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And at the fruits thereof what shapes they Until it ceased; and still he kept them be,
wide: Distinct, and visible; symbols divine, And still they were the same bright, Manifestations of that beauteous life
patient stars. Diffused unseen throughout eternal space; Then with a slow incline of his broad Of these new-formed art thou, O brightest breast, child!
Like to a diver in the pearly seas, 355 Of these, thy brethren and the God- Forward he stooped over the airy shore, desses!
320 And plunged all noiseless into the deep There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion night. Of son against his sire. I saw him fall, I saw my first-born tumbled from his
SONNETS throne! To me his arms were spread, to me his
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO voice
CHAPMAN'S HOMER Found way from forth the thunders round his head!
Much have I travelled in the realms of Pale wox I, and in vapors hid my
gold, Art thou, too, near such doom? vague fear
And many goodly states and kingdoms there is:
seen; For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods. Divine ye were created, and divine
Round many western islands have I
been In sad demeanor, solemn, undisturbed, 330 Unruffled like high Gods, ye lived and
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. ruled:
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 5
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his Now I behold in you fear, hope, and wrath;
demesne; Actions of rage and passion; even as
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene I see them, on the mortal world beneath, In men who die.—This is the grief, O
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall! Yet do thou strive; as thou art capable,
When a new planet swims into his
ken; As thou canst move about, an evident
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes God;
He stared at the Pacific-and all his men And canst oppose to each malignant hour
Looked at each other with a wild surmiseEthereal presence: I am but a voice; 340 My life is but the life of winds and tides;
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. No more than winds and tides can I
avail But thou canst.–Be thou therefore in the WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I MAY van
CEASE TO BE Of circumstance; yea, seize the arrow's barb
When I have fears that I may cease to be Before the tense string murmur.—To the Before my pen has gleaned my teeming earth!
brain, For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his Before high pilèd books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripened Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright grain; sun,
When I behold, upon the night's starred And of thy seasons be a careful nurse.
5 Ere half this region-whisper had come Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, down,
And think that I may never live to trace Hyperion arose, and on the stars
350 Their shadows, with the magic hand of Lifted his curvèd lids, and kept them wide chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell That I shall never look upon thee Your manly hearts shall glow, more,
As ye sweep through the deep, Never have relish in the faery power While the stormy winds do blow;
Of unreflecting love!-then on the shore While the battle rages loud and long, Of the wide world I stand alone, and think And the stormy winds do blow. Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep; BRIGHT STAR! WOULD I WERE Her march is o'er the mountain waves, STEADFAST AS THOU ART
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak Bright star! would I were steadfast as She quells the floods belowthou art
As they roar on the shore, Not in lone splendor hung aloft the When the stormy winds do blow; night,
When the battle rages loud and long, And watching, with eternal lids apart,
And the stormy winds do blow. 30 Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn, task
Till danger's troubled night depart Of pure ablution round earth's human
And the star of peace return. shores,
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! 35 Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Our song and feast shall flow Of snow upon the mountains and the
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow; No-yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening And the storm has ceased to blow.
When the fiery fight is heard no more, breast, To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake forever in a sweet unrest,
THOMAS MOORE (1779-1862) Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon to death.
THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING
THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844)
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND
A NAVAL ODE
The time I've lost in wooing,
The light that lies
In woman's eyes,
My only books
Were woman's looks,
Like him the Sprite,
Whom maids by night
If once their ray
Was turned away,
The spirits of your fathers
Oft, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, OH, BREATHE NOT HIS NAME! Fond Memory brings the light
The smiles, the tears, 5 Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the
shade, The words of love then spoken; Where cold and unhonored his relics are The eyes that shone,
laid; Now dimmed and gone,
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we The cheerful hearts now broken!
shed, Thus, in the stilly night,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, o'er his head. Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
5 When I remember all
Shall brighten with verdure the grave The friends, so linked together,
where he sleeps; I've seen around me fall,
And the tear that we shed, though in secret Like leaves in wintry weather;
it rolls, I feel like one
Shall long keep his memory green Who treads alone
in our souls. Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
CHARLES WOLFE (1791–1823) Thus, in the stilly night,
25 Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE Sad Memory brings the light
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
ried; THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot TARA'S HALLS
O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
The harp that once through Tara's halls We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5 The soul of music shed,
The sods with our bayonets turning; Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, As if that soul were fled.
And the lantern dimly burning.