From Chaucer to Tennyson Part 26

No more--O, never more!

Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight; Fresh spring and summer and winter h.o.a.r Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more--O, never more!

THE POET'S DREAM.

[From _Prometheus Unbound_.]

On a poet's lips I slept Dreaming like a love-adept In the sound his breathing kept.

Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the aerial kisses Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses.

He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy bloom, Nor heed nor see what things they be; But from these create he can Forms more real than living man, Nurslings of immortality.

GEORGE GORDON BYRON.

ELEGY ON THYRZA.

And thou art dead, as young and fair As aught of mortal birth: And form so soft and charms so rare, Too soon returned to earth: Though earth received them in her bed, And o'er the spot the crowd may tread In carelessness or mirth, There is an eye which could not brook A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low Nor gaze upon the spot; There flowers or weeds at will may grow, So I behold them not: It is enough for me to prove That what I loved and long must love Like common earth can rot; To me there needs no stone to tell 'Tis nothing that I loved so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last As fervently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past And canst not alter now.

The love where death has set his seal Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow: And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours; The worst can be but mine: The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep I envy now too much to weep, Nor need I to repine That all those charms have pa.s.sed away, I might have watched through long decay.

The flower in ripened bloom unmatched Must fall the earliest prey; Though by no hand untimely s.n.a.t.c.hed, The leaves must drop away: And yet it were a greater grief To watch it withering leaf by leaf, Than see it plucked to-day; Since earthly eye but ill can bear To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne To see thy beauties fade; The night that followed such a morn Had worn a deeper shade: Thy day without a cloud hath past, And thou wert lovely to the last, Extinguished, not decayed; As stars that shoot along the sky Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep, My tears might well be shed, To think I was not near to keep One vigil o'er thy bed; To gaze, how fondly! on thy face, To fold thee in a faint embrace, Uphold thy drooping head; And show that love, however vain, Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain, Though thou hast left me free, The loveliest things that still remain, Than thus remember thee!

The all of thine that cannot die Through dark and dread Eternity, Returns again to me, And more thy buried love endears Than aught, except its living years.

THE BALL AT BRUSSELS ON THE NIGHT BEFORE WATERLOO.

[From _Childe Harold_.]

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered there Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men: A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street.

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!

No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-- But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!...

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If evermore should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;

And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose, The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years; And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pa.s.s, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave--alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the gra.s.s Which now beneath them, but above shall grow, In its next verdure, when this fiery ma.s.s Of living valor rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

JOHN KEATS.

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.

Thou still unravished bride of quietness!

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme; What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or G.o.ds are these? What maidens loath?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet; but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal--yet do not grieve: She cannot fade though thou hast not thy bliss, Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And happy melodist, unwearied Forever piping songs forever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love!

Forever warm and still to be enjoyed, Forever panting and forever young; All breathing human pa.s.sion far above, That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea-sh.o.r.e, Or mountain built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk this pious morn?

Ah! little town, thy streets forever more Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair att.i.tude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty"--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

MADELINE.

[From _The Eve of St. Agnes_.]

Out went the taper as she hurried in; Its little smoke in pallid moonshine died; She closed the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air and visions wide; No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!

But to her heart her heart was voluble, Paining with eloquence her balmy side; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell.