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Among the stars that have a different birth,-
And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

P. B. Shelley.

265.
A widow bird sate mourning for her Love

Upon a wintry bough;
The frozen wind crept on above,

The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,

No flower upon the ground,
And little motion in the air
Except the mill-wheel's sound.

P. B. SHELLEY,

266. TO SLEEP.

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ;-

I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth :
So do not let me wear to-night away :

Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ?
Come, blesséd barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health !

W. WORDSWORTH.

267. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had

lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw

By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw ;

And thrice ere the morning I dreanit it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array

Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track: 'Twas Autumn,-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers

sung

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to

part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

“Stay-stay with us !-rest!—thou art weary and

worn!
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;-
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

T. CAMPBELL.

268. A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN.

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 pearld Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets ;

Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that wets 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 cow-bind 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 rivers trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt 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-01 to Whom?

P. B. SHELLEY.

269. THE INNER VISION.

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path there be or none,
While a fair region round the Traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon ;

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

- If Thought and Love desert us, from that day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse : With Thought and Love companions of our way

Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,-
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

W. WORDSWORTH.

270. THE REALM OF FANCY.

Ever let the Fancy roam !
Pleasure never is at home :
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ;
Then let wingéd Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her:
Open wide the mind's cage-door,
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose ;
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming :
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too
Blushing through the mist and dew
Cloys with tasting : What do then ?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the cakéd snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky.
-Sit thee there, and send abroad
With a mind self-overawed
Fancy, high-commission'd :-send her!
She has vassals to attend her ;
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather ;
All the buds and bells of May
From dewy sward or thorny spray ;

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