<Bn%im Bzmwgii tor t-::i^ 
 POEMS BY 
 ^ORTH.CQiX. 
 .EY.ANDlvEA 
 
ENGLISH 
 
 READINGS'FOR 
 
 5CHOOLS 
 
€nsli£(f) Eeabingg for ^cfjoolsi 
 
 GENERAL EDITOR 
 
 WILBUR LUCIUS CROSS 
 
 TROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN YALE UNIVERSITY 
 
Wi 1 1 i a ni Word sworth 
 
 From an engraving by Henry Meyer after a painting 
 by Carruthers 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, 
 SHELLEY, AND KEATS 
 
 SELECTED AND EDITED 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES WEBER LINN 
 
 ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 1911 
 

 Copyright. 191 i, 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 ^ 
 
 \- 
 
 Qc\.A2d24G^ 
 
PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 This volume includes all the poems by Wordsworth, 
 Shelley, and Keats contained in the fourth book of Pal- 
 grave's Golden Treasury, with the addition of The Rime 
 of the Ancient Mariner, The Eve of St. Agnes, and favorite 
 lyrics by lesser poets. 
 
 General Editor. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Introduction 
 
 I. Prelude 
 
 II. William Wordsworth, Life and Works 
 
 III. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Life and Works 
 
 IV. Percy Bysshe Shelley, Life and Works 
 V. John Keats, Life and Works 
 
 VI. The Lesser Poets, Biographical Sketches 
 Descriptive Bibliography .... 
 Poems of Wordsworth 
 
 The Reverie of Poor Susan 
 
 Simon Lee the Old Huntsman . 
 
 Lines Written in Early Spring . 
 
 The Two April Mornings 
 
 The Fountain: A Conversation 
 
 She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways 
 
 I Travel'd Among Unknown Men 
 
 The Education of Nature 
 
 A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal 
 
 Lucy Gray ..... 
 
 Ruth: or The Influences of Nature . 
 
 England and Switzerland, 1802 
 
 On the Extinction of the Venetian Republ 
 
 London, 1802 ..... 
 
 To Milton 
 
 When I Have Borne in Memory 
 
 Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 
 By the Sea ..... 
 
 To the Daisy 
 
 The Rainbow 
 
 802 
 
 xni 
 
 xviii 
 
 xxvii 
 
 xxxiv 
 
 xhi 
 
 Hi 
 
 Iv 
 
 3 
 3 
 7 
 8 
 
 10 
 12 
 13 
 13 
 15 
 15 
 18 
 26 
 27 
 27 
 28 
 28 
 29 
 29 
 30 
 31 
 
X Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Neidpath Castle 2,2 
 
 To The Highland Girl of Inversneyde . . . -32 
 
 The Solitary Reaper 35 
 
 Glen-Almain, the Narrow Glen 36 
 
 The Green Linnet 37 
 
 She was a Phantom of Delight . " . . . 38 
 
 A Lesson 3q 
 
 The Affliction of Margaret 40 
 
 To the Cuckoo 43 
 
 The Daffodils 44 
 
 Ode to Duty 45 
 
 To the Skylark 47 
 
 Nature and the Poet 47 
 
 Admonition to a Traveler ...... 50 
 
 To Sleep 50 
 
 The World is Too Much with Us 51 
 
 Ode on Intimations of Immortality 51 
 
 Yarrow Un visited (1803) 58 
 
 Yarrow Visited (1814) 60 
 
 Desideria 63 
 
 Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge ... 63 
 
 The Trosachs .......-• 64 
 
 The Inner Vision ........ 64 
 
 To a Distant Friend 65 
 
 Poems of Coleridge 
 
 Kubla Khan 69 
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 71 
 
 Love 97 
 
 Youth and Age 100 
 
 Poems of Shelley 
 
 Ozymandias of Egypt . . • • • 105 
 
 Stanzas Written in Dejection near Naples . . . 105 
 Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills . . .107 
 
 Ode to the West Wind 112 
 
 The Indian Serenade H5 
 
Contents 
 
 XI 
 
 / 
 
 Love's Philosophy 
 
 A Dream of the Unknown 
 
 The Cloud 
 
 To a Skylark 
 
 A Song 
 
 To the Night . 
 
 To the Moon 
 
 Music, When Soft Voices Die . 
 
 One Word Is Too Often Profaned 
 
 The Flight of Lo\e . 
 
