I see them all so excellently fair, My genial spirits fail; And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavor, Though I should gaze forever On that green light that lingers in the west; O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does Nature live; Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! And from the soul itself must there be sent O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud— Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud- And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colors a suffusion from that light. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth; Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, For not to think of what I needs must feel, And haply by abstruse research to steal From my own nature all the natural man— This was my sole resource, my only plan; Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without, 'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds-At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings-all is over— And tempered with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay. 'Tis of a little child Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost her way; And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth! With light heart may she rise, Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; O simple spirit, guided from above, Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, 236 Samuel Taylor Coleridge A LAMENT WORLD! O Life! O Time! Trembling at that where I had stood before; Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Percy Bysshe Shelley 237 STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES HE sun is warm, the sky is clear, THE The waves are dancing fast and bright, The breath of the moist earth is light Like many a voice of one delight, 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: The lightning of the noontide 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 walked with inward, glory crowned- Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;- Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, Which I have borne and yet must bear, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea |