But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, The Youth, who daily farther from the east Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. 70 75 80 86 Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; 90 95 100 Filling from time to time his humorous stage' Were endless imitation. 105 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 110 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 115 120 On whom those truths do rest O joy that in our embers 124 130 The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest, 135 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 140 Moving about in worlds not realized, 145 High instincts, before which our mortal nature Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 150 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, 155 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 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 thither And see the children sport upon the shore, Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! We, in thought, will join your throng 160 165 170 What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, 176 Though nothing can bring back the hour Which having been must ever be ; 180 Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. 186 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; 190 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; 195 The clouds that gather round the setting sun 201 288 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. |