 Threnos 
 
 The Invitation 
 
 The Recollection 
 
 To a Lady, with a Guitar 
 
 The Poet's Dream 
 
 A Dirge 
 
 Poems of Keats 
 
 To One Who Has Been Long in City Pent 
 
 On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 
 
 The Terror of Death 
 
 Happy Insensibility 
 
 The Eve of St. Agnes 
 
 The Human Seasons 
 
 The Mermaid Tavern 
 
 The Realm of Fancy 
 
 Ode on the Poets 
 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn 
 •^Ode to a Nightingale 
 
 Ode to Autumn 
 
 La Belle Dame Sans Merci 
 
 Bright Star I Would I Were Steadfast 
 Poems of the Lesser Poets 
 
 Gathering Song of Donald the Black Sco^ 
 
 A Serenade ..... Sco. 
 
 Coronach ..... Sco^ 
 
xii Contents 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Hunting Song 
 
 . Scott . . .174 
 
 Datur Hora Quieti . 
 
 . Scott 
 
 
 175 
 
 The Rover .... 
 
 . Scott 
 
 
 176 
 
 Jock of Hazeldean . 
 
 . Scott . 
 
 
 176 
 
 Song to the Evening Star 
 
 . Campbell 
 
 
 177 
 
 Lord UUin's Daughter 
 
 . Campbell 
 
 
 178 
 
 Hohenhnden .... 
 
 . Campbell 
 
 
 180 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 
 
 . Campbell 
 
 
 181 
 
 Hester 
 
 . Lamb 
 
 
 183 
 
 On an Infant Dying as Soon as ] 
 
 Born Lajub 
 
 
 
 184 
 
 The Old Familiar Faces . 
 
 . Lamb 
 
 
 
 186 
 
 Past and Present 
 
 . Hood 
 
 
 
 187 
 
 The Death Bed 
 
 . Hood 
 
 
 
 188 
 
 The Burial of Sir John ISIoore 
 
 . Wolfe 
 
 
 
 188 
 
 The Young May Moon . 
 
 . Moore 
 
 
 
 190 
 
 The Journey Onwards 
 
 . Moore 
 
 
 
 190 
 
 The Light of Other Days 
 
 Moore 
 
 
 
 191 
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 
 
 . Cunningham 
 
 192 
 
 Notes and Comment . 
 
 
 195 
 
 Portrait of WiUiam Wordsworth 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 Portrait of Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 
 . 68 
 
 Portrait of Percy Bysshe Shelley - . 
 
 
 . 104 
 
 Portrait of John Keats 
 
 
 - . 138 
 
 Portrait of Sir Walter Scott . 
 
 
 . 
 
 . 
 
 170 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 PRELUDE 
 
 The poems in this volume are all the work of men who 
 wrote after the year 1795. Roughly speaking, they rep- 
 resent the poetical spirit of the first quarter of the nine- 
 teenth century. Furthermore, they are chiefly lyrical in 
 character. Two questions about them any interested 
 student is likely to ask. First, what was this quarter- 
 century like, in England — what at that time particularly 
 stirred and interested the EngHsh people? Second, what 
 is a lyric poem? 
 
 The first question, whether the reader has asked it or 
 not, is one which always should be asked by any reader. 
 Literature, good or bad, never proceeds from a vacuum. 
 A writer is always to some extent the product and the 
 representative of the age he lives in. Now England, in 
 this particular quarter-century, was, like the rest of 
 Europe, perhaps most gravely interested in what we 
 vaguely call "democracy" — that is, the question of how 
 best to govern men by educating them to govern them- 
 selves. The French Revolution had begun in 1789, con- 
 tinued for five or six years, and then been succeeded 
 by the triumphs of Napoleon. The French Revolution, 
 like the American Revolution of 1 776-1 784, was in its 
 way an indication of this great and growing world- 
 
