My dazzled sight he oft deceives- He mock'd and treated with disdain W. WORDSWORTH. 243. TO THE CUCKOO. O blithe new-comer! I hear thee and rejoice : I have heard, O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near. Though babbling only to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days Which made me look a thousand ways To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And I can listen to thee yet O blessed bird! the earth we pace An unsubstantial, fairy place That is fit home for Thee! W. WORDSWORTH. 244. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a muséd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision, or a waking dream? J. KEATS. 245. UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. Sept. 3, 1802. Earth has not anything to show more fair: This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep The river glideth at his own sweet will: W. WORDSWORTH. 246. OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT. I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone |