Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, Yet seeming still to hover ; There! where the flutter of his wings My dazzled sight he oft deceives— As if by that exulting strain He mocked and treated with disdain 25 30 35 40 W. WORDSWORTH. 243 TO THE CUCKOO O blithe new-comer! I have heard, O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear; 5 From hill to hill it seems to pass, Though babbling only to the vale 10 Thou bringest unto me a tale Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; 15 The same whom in my school-boy days Which made me look a thousand ways To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green ; And I can listen to thee yet And listen, till I do beget O blesséd Bird! the earth we pace An unsubstantial, fairy place, That is fit home for Thee! W. WORDSWORTH. 20 25 30 244 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 5 15 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 18 That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret 23 Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 28 And leaden-eyed despairs; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, 35 Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, And mid-May's eldest child The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 40 44 49 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a muséd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— 60 Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 70 75 Fled is that music :-do I wake or sleep? 80 245 UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802 Earth has not anything to show more fair: 5 The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! W. WORDSWORTH. 9 246 OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT I met a traveller from an antique land And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command 5 Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear: 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay P. B. SHELLEY. 10 |