xiv Introduction 
 
 interest in democracy. The English poets at first, that 
 is in 1789, welcomed the French Revolution as a manifes- 
 tation of liberty. But the French patriots proceeded to 
 the most terrible excesses; Paris was bathed in the blood 
 of good and honorable men and women, who had com- 
 mitted no crime; and the older poets, Wordsworth and 
 Coleridge and Scott, shrinking from such atrocious butch- 
 ery in the name of Hberty, began to doubt the value of 
 this new "democracy." Then came Napoleon, and con- 
 quered Europe. Only one country could resist him, and 
 that was England. So from 1797 to 181 5, when Napo- 
 leon was finally beaten by the Duke of Wellington at 
 Waterloo, England was constantly at war. This war 
 produced suffering and distress at home, as war always 
 must; so the younger poets, Shelley in particular, seeing 
 this distress, accused the government of tyranny, and even 
 called Wordsworth and Coleridge, who had changed their 
 views, traitors to the cause of liberty and of mankind. 
 So Wordsworth assails Napoleon, in the sonnet England 
 and Switzerland, 1802; and Shelley in turn laments the 
 wrong and evil of his day, in the Dirge; and Scott and 
 Campbell, less troubled by questions of right and wrong 
 than the greater poets were, sing their soldier-songs and 
 sea-songs, such as The Rover and Ye Mariners of England; 
 and so each in his own way reflects a phase of this spirit 
 of his time. 
 
 But of course war and democracy, and such wholly gen- 
 eral matters, were not the only affairs of interest to the 
 people of this period. Among other things, men were 
 coming to take a new and much more inspiring view of 
 nature — that is to say, of flowers, birds, mountains, 
 rivers, and whatever is beautiful or picturesque in the 
 out-of-doors. The poets of the earlier eighteenth century 
 
Prelude xv 
 
 had reflected the ideas of their day in considering such 
 natural objects rather a bore. Pope, for instance, writing 
 about 1730, is concerned only with the fashionable social 
 life of London, or with abstract speculations on theolog- 
 ical subjects, or with keen clever abuse of his neighbors. 
 Gray, in the well-known Elegy, which was published in 
 1 75 1, deals with a village churchyard; but he is not inter- 
 ested in the churchyard for its own sake, he does not note 
 with pleasure the gray-white of the headstones upon the 
 dusky green of the grass, or hear the birds chirping safely 
 in the elms above it, as Wordsworth might; he uses it as 
 a stage-setting for his own melancholy dreamings. Burns, 
 in 1785-1786, writes of the daisy and the field-mouse, 
 but even Burns is still thinking of beast and flower as 
 symbols — the daisy is the humble country poet, the mouse 
 is the poor well-meaning fellow for whom life is hard in 
 spite of his own good intentions. When, however, we 
 come to the nineteenth century, we find Wordsworth de- 
 lighting in the cry of the cuckoo, and the rapid shift of 
 light and shade upon the wings of a linnet singing in a 
 bush; or Byron and Coleridge rejoicing in the grandeur 
 of the mountains; or Shelley watching a cloud and de- 
 scribing it minutely in verse; or Keats searching till he 
 finds the very words which shall most accurately repro- 
 duce the gait of a rabbit on a frosty day — "the hare 
 limped trembling through the frozen grass." So through- 
 out these poems we see revealing itself this new% exact, in- 
 dividual joy in observing and picturing bird and beast 
 and meadow as they are, and for their own sakes. 
 
 Yet another pleasure of the time was in what we caU 
 the " supernatural" — in the mysterious feelings roused 
 by the imagination when it dwells in the region outside 
 reason. Fairy-stories and ghost-stories, to take the com- 
 
xvi Introduction 
 
 monest examples, did not interest the eighteenth century 
 much. But by the beginning of the nineteenth they had 
 become popular, both in prose and in verse. One tale of 
 a monk who sold himself to the devil, and finally met his 
 death by falling from Satan's clutches seven miles upon 
 a granite mountain, was so widely read that its author, 
 Matthew Dewis, was universally called ''Monk" Lewis, 
 and is still so referred to in literary histories. This in- 
 terest in the supernatural, like the interest in natural ob- 
 jects, runs thraugh the poetry of the time; it is as well 
 studied perhaps in The Ancient Mariner as anywhere. 
 Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, too long for inclusion in 
 a volume like this, is another example of its use. There is 
 just a touch of it even in Wordsworth, at the end of the 
 poem called Lucy Gray. 
 
 The whole period, if it may be summed up in a word, 
 was one of enthusiasm. People were interested — interested 
 in all sorts of ideas, and not ashamed to say so. The 
 charm of scientific study was just becoming known, and 
 botany and geology and chemistry and physics were en- 
 gaging the attention of more and more Englishmen all 
 the time. Travel was easier than it had been, and after 
 the wars were over more folk stirred about, and wandered 
 through Europe and their own country, getting out of the 
 old home ruts. Life became, on the whole, a liveHer mat- 
 ter in this particular quarter-century. And this livehness, 
 this new freshness of interest, is reflected in the immense 
 number of lyric poems which were at this time produced. 
 
