I saw pale Kings and Princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'
I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill-side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the Lake,
And no birds sing.
Shakespeare bids adieu
to the stage.
YOU do look, my son, in a movèd sort,
As if you were dismay'd; be cheerful, sir:
Our revels now are ended: these our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloudcapp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.-Sir, I am vexed;
Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled:
Be not disturbed with my infirmity.
If you be pleased, retire into my cell
And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk
To still my beating mind.
AH Sunflower weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done :
Where the Youth pined away with desire
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sunflower wishes to go!
It irked him to be here, he could not rest.
He loved each simple joy the country yields,
He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep
(For that a shadow loured on the fields)
Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep.
Some life of men unblest
He knew, which made him droop, and filled his head.
He went; his piping took a troubled sound
Of storms that rage outside our happy ground;
He could not wait their passing, he is dead. . .
Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go?
Soon will the high midsummer pomps come on;
Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,
Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,
Sweet-William with his homely cottage smell,
And stocks in fragrant blow;
Roses that down the alleys shine afar,
And open jasmine-muffled lattices,
And groups under the dreaming garden-trees,
And the full moon and the white evening star.
* The poet Arthur
Hugh Clough.
.. I see the Deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds 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 noontide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion. .
Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,
And walked with inward glory crowned . .
Yet now despair itself is mild
Ev'n as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care..
Hard is the way and shut the gate,
And life is in a narrow strait.
Once only did my soul aspire
To scale the Orient dropping fire;
Once only floated in the ways
Of heaven apart from earthly haze :
And then it was a foolish soul,
And knew not how the heavens do roll.
OISIVE jeunesse
A tout asservie,
Par délicatesse
J'ai perdu ma vie.
Ah que le temps vienne
Où les cœurs s'éprennent. .
J'ai tant fait patience
Qu'à jamais j'oublie.
Craintes et souffrances
Aux cieux sont parties.
Et la soif malsaine
Obscurcit mes veines. . .
Qu'il vienne, qu'il vienne,
Le temps dont on s'éprenne.
MARGARET, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleafing?..
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Tho' world of wanwood leafmeal lie ;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no, nor mind express'd,
What heart heard of, ghost guess'd:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
.. Behold the white clouds roll along the blue,
And like the clouds do flocks o'erspread the plain;
And like them winds the forest out of view;
Shall not Joy's chariot come with splendid train,
And he descend and walk the living air,
With Melody and Peace, and Happy Love,
Wing-footed, rosy-limbed, with myrtle rare
And olive crowned from old Eleusis' grove?
Ah, no, the fury Night will soon be here;
She comes with storms that drive the flocks away,
And takes the large free clouds to make her bier,
And rends the leaves; no longer youth can stay
Nor joy appear.
SWIFTLY walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave,
Where all the long and lone daylight
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear,-
Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
Star-inwrought!
Blind with thine hair the eyes
Kiss her until she be wearied out,
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand—
|