The Hundred Best English Poems Part 19

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 gra.s.s!

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.

80. _To ----._

I.

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden, Thou needest not fear mine; My spirit is too deeply laden Ever to burthen thine.

II.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion, Thou needest not fear mine; Innocent is the heart's devotion With which I worship thine.

81. _To Night._

I.

Swiftly walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave, Where all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear,-- Swift be thy flight!

II.

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Star-inwrought!

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand-- Come, long sought!

III.

When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee.

IV.

Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me?

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noon-tide bee, Shall I nestle near thy side?

Wouldst thou me?--And I replied, No, not thee!

V.

Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon-- Sleep will come when thou art fled; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night-- Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon!

_Buxton Forman's Text._

JAMES SHIRLEY.

82. _Song from 'Ajax and Ulysses.'_

The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now, See, where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

_Dyce's Text._

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

83. _Stanzas._

1.

My days among the Dead are past; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast The mighty minds of old; My never failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day.

2.

With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful grat.i.tude.

3.

My thoughts are with the Dead, with them I live in long-past years, Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind.

4.

My hopes are with the Dead, anon My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on Through all Futurity; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust.

_1837 Edition._