Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 113

Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley. 1792-1822

613. From the Arabic AN IMITATION

MY faint spirit was sitting in the light Of thy looks, my love; It panted for thee like the hind at noon For the brooks, my love.

Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight, Bore thee far from me; My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, Did companion thee.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, Or the death they bear, The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove With the wings of care; In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, Shall mine cling to thee, Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, It may bring to thee.

Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley. 1792-1822

614. Lines

WHEN the lamp is shatter'd, The light in the dust lies dead; When the cloud is scatter'd, The rainbow's glory is shed; When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remember'd not When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.

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 ruin'd cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possest.

O Love, who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its pa.s.sions 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 come.

Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley. 1792-1822

615. To ----

ONE word is too often profaned For me to profane it; One feeling too falsely disdain'd For thee 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?

Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley. 1792-1822

616. The Question

I DREAM'D that, as I wander'd by the way, Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring; And gentle odours led my steps astray, Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kiss'd it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets; Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets-- Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth-- Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cowbind and the moonlight-colour'd May, And cherry-blossoms, and white cups whose wine Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray; And flowers, azure, black, and streak'd with gold, Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues which in their natural bowers Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours Within my hand;--and then, elate and gay, I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it--O! to whom?

Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley. 1792-1822

617. Remorse

AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon, Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even: Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.

Pause not! the time is past! Every voice cries, 'Away!'

Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood: Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay: Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away! to thy sad and silent home; Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come, And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.

The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head, The blooms of dewy Spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace, may meet.

The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep; Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows; Whatever moves or toils or grieves hath its appointed sleep.

Thou in the grave shalt rest:--yet, till the phantoms flee, Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile, Thy remembrance and repentance and deep musings are not free From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.

Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley. 1792-1822

618. Music, when Soft Voices die

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 heap'd for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

Hew Ainslie. 1792-1878

619. Willie and Helen

'WHAREFORE sou'd ye talk o' love, Unless it be to pain us?

Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love Whan ye say the sea maun twain us?'

'It 's no because my love is light, Nor for your angry deddy; It 's a' to buy ye pearlins bright, An' to busk ye like a leddy.'

'O w.i.l.l.y, I can caird an' spin, Se ne'er can want for cleedin'; An' gin I hae my w.i.l.l.y's heart, I hae a' the pearls I'm heedin'.

'Will it be time to praise this cheek Whan years an' tears has blench'd it?

Will it be time to talk o' love Whan cauld an' care has quench'd it?'

He's laid ae han' about her waist-- The ither 's held to heaven; An' his luik was like the luik o' man Wha's heart in twa is riven.

cleedin'] clothing.

John Keble. 1792-1866

620. Burial of the Dead

I THOUGHT to meet no more, so dreary seem'd Death's interposing veil, and thou so pure, Thy place in Paradise Beyond where I could soar;

Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts Spring like unbidden violets from the sod, Where patiently thou tak'st Thy sweet and sure repose.