Though thou art fallen, while we are free Thou shalt not taste of death:

The generous blood that flow'd from thee
Disdain'd to sink beneath;

Within our veins its currents be,
Thy spirit in our breath.

Thy name, our charging hosts along,
Shall be the battle-word;

Thy fall the theme of choral song
From virgin voices pour'd:

To weep would do thy glory wrong,-
Thou shalt not be deplored!

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,—
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

BYRON'S LAST VERSE.

"On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year." 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move : Yet, though I can not be beloved, Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone :
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone.

The fire that on my bosom preys

Is lone as some volcanic isle :
No torch is kindled at its blaze,-
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I can not share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus, and 'tis not here,

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,— Where glory decks the hero's bier

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,—
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan borne upon his shield
Was not more free.

Awake

-not Greece! she is awake : Awake, my Spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,

Unworthy manhood! Unto thee

Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of Beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here. Up, to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out (less often sought than found)
A soldier's grave, for thee the best!
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest!

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
1792-1822.

TO A SKYLARK.

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest;

Like a cloud of fire,

The blue deep thou wingest;

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,

O'er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied Joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight:

Like a star of heaven

In the broad daylight,

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere

Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.

What thou art we know not:

What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,

Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour

With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower.

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,

Scattering unbeholden

Its aèrial hue

Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view.

Like a rose embower'd

In its own green leaves,

By warm winds deflower'd,

Till the scent it gives

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers,

All that ever was

Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird!

What sweet thoughts are thine :

I have never heard

Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal,

Or triumphal chant,

Match'd 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?

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor can not be ;

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