The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his humorous stage Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest O joy! that in our embers The thought of our past years in me doth breed 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 fluttering in his breast !— -Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature 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 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither- As to the tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng Ye that through your hearts to-day What though the radiance which was once so bright 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; Which having been must ever be ; In the soothing thoughts that spring In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; To live beneath your more habitual sway: I love the brooks which down their channels fret The clouds that gather round the setting sun CCCXXXIX Music, when soft voices die, Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone, P. B. Shelley |