Oft on the dappled turf at ease Loose types of things through all degrees, And many a fond and idle name A nun demure, of lowly port; A queen in crown of rubies drest; Are all, as seems to suit thee best, A little Cyclops, with one eye That thought comes next-and instantly The shape will vanish, and behold! I see thee glittering from afar— Repairiot quite so fair as many are Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Who shall reprove thee! Sweet Flower! for by that name at last I call thee, and to that cleave fast, That breath'st with me in sun and air, IV. Wordsworth 悲しい СССІНІ ODE TO AUTUMN Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 1. Keats CCCIV ODE TO WINTER Germany, December, 1800 When first the fiery-mantled Sun Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep Or India's citron-cover'd isles: More remote, and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone. But howling Winter fled afar The shaft that drives him to his polar field, Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear Archangel! Power of desolation! Spells to touch thy stony heart? Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, Of Innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! The sailor on his airy shrouds, When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, And spectres walk along the deep. Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, Or the dark-brown Danube roars. Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan? Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own? Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath May spare the victim fallen low; But Man will ask no truce to death,- CCCV T. Campbell YARROW UNVISITED 1803 From Stirling Castle we had seen Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 'There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs, And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land To go in search of Yarrow? 'What's Yarrow but a river bare That glides the dark hills under? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder.' -Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn; My True-love sigh'd for sorrow, And look'd me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 'O green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, O'er hilly path and open strath We'll wander Scotland thorough; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. 'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; |