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I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky :
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.

T. HOOR.

225. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

Oft in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me:

The smiles, the tears

Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken ;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends so link'd together
I've seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one

Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed !

Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

T. MOORE

226. INVOCATION,

Rarely, rarely, comest thou,

Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now

Many a day and night? Many a weary night and day 'Tis since thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like me

Win thee back again ?
With the joyous and the free

Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false ! thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,
Thou with sorrow art dismay'd ;

Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Let me set my mournful ditty

To a merry measure ;-
Thou wilt never come for pity,

Thou wilt come for pleasure ;
Pity then will cut away
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay,

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight!

The fresh Earth in new leaves drest

And the starry night ;
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow and all the forms

Of the radiant frost ;
I love waves, and winds, and storms,

Everything almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,

And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good ;

Between thee and me
What diff'rence? but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love—though he has wings,

And like light can flee,
But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee-
Thou art love and life! O come!
Make once more my heart thy home!

P. B. SHELLEY.

227. STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION

NEAR NAPLES.

The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent light:
The breath of the moist air is light
Around its unexpanded buds;

Like many a voice of one delight

The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods' The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

I see the Deep's untrampled floor
With

green and purple sea-weeds strowa;
I see the waves upon the shore
Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown;
I sit upon the sands alone ;
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion-
How sweet ! did any heart now share in my

emotion,

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that Content, surpassing wealth,
The
sage

in meditation found,
And walk'd with inward glory crown'd-
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure ;
Others I see whom these surround-

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ;
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild
Even as the winds and waters are ;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

P. B. SHELLEY

228. THE SCHOLAR.

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.
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 gratitude.
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.

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.

R. SOUTHEY,

229. THE MERMAID TAVERN.

Souls of Poets dead and gone
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ?

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