 And this statement leads to and partly answers the 
 second question — What is a lyric? It is a poem which 
 briefly and strongly expresses emotion of some kind. It 
 is like a cry, or like laughter, or like a fit of the blues, or 
 a sudden burst of hate, or the impulse to jump up and 
 
Prelude xvii 
 
 cheer and keep on cheering when the home team makes 
 a touch-down. It is often a real song; even when a lyric 
 is not intended to be sung, it has always song-Hke quali- 
 ties. Such poems as Wordsworth's My Heart Leaps Up, or 
 Scott's Coronach, or Shelley's Dirge or Indian Serenade 
 are true lyrics. Of such longer poems as The Ancient 
 Mariner or Keats's Eve of St. Agnes one may say that they 
 are not exactly lyrics, but lyric in their effect. They tell 
 a story, which a true lyric does not do any more than a 
 sudden shout of laughter tells a story; on the other hand, 
 they are full of the most real and passionate emotion. 
 All kinds of emotion are expressed in lyric form. There 
 are lyrics of war and its delights, like Hohenlinden and 
 Ye Mariners of England and the Gathering Song of Donald 
 Dhu and the Burial of Sir John Moore; lyrics of gay love, 
 like Moore's The Young May Moon, and sad love, like 
 Shelley's One Word is Too Often Profaned, and light love, 
 like Scott's Rover, and lost love, hke Wordsworth's She 
 Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways; lyrics of joy in nature, like 
 Wordsworth's To the Cuckoo, and joy in life, like Cunning- 
 ham's A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea: lyrics of grief, like 
 Hood's The Death Bed and Keats's Bright Star and Lamb's 
 Hester. To enumerate and classify lyrics, even the lyrics 
 in this little book, would be to enumerate and classify all 
 the emotions any one can feel. And because the emotions 
 of this time, 1800 to 1825, ran strong and yet were easily 
 stirred, whether by war or love or sunrise, the time was 
 a lyric time in England; and no generation since, or pos- 
 sibly no generation that preceded, unless it may be Shake- 
 speare's, has produced so many wonderful poems of this 
 type. 
 
xviii Introduction 
 
 II 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 Life and Works 
 
 Great poets do not often lead adventurous lives, but 
 at the same time they are not usually in spirit peaceful 
 men. They are likely to be fine-grained, full of high am- 
 bition, tender-hearted — "loving all things great and 
 small." They can be relied upon for sympathy and un- 
 derstanding. They will combat wrong wherever they see 
 it. But at the same time because they are impulsive, they 
 are easily excited. Sometimes they quarrel with their 
 neighbors, or even with their wives. It was a great poet 
 who was expelled from Oxford for defiantly refusing to 
 obey the university regulations; another who was called 
 the wickedest man of his time; a third, well known if not 
 really great, whose life was said to be one long lawsuit, 
 and who once, so the story goes, threw his cook bodily out 
 of the window into the garden. If they were not emo- 
 tional they could hardly write great poetry, and they do 
 not always try to control their emotions; therefore the 
 world calls them odd and queer. 
 
 William Wordsworth was at heart as fierce as any of 
 them, but he kept his feeling under. He trained himself 
 to peacefulness. His Hfe was as quiet as a man's could be, 
 more quiet than any other great poet's except perhaps 
 Tennyson's. The proper material of poetry, he said once 
 in a famous essay, is "emotion recollected in tranquil- 
 lity," and because he lived for poetry he hved tranquilly. 
 His life stretched over eighty years. When he was born, 
 in 1770, George the Third was on the throne of England, 
 
William Wordsworth xlx 
 
 and the Declaration of Independence by the Colonies was 
 not even thought of. He died in 1850, a subject of Queen 
 Victoria, George the Third's great-grandniece, at a time 
 when the rumblings of coming Civil War could already be 
 heard underground in America. He was born before the 
 secret of steam was discovered; when he died the railroad 
 was an old story. Those years from 1770 to 1850 saw 
 more radical changes in European experience and thought 
 than probably any other period of the same length in 
 European history; but Wordsworth passed them placidly 
 in the country. He has proved to be of immense power 
 in modern existence, but throughout most of his own life 
 he was unheard of. One of the residents of his neighbor- 
 hood, an intelligent gentleman, in 1818, when the poet was 
 almost fifty and had done all his best work, asked a visitor 
 whether it was true, as he had heard said, "that Mr. 
 Wordsworth sometimes wrote poetry." 
 
