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And She cried: 'Ply the oar,
Mixed with hail, specked their path
And from isle, tower, and rock,
The blue beacon-cloud broke,
From the lee.
The red cannon flashed fast.
Is withdrawn and uplifted,
In the court of the fortress,
Like a bloodhound well beaten
On the topmost watch turret,
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove;
A maid whom there were none to praise,
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye!
--Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh!
The difference to me!
ODE TO PSYCHE.
O Goddess, hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
The winged Psyche with awakened eyes?
I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,
Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof
'Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
O latest-born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swingèd censer teeming :
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees
Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
With the wreathed trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
Ah Sunflower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,
Too true it is, my time of power was spent
TO A LOFTY BEAUTY, FROM her poor kINSMAN.
And lovely all;-methinks thy scornful mood,
And bearing high of stately womanhood,-
Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee.