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I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under ;
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder-
Lured by the love of the genii that move
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile,
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
When the morning-star shines dead;
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof :
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ;
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air,
Sound of vernal showers
Joyous and clear and fresh thy music doth surpass.
What sweet thoughts are thine;
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so Divine.
Or triumphal chant,
Matched with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain ?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee;
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
I know not how thy joy we ever could come near.
Better than all measures
Of delight and sound,
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground.
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know;
From my lips would flow,
SMOOTH run the waters where the brook is deep. Shakspere's Henry VI.
An honest man's the noblest work of God.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.
There was never yet philosopher That could endure the tooth-ache patiently. Shakspere's Much Ado about Nothing.
It is a custom
More honoured in the breach than the observance. Shakspere's Hamlet.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
I am a man
More sinned against than sinning.
Shakspere's King Lear.
There is some soul of goodness in things evil,
Shakspere's Henry V.
The evil that men do lives after them ;
How far that little candle throws his beams!
*Most of these are 66 gems" which, in the opinion of the Editor, ought to find a place in the memory of all young people.