Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale.
The nightingale had ceased, and a few stars Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle There was no covert, no retired cave
Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves, Though scarcely heard in many a green recess. He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright tears Went trickling down the golden bow he held. Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood, While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by With solemn step an awful Goddess came, And there was purport in her looks for him, Which he with eager guess began to read Perplex'd, the while melodiously he said: "How camest thou over the unfooted sea? Or hath that antique mien and robed form Moved in these vales invisible till now? Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone In cool mid forest. Surely I have traced The rustle of those ample skirts about These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers Lift up their heads, as still the whisper pass'd. Goddess! I have beheld those eyes before, And their eternal calm, and all that face,
Or I have dream'd."-"Yes," said the supreme shape, "Thou hast dream'd of me; and awaking up
Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side,
Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast Unwearied ear of the whole universe
Listen'd in pain and pleasure at the birth
Of such new tuneful wonder. Is 't not strange That thou shouldst weep, so gifted? Tell me, youth, What sorrow thou canst feel; for I am sad When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy griefs To one who in this lonely isle hath been The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life, From the young day when first thy infant hand
Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till thine arm Could bend that bow heroic to all times. Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones For prophecies of thee, and for the sake Of loveliness new-born."-Apollo then, With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes, Thus answer'd, while his white melodious throat Throbb'd with the syllables :-"Mnemosyne ! Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how; Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest? Why should I strive to show what from thy lips Would come no mystery? For me, dark, dark, And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes: I strive to search wherefore I am so sad, Until a melancholy numbs my limbs ; And then upon the grass I sit, and moan, Like one who once had wings.-O why should I Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liegeless air Yields to my step aspirant? why should I Spurn the
green turf as hateful to my feet? Goddess benign! point forth some unknown thing: Are there not other regions than this isle?
What are the stars? There is the sun, the sun! And the most patient brilliance of the moon! And stars by thousands! Point me out the way To any one particular beauteous star,
And I will flit into it with my lyre,
And make its silvery splendour pant with bliss. I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where is power? Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity
Makes this alarm in the elements,
While I here idle listen on the shores In fearless yet in aching ignorance? O tell me, lonely Goddess! by thy harp, That waileth every morn and eventide, Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves! Mute thou remainest-Mute? yet I can read A wondrous lesson in thy silent face:
Knowledge enormous makes a God of me.
Names, deeds, grey legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal."-Thus the God, While his enkindled eyes, with level glance Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast kept Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne.
Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush All the immortal fairness of his limbs: Most like the struggle at the gate of death; Or liker still to one who should take leave Of pale immortal death, and with a pang As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse Die into life: so young Apollo anguish'd; His very hair, his golden tresses famed Kept undulation round his eager neck. During the pain Mnemosyne upheld
Her arms as one who prophesied.-At length Apollo shriek'd ;-and lo! from all his limbs Celestial
What more felicity can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with liberty?
Fate of the Butterfly.-SPENSER.
TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.
GLORY and Loveliness have pass'd away; For if we wander out in early morn, No wreathed incense do we see upborne Into the east to meet the smiling day : No crowd of nymphs soft-voiced and young and gay, In woven baskets bringing ears of corn, Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn The shrine of Flora in her early May. But there are left delights as high as these. And I shall ever bless my destiny, That in a time when under pleasant trees Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free, A leafy luxury, seeing I could please
With these poor offerings, a man like thee.
Places of nestling green for poets made.
I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still,
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scanty-leaved, and finely-tapering stems, Had not yet lost their starry diadems
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn, And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; For not the faintest motion could be seen Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. There was wide wandering for the greediest eye, To peer about upon variety;
Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; To picture out the quaint and curious bending Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending: Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free As though the fanning wings of Mercury Had play'd upon my heels: I was light-hearted, And many pleasures to my vision started; So I straightway began to pluck a posy Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.
A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them; Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them!
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