 His life divides itself pretty clearly into three parts — 
 the years from 1770 to 1798, which were years of prep- 
 aration; from 1798 to 1814, in which, between twenty- 
 eight and forty-four, nearly all his most effective writing 
 was done; and the long stretch of forty years, the latter 
 half of his life, in which he very slowly gained recogni- 
 tion and influence, although the abihty to put his thoughts 
 into supremely beautiful verse, as we can see now, had 
 almost entirely left him. Why he lost that ability, no one 
 can say. With few exceptions the great English poets 
 began to write when they were very young, but most of 
 them wrote nobly even to the end. It was so with Chau- 
 cer; it was so with Shakespeare; it was so with Tennyson; 
 it was so with Browning. But with Wordsworth it was 
 not so; and some have wondered whether the extreme mo- 
 notony of his country habits, buried as he was beside the 
 
XX Introduction 
 
 Cumberland lakes, far away from the violence and passion 
 of his times, did not deaden his emotions and petrify his 
 powers. 
 
 Of what his life was like, as a boy and a young man, he 
 has left a careful record in a long poem called The Prelude. 
 The subtitle, more accurately descriptive, is ''The growth 
 of a poet's mind." In it he describes, in minute detail, 
 and often beautifully, what he did and felt and thought 
 while he was growing up and learning to appreciate his 
 own weaknesses and his own strength. In those days 
 there was much less interest than now in games; but 
 Wordsworth, who was tall and strong, had a fondness for 
 such outdoor exercises as walking, and particularly for any 
 sports that kept him near the water — swimming, sailing, 
 rowing, and skating, in the last of which he excelled every- 
 body, being able to cut his own name upon the ice, a feat 
 still notable even in that lake-strewn north-of-England 
 country-side where everybody skated. He was fairly pop- 
 ular therefore as a boy, though, as he says, "of a moody 
 and violent temper." He came of a good family, and 
 though his father died poor, two uncles looked after his 
 education by sending him to Cambridge. There he re- 
 mained three years, from seventeen to almost twenty-one, 
 taking his degree in January, 1791. In after years he felt 
 that he had wasted his time at Cambridge, as men often 
 do regret the way they spent their time in college; but 
 he was not sorry he had gone there, as few men who go 
 to college are. He read a great deal, wrote a little 
 now and then, showed his impulsive disposition by going 
 one vacation for a walking tour in the Alps (being 
 oddly enough the very first undergraduate, so far as there 
 is any record, who ever tried that amusement), and he 
 studied at least enough to get his degree with decent credit. 
 
William Wordsworth 
 
 XXI 
 
 Nowadays, at least in this country, he would have 
 looked about for a business or profession. In fact he did 
 consider the matter, and rather wished to be a soldier, but 
 saw too little prospect of getting on to consider it. He 
 had no talents for the law, shrank from the ministry, and 
 was without capital to go into business. Even thus early 
 his inclinations turned to poetry. With a very small al- 
 lowance he lived in London for a short time; traveled in 
 France; and finally in 1795, having received a legacy of 
 £900 ($4,500) from a friend, settled down in Dorsetshire, 
 with his sister Dorothy, to devote himself steadily to 
 poetry. Nothing in this, so far, of excitement! But the 
 rest of his days were to be passed even more simply. 
 True, just before the close of the century he went abroad, 
 spending a very cold winter in Goslar, a little German 
 town, where he wrote some of his best poems. His sister 
 accompanied him, a young woman of great charm and a 
 fine mind, who devoted herself absolutely to her brother, 
 and by her encouragement and sympathy did much to 
 keep Wordsworth at his best. Her Journal, or daily ac- 
 count of their lives, is often as interesting as her brother's 
 poetical description of the same experience. 
 
