The Ontario Readers: The High School Reader, 1886 Part 26

x.x.xIX. ON A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR.

LEIGH HUNT.--1784-1859.

It lies before me there, and my own breath Stirs its thin outer threads, as though beside The living head I stood in honor'd pride, Talking of lovely things that conquer death.

Perhaps he press'd it once, or underneath Ran his fine fingers, when he leant, blank-ey'd, And saw, in fancy, Adam and his bride With their rich locks, or his own Delphic wreath.

There seems a love in hair, though it be dead.

It is the gentlest, yet the strongest thread Of our frail plant,--a blossom from the tree Surviving the proud trunk;--as though it said Patience and gentleness is power; in me Behold affectionate eternity.

XL. THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.

LEIGH HUNT.

King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport, And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court: The n.o.bles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride; And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd one on another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother; The b.l.o.o.d.y foam above the bars came whizzing through the air; Said Francis then, "Good gentlemen, we're better here than there!"

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same: She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be; He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me!

King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!"

She dropp'd her glove to prove his love: then look'd on him and smiled; He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild: The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon regain'd his place; Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face!

"In truth!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat: "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!"

_Rough wind, 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._

_A Dirge_.--Sh.e.l.lEY.

XLI. THE CLOUD.

PERCY BYSSHE Sh.e.l.lEY.--1792-1822.

I.

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noon-day dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rock'd to rest on their Mother's breast, As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pa.s.s in thunder.

II.

I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the Blast.

Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers Lightning, my pilot, sits; In a cavern under is fetter'd the Thunder,-- It struggles and howls at fits.

Over earth and ocean with gentle motion This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the Genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills and the crags and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream under mountain or stream The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

III.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps 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 ardor of rest and of love, 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.

IV.

That orbed 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, 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 pav'd with the moon and these.

V.

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and 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 I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the Powers of the air are chain'd to my chair, Is the million-color'd bow; The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, While the moist Earth was laughing below.

VI.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky; I pa.s.s through the pores of the ocean and sh.o.r.es; I 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, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,-- And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise, and unbuild it again.

XLII. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.

JOHN KEATS.--1795-1821.

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific--and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

XLIII. ON THE GRa.s.sHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.

KEATS.