Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 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? ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. HOU still unravish'd bride of quietness! TH Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? what maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape ? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy ? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed For ever piping songs for ever new; Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? To that green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? Ah! little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," Ye know on earth, and all ye that is all need to know. ODE TO PSYCHE. GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung, Even into thine own soft-conched ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed, But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? O latest-born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy ! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet O brightest! though too late for antique vows, Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane Where branched thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreathed trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, E FANCY. VER let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home : At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Then let winged Fancy wander Through the thought still spread beyond her: She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. When the soundless earth is muffled, To banish Even from her sky. Sit thee there, and send abroad, With a mind self-overawed, Fancy, high-commission'd : send her! |