 Returning from Germany, in 1802, he married a Miss 
 Mary Hutchinson, a friend of his sister's whom he had 
 known a long time. They went to live in Cumberland, 
 near the Scottish border, the country in which Words- 
 worth had been brought up. Here five children were born, 
 of whom he was passionately fond, but who were, if his 
 neighbors are to be beheved, a little afraid, or, let us say, 
 a little in awe of him. There was very little money, and 
 less care for it, apparently. In twenty-five years, from 
 1795 to 1820, the sale of his verses brought him a sum 
 which, if averaged, would come to almost precisely fifty 
 
xxii Introduction 
 
 cents a week. Naturally the family did not live on this. 
 At first there was the interest on his legacy; later he was 
 given a fairly good position as distributor of revenue 
 stamps for his county, a place he held until 1842, when 
 he resigned it to his son. In that year, also, 1842, he was 
 given an annual pension of £300 (about $1,500) and next 
 year was made poet-laureate of England. No wonder, 
 however, in the thirty years following the marriage, that 
 Mrs. Wordsworth was known as a "manager." "She 
 was a plain woman; she never gave you an inch on the 
 butcher's bill," admiringly said, long afterwards, one of 
 the tradesmen she had defeated. And while first Dorothy 
 Wordsworth and afterwards the poet's wife looked after 
 the household, and kept the accounts, and bullied the 
 butcher and the baker, the poet continued steadily, se- 
 renely, on the path he had worked out for himself. As 
 when a boy, so as a man he was a great walker. He knew 
 every inch of the Cumberland neighborhood — the high- 
 ways and the hillsides, every bend in the streams, every 
 cove in the lakes, every rock on the mountain and every 
 flower beside it. To sit down and write was, curiously 
 enough in a professed literary man, painful to him; to 
 handle a pen threw him into a cold sweat. So his custom 
 was to compose half aloud to himself while walking, and 
 then upon his return home to dictate to his sister or his 
 wife the fines which he had thought of. As thus he went 
 about muttering to himself, he was an object of consid- 
 erable interest to his neighbors, the country farmers, and 
 even of some terror to children. He was conscious of the 
 strangeness of it, and for some years had a dog which he 
 had trained to run before him and whenever they met any 
 one to come back and give warning; upon which the poet 
 would stop muttering his verses and walk on quietly until 
 
William Wordsworth xxiii 
 
 the passer-by was out of hearing. But on the whole the 
 country-side was proud of him. "He would start a bum- 
 ming, and it was bum, bum, bum, stop; then bum, bum, 
 bum again; his lips were always going the w^hole time he 
 was on the walk." So one innkeeper described him years 
 later; and another neighbor once said, when the poet had 
 returned from a visit — "Well, there he is; we 're glad to 
 hear him booing about again." 
 
 So one must think of Wordsworth, year after year, dec- 
 ade after decade, while the world moved on about him, 
 kingdoms falling and new empires of knowledge opening 
 everywhere, living his still and meditative life; break- 
 fasting, and not seldom dining, upon oatmeal porridge; 
 spending his days afoot, and in his evenings, as he has 
 written, accustomed to sit 
 
 "In the loved presence of his cottage-lire 
 And listen to the flapping of the flame, 
 Or kettle whispering its faint undersong." 
 
 He had always friends near him, that group among others 
 including Coleridge, Southey (poet-laureate before Words- 
 worth; his poetry almost forgotten now) and De Quincey, 
 the eloquent opium-eating dwarf; in his later years, too, 
 as his reputation spread, his home became the goal of 
 various pilgrims; but of the general life of England he 
 knew httle. It is odd to note, for instance, how little he 
 was affected by his great fellow-poets, Byron, Shelley, 
 and Keats, who were all much younger than he, but who 
 had all done their work and passed away, years before 
 he became famous. Byron he dishked; Shelley he ig- 
 nored; Keats he met once but paid no attention to. In 
 such an existence, so narrow and self-centered, there is 
 nothing to stir our imagination, nothing to arouse a warmer 
 
xxiv Introduction 
 
 feeling than respect. Had Wordsworth lacked genius, his 
 life would have been too dull to waste a thought on. But 
 he had genius, genius that needed quiet for its growth, and 
 so we can only be thankful that the opportunity for quiet 
 was allowed him. He died in 1850, having outlived all 
 his friends but De Quincey, all his children but two, and 
 all his ignorant critics. 
 
 With such a man the history of his poetry is the only 
 important history. What then were his ideas? How did 
 he set them forth? Why has he been so unanimously 
 called a great poet? 
 
 Wordsworth grew up in the latter part of the eighteenth 
 century, just when men everywhere were re-discovering 
 what had been for some time forgotten — that although 
 society, that is to say mankind, must be governed by laws 
 and rules, it is nevertheless made up of individuals, and 
 its value as a whole depends upon the value of these in- 
 dividuals. The eighteenth century EngHshman distrusted 
 anything strikingly new or original. Fashion governed 
 ideas and their expression, as well as clothes. Against 
 this habit of the times, Burns, who was only eleven years 
 older than Wordsworth, was in rebellion when he wrote 
 A Man's a Man for a' That. Wordsworth's character 
 was very different from that of Burns, but Wordsworth 
 was like Burns in opposing the government of fashion in 
 belief and fashion in expression. He had what he believed 
 to be new ideas, and he determined to express them to 
 suit himself, regardless of what the critics said were the 
 rules of poetry. Poetry, Wordsworth thought, should be 
 full of emotion, of feeling; and this feeling should be given 
 in as simple language as the poet could possibly find. "A 
 selection from the real language of men," he called it; by 
 which he meant, not flat and dull words, but honest 
 
William Wordsworth xxv 
 
 words, words that really try to make clear exactly what 
 the writer means. ''Reddening Phoebus Hfts his golden 
 fire," the eighteenth century poets had written, meaning 
 that the sun rose; and to this elaboration Wordsworth 
 objected. As for the feeling to be expressed, it did not 
 matter what aroused it, so long as the feehng itself was 
 sympathetic, spontaneous, and powerful — a river might ex- 
 cite it, or the sight of a child, or a girl leaning on a gate in 
 the Highlands, an overworked donkey, a peasant piling 
 stones, a rainbow, daffodils, or sunrise over the city. 
 Compare with the line quoted above, Reddening Phoebus, 
 the stanza — 
 
 "My heart leaps up when I behold 
 A rainbow in the sky: 
 So was it when my life began, 
 So is it now I am a man; 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 Or let me die! " 
 
 This is as simple as the simplest prose — simple in its sub- 
 ject, simple in its form, simple in every word. But for 
 all its simpHcity, it is much more effective poetry than the 
 hollow elaboration of Reddening Phcebus. 
 
 Time and again, it is true, Wordsworth carried his theo- 
 ries too far. He wrote of things which the people found 
 ridiculous. His Peter Bell is an instance, — a long poem 
 about a wicked tramp who is reformed by force of the ex- 
 ample of his virtuous donkey. He was sometimes, in his 
 determination to be simple, only very dull. He himself 
 was a poor judge of his own work; and though his friends 
 advised him, he found it hard to accept their advice; for 
 the professed critics said that all his work was bad, and 
 he knew in his heart this could not be so. Therefore he 
 wrote what came into his head, good and bad; and as 
 
xxvi Introduction 
 
 long as he had his full powers, the good was equal to the 
 best that had been written since Milton died, nearly a 
 century and a half before. 
 l.^ His first w^ork of real importance was published in 1798 
 (when he w^as twenty-eight years old), in a volume called 
 Lyrical Ballads. Coleridge also contributed four poems 
 to this volume; one of the four was The Ancient Mariner. 
 Of Wordsworth's own poems, the best known was that 
 usually called (in brief) Tintern Abbey. The Lyrical Bal- 
 lads were reissued in 1800, with a preface containing his 
 theories of poetry explained at length in prose. Seven 
 . years later Wordsworth published more poems, in two 
 volumes; seven years later still, in 18 14, a very long poem 
 called The Excursion. From this time on to the end of 
 his life, the poet published with increasing frequency; but 
 after The Excursion, except in rare instances, he wTote 
 nothing that added to his fame. The wonderful gift of 
 melody was gone, the gift that makes the poet differ from 
 the writer of verse — the inexplainable something that no 
 effort of searching will secure, that is not only meter and 
 vowel sounds and consonant sounds and meaning all 
 combined, but something deeper still ; the melody that can 
 produce such lines as we find in The Education of Nature — 
 
 "And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 Shall pass into her face"; 
 
 or in The Solitary Reaper — 
 
 "Will no one tell me what she sings? — 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 For old, unhappy, far-ofif things 
 And battles long ago"; 
 
 or in the Ode on Intimations of Immortality — 
 
Samuel Taylor Coleridge xxvii 
 
 "Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal Silence"; 
 
 or in the sonnet By the Sea — 
 
 "The holy time is quiet as a nun 
 Breathless with adoration." 
 
