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thou shalt hear
She has vassals to attend her:
Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; Every thing is spoilt by use; Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new? Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where's the face One would meet in every place? Where's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft? At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. Let, then, winged Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind: Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter Ere the God of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's, when her zone Slipt its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid. - Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash; Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she'll bring. Let the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
ARDS of Passion and of Mirth,
Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the noise of fountains wondrous,
Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new!
EASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
ODE ON MELANCHOLY.
O, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips