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If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey 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.
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
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
FROM PROMETHEUS UNBOUND.'
Senrichorus I. of Spirits (as Asia and Panthea pass into the forest).
The path through which that lovely twain
Have passed, by cedar, pine, and yew,
Is curtained out from heaven's wide blue.
Drifted along the earth-creeping breeze
Between the trunks of the hoar trees,
Of the green laurel blown anew,
That climbs and wanders through steep night,
It scatters drops of golden light,
Like lines of rain that ne'er unite :
There the voluptuous nightingales
Are awake through all the broad noonday.
Sick with sweet love, droops dying away
Watching to catch the languid close
The song, and all the woods are mute ;
Like many a lake-surrounded flute, Sounds overflow the listener's brain So sweet that joy is almost pain.
[From the same.)
Voice in the air, singing. Life of Life! thy lips enkindle
With their love the breath between them ;
Make the cold air fire,—then screen them
Through the vest which seems to hide them, As the radiant lines of morning
Through the clouds, ere they divide them ; And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. Fair are others ; none beholds thee
(But thy voice sounds low and tender, Like the fairest), for it folds thee
From the sight—that liquid splendour ;
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness,
Walk upon the winds with lightness,
HYMN OF PAN.
From the forests and highlands
We come, we come ;
Where loud waves are dumb
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
And all dark Tempe lay
The light of the dying day,
And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dædal earth,
And love, and death, and birth.
I pursued a maiden, and clasped a reed :
It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers
From the seas and the streams;
In their noonday dreams.
The sweet buds every one,
As she dances about the sun.
And whiten the green plains under ;
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the Blast.
Lightning my pilot sits ;
It struggles and howls at fits.
This pilot is guiding me,
In the depths of the purple sea ;
Over the lakes and the plains,
The Spirit he loves remains ; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.