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path And from isle, tower, and rock, The blue beacon-cloud broke, From the lee. 25 The red cannon flashed fast. 30 Is withdrawn and uplifted, In the court of the fortress, Like a bloodhound well beaten On the topmost watch turret, 45 50 55 She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the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! William Wordsworth. CXCIII ODE TO PSYCHE. O Goddess, hear these tuneless numbers, wrung The winged Psyche with awakened eyes? I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly, 5 20 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, 15 ΙΟ So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swingèd censer teeming : 45 Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 50 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; 55 And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, With the wreathed trellis of a working brain, 60 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: 65 John Keats. A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, CXCIV THE SUNFLOWER. Ah Sunflower! weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun; And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow, William Blake. 5 CXCV REGRETS. Too true it is, my time of power was spent CXCVI Hartley Coleridge. TO A LOFTY BEAUTY, FROM her poor kINSMAN. 5 And lovely all;-methinks thy scornful mood, And bearing high of stately womanhood,- ΙΟ Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee. |