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If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45
The impulse of thy strength, only less free

Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,

As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.

Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed ! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and proud.

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Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is :

What if my leaves are falling like its own !
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one !
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe

Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy ! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind ?

P. B. SHELLEY.

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70 276

NATURE AND THE POET

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Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm,

painted by Sir George Beaumont I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile !

Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee : I saw thee every day ; and all the while

Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. So pure the sky, so quiet was the air !

So like, so very like, was day to day ! Whene er I look'd, thy image still was there ;

It trembled, but it never pass'd away. How perfect was the calm ! It seem'd no sleep,

No mood, which season takes away, or brings : I could have fancied that the mighty Deep

Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. Ah ! then if mine had been the Painter's hand

To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam, The light that never was on sea or land,

The consecration, and the Poet's dream,I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile,

Amid a world how different from this ! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ;

On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
A picture had it been of lasting ease,

Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ;
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,

Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,

Such picture would I at that time have made ; And seen the soul of truth in every part,

A steadfast peace that might not be betray’d.

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So once it would have been,-'tis so no more ;

I have submitted to a new control :
A power is gone, which nothing can restore ;

A deep distress hath humanized my soul.

Not for a moment could I now behold

A smiling sea, and be what I have been : The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ;

This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.

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Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been

the Friend If he had lived, of him whom I deplore, This work of thine I blame not, but commend ;

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

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O'tis a passionate work !—yet wise and well,

Well chosen is the spirit that is here ;
That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,

This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear !

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And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,

I love to see the look with which it braves,
-Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time-
The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling

waves.

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,

Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind ! Such happiness, wherever it be known,

Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.

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But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,

And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! Such sights, or worse, as are before me here :Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

W. WORDSWORTH.

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THE POET'S DREAM

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On a poet's lips I slept
Dreaming like a love-adept
In the sound his breathing kept
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,
But feeds on the aerial kisses
Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses.
He will watch from dawn to gloom
The lake-reflected sun illume
The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,

Nor heed nor see what things they be ;
But from these create he can

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Forms more real than living man,
Nurslings of immortality!

P. B. SHELLEY.

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The world is too much with us ; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers

Little we see in Nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon !

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This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,

The winds that will be howling at all hours

And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, For this, for everything, we are out of tune ;

It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

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Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathéd horn.

W. WORDSWORTH.

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WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL,

CAMBRIDGE
Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,

With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd

(Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence ! Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the

lore Of nicely-calculated less or more : So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof

Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells

Lingering—and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality.

W. WORDSWORTH.

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YOUTH AND AGE

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Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,

Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,

When I was young !
When I was young ?-Ah, woeful When !
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then !
This breathing house not built with hands,

This body that does me grievous wrong,
O’er aery cliffs and glittering sands

How lightly then it flash'd along :
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,

On winding lakes and rivers wide,

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