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The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle ;
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field,
Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down,
Of beauty be.
If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Seek out less often sought than found-
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
What voice did on my spirit fall,
The tricolor-a trampled rag
Lies, dirt and dust; the lines I track
Lead up to no Italian flag.
I see the Croat soldier stand
Yet not in vain, although in vain,
You said,Since so it is,-good bye
You said, (there shall be answer fit,)
You said, (oh, not in vain you said,)
When blood may yet be nobly shed.'
Ah! not for idle hatred, not
You did, what will not be forgot.
And though the stranger stand, 'tis true,
By fortune, which is in God's hands,
This voice did on my spirit fall,
Than never to have fought at all.'
Arthur Hugh Clough.
LINES SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE
I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep,
The consecration, and the poet's dream,
I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile,
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
Thou should'st have seemed a treasure-house divine
A picture had it been of lasting ease,
Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed.
So once it would have been,-'tis so no more;
A power is gone, which nothing can restore ;
Not for a moment could I now behold
This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
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.
O'tis a passionate work!—yet wise and well,
And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
I love to see the look with which it braves,
The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.
But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
And frequent sights of what is to be borne !
Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:-
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.
Thou still unravished bride of quietness!
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme :
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? ΙΟ
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave