Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

The little actor cons another part ;
Filling from time to time his humorous stage
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That life brings with her in her equipage ;

As if his whole vocation

Were endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy soul's immensity;
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deef:
Ilaunted for ever by the eternal Mind, -

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest!

On whom those truths do rest
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by ;
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That Nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive !
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction : not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest,
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still Auttering in his breast la

-Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise ;
But for those obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprized :

But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing ;

'Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake,

To perish never ;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,

Nor man nor boy
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence, in a season of calm weather

Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

Which brought us hither ;

Can in a moment travel thitherAnd see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song !

And let the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound !
We, in thought, will join your throng

Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day

Feel the gladness of the May !
What though the radiance which was once so bnght
Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind ;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be ;

In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering ;

In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forbode not any severing of our loves !
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish'd one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway :
I love the brooks which down their channels fret
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they ;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day

Is lovely yet ;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest Aower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

W. Wordsworth

CCCXXXIX

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the

memory--
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed ;
And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

P. B. Shelley

ADDITIONAL POEMS

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »