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Pity then will cut away
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight !
The fresh Earth in new leaves drest

And the starry night ;
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow and all the forms

Of the radiant frost;
I love waves, and winds, and storms,

Everything almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,

And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good;

Between thee and me
What diff'rence? but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love — though he has wings,

And like light can flee,
And above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee –
Thou art love and life! O come !
Make once more my heart thy home !

P. B. Shelley

CCXXVIII

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR

NAPLES

is warm,
The waves are
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent light :
The breath of the moist air is light
Around its unexpanded buds ;
Like many a voice of one delight -

The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'-
The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

I see the Deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple sea-weeds strown ;
I see the waves upon the shore
Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown :
I sit upon the sands alone ;
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion-
How sweet ! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor
peace

within nor calm around,
Nor that Content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,
And walk'd with inward glory crown'd-
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure ;
Others I see whom these surround -

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
To me that cup has been dealt in another meas::e.

Yet now despair itself is mild
Even as the winds and waters are ;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

P. B. Shelley

CCXXVIII

THE SCHOLAR

MY

Y days among the Dead are past;

Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old :
My never failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead ; with them
I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity ;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

R. Southey

CCXXIX

THE MERMAID TAVERN

OULS of Poets dead and gone

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Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine ?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of Venison? O generous food !
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his Maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day
Mine host's signboard flew away
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story –
Said he saw you in your glory
Underneath a new-old Sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac !

Souls of Poets dead and gone
What Elysium have ye known-
Happy field or mossy cavern —
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

7. Keats

CCXXX

THE PRIDE OF YOUTH

PRWalking so early 3

ROUD Maisie is in the wood,

; Sweet Robin sits on the bush

Singing so rarely.

“Tell me, thou bonny bird,

When shall I marry me?' _'When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.'

Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?'
.' The gray-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly.

“The glowworm o'er grave and stone

Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady.'

Sir W. Scott

18

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