched men." as he characterised them, who "know not what thev do." murderers who had "spoken daggers but used none. • See Emi. Lit., p. 2r>8. The especially beautiful concluding stanzas, which are given here, are almost purely personal: Shelley is communing with himself, and thinking of his own troubled life.

And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise,

And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress
The bones of Desolation's nakedness,
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is


And gray walls moulder round, on which dull

feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand;
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned
This refuge for his memory, doth stand
Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath,
A field is spread, on which a newer band
Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of

Welcoming liim we lose with scarce extin-
guished breath.


Here pause: these graves are all too young as yet

To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned
Its charge to each; and if the seal is set.
Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind.
Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou find
Thine own well full, if thou returnest home.
Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter

8eek shelter in the shadow of the tomb.
What Adonais is, why fear we to become?


The One remains, the many change and pass; Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly;

Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of Eternity,
Until Death tramples it to fragments.—Die.
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost

Follow where all is fled!—Rome's azure sky.
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak.
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to

Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart t

Thy hopes arc gone before: from all things here They have departed: thou shouldst now depart! A light is past from the revolving year,

And man, and woman; and what still is dear Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. The soft sky smiles,—the low wind whispers near;

'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither. No more let Life divide what Death can join together.


That Light whose smile kindles the Universe,
That Beauty in which all things work and move,
That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love
Which through the web of being blindly wove
By man and beast and earth and air and sea.
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of
The fire for which all thirst; now beams on me,
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.

The breath whose might I have invoked in song
Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven.
Far from the shore, far from the trembling

Whose sails were never to the tem|>est given;
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;
Whilst burning through the inmost veil of

The soul of Adonais, like a star,

Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.


The world's great age begins anew,

The golden years return.
The earth doth like a snake renew

Her winter weeds' outworn:
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires- gleam.
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. •

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains

From waves serener far;
A new Peneus rolls his fountains

t robes

-'creeds and monarchies (to which, as such, Shelley was devotedly hostile)

• .Shelley's drama of the modern Greeks' struggle for Independence concludes with this ("horns, prophesying the return of that Golden Age when Saturn was fabled to have reigned over a universe of peace and love. Of the fulfillment of this prophecy Shelley had at times an ardent hope, which reaches perhaps Its highest expression In this Chorus (with which compare Byron's l*les of Greece), and nl other times a profound despair, which can easily be read In some of the lyrics that are given on subsequent pages.

Against the morning star. Where fairer Tempos bloom, there sleep Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. 12

A loftier Argo cleaves the main,

Fraught with a later prize; Another Orpheus sings again,

And loves, and weeps, and dies.
A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore. 18

Oh, write no more the tale of Troy.t
If earth Death's scroll must be!
Nor mix with Lilian rage the joy

Which dawns upon the free:
Although a subtler Sphinx renew
Biddies of death Thebes never knew. 4

Another Athens shall arise,

And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,

The splendour of its prime;
And leave, if nought so bright may live,
All earth can take or Heaven can give. 30

Saturn and Love their long repose

Shall burst, more bright and good Than all who fell,8 than One who rose,*

Than many unsubdued:6 Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers. But votive tears and symbol flowers. 3fi

Oh, cease! must hate and death return!

Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn

Of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last! 42


Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

TO — ■

One word is too often profaned

For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained

3 Pagan gods. »Objects of heathen

* Christ. Idolatry, t The more or l.--ss historic Trojan War. and the woes of the Tueban house of Loins and his son CEdlpus. bclODg of course to a timp succeeding the Golden Age of fnhlp.

For tliec to disdain it; One hope is too like despair

For prudence to smother, And pity from thee more dear

Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love,

But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above

And the Heavens reject not.— The desire of the moth for the star.

Of the night for the morrow. The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow I


() world! O life! O time! On whose last steps I climb.

Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime .'

Xo more—oh, never more!

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight;

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar. Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight

No more—oh, never more!


When the lamp is shattered. The light in the dust lies dead—

When the cloud is scattered,
The rainbow's glory is shed.

When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not;

When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot. 8

As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,

The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute: —

No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,

Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell. 16

When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest;

The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possessed.

O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here.

Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier? -*

Its passioua will rock thee
As the storms rock the ravens on high:

Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home

Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds eome. 32


Rough wiud, that moanest loud

Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud

Knells all the night long;
Sad storm, whose tears are vain,
Bare woods, whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary main,

Wail, for the world's wrong!



Proem. From Book I

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Paiss into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet

Therefore, on every morrow,1 are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways 10
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear

That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake.
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the doonis^ 20
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no. even as the trees

That whisper round a temple become soon

Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,

The passion poesy, glories infinite,

Haunt us till they become a cheering light 30

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,

That, whether there be shine, or gloom o 'ereast,

They alway must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din; 40
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I '11 smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white, 50
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress 60
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough^ flowers and weed.


St. Agnes' Eve*—Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limped trembling through the frozen

And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he

His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seemed taking flight for heaven, without a

Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

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