 But if he wrote no more poetry that was truly magnificent, 
 w^hat of it? The immortality he believed in was his; he 
 passed at length into the "eternal Silence," but his work 
 remains as long, at least, as the English language endures. 
 
 Ill 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 
 
 Life and Works 
 
 Tell the story of many a poet's life to a practical busi- 
 ness man, who works ten hours a day in his office and 
 provides honestly for his family, and he will say, "That 
 is only a history of failure." 
 
 By the standards of every-day success, he will be right. 
 Chatterton is called the "marvelous boy," but he com- 
 mitted suicide at nineteen. Shelley quarreled with his 
 family, deserted his first wife, and died almost unknown. 
 Wordsworth at the age of thirty-five was earning five hun- 
 dred dollars a year. Tennyson was for ten years engaged 
 to be married before, at forty-one, he had enough to sup- 
 port a wife. And Coleridge, whose greatest poem is per- 
 haps the best known in the English language — Coleridge, 
 of whom William HazHtt once said, "He talks, and your 
 only wish is that he should talk on forever"; Coleridge, 
 
xxviii Introduction 
 
 whom Wordsworth called ''wonderful," Charles Lamb 
 ''inspired," and Carlyle "sublime" — Coleridge was, from 
 the practical point of view, never anything but a conspic- 
 uous failure. He dropped out of college without taking 
 his degree. He married, and left his wife and children to 
 be supported by others. He started newspapers and saw 
 them die upon his hands. He was a master-poet at the 
 age of twenty-six; and by the time he was thirty he had 
 dissipated all his poetical power. "His mind," wrote his 
 friend Robert Southey to his friend William Wordsworth — 
 "his mind is a perpetual St. Vitus Dance — eternal activ- 
 ity without action." If Coleridge had been a bad man in 
 any way, this "waste of unequaled powers" could be more 
 easily understood. But he was a good man — good like 
 a child, though he had the mind of a giant. His defect 
 was in his will power. His thoughts could not travel any- 
 where in a straight line. Even when he walked along a 
 road, he was continually shifting from one side to the 
 other, as aimlessly as a hen. So lacking in directive force, 
 how immense must have been the gifts that enabled him 
 to fascinate every one with whom he came in contact! 
 Merchants paid his debts, his children adored him, his 
 friends worked patiently to undo the mischief that his 
 well-intentioned heedlessness brought about. When he 
 was at Christ's Hospital in London, that famous charity 
 school where the daily routine consisted of fat meat and 
 a flogging, passers-by, we are told, stood "entranced in ad- 
 miration" to hear him speak. Because he was in love, 
 and could not pay his debts, he ran away from college and 
 enhsted in a cavalry regiment — (he, who had never been 
 on horseback!). But very soon an officer noticed his ap- 
 pearance, saw him writing Latin on the stable wall, and 
 procured his discharge. In his old age the brightest young 
 
Samuel Taylor Coleridge xxix 
 
 men in England sat at his feet, listened spellbound while 
 he talked for hours and hours, and called him prophet and 
 seer. Of all the men of his time, it is Coleridge who has 
 been most and best described by his contemporaries. And 
 as we read of his dark and striking face, his flashing gray 
 eyes, under heavy black eyebrows, his low, musical, pen- 
 etrating voice, his eloquence, "borne on the gusts of 
 genius," "launching upon his subject as an eagle mounts 
 upon the wind," we are no longer surprised at the impres- 
 sion he made upon his generation ; we are only amazed that 
 all this genius ran to waste, sank into the ground like 
 water, and left so httle but muddiness behind. Yet here 
 and there it was caught and turned into streams that 
 beautified the world. 
 
 "The tumult and the shouting dies, 
 
 The captains and the kings depart," — 
 
 the practical, successful men of affairs carry on their busi- 
 ness and are buried and forgotten, but still the poet's 
 name lives on, and the poet's work is a pleasure and an 
 inspiration. After all is said, the fact remains that it was 
 Coleridge who wrote The Ancient Mariner. More than a 
 century has passed already since that unequaled poem was 
 published. Many more will pass, and the English lan- 
 guage will change entirely before the world is tired of 
 reading it. 
 
 Coleridge was born in 1772, the youngest child of a 
 large family. His father was a kindly, eccentric, learned 
 parson, who had hard work to provide shelter and food 
 for his children; Coleridge's mother was a competent, un- 
 educated woman, who never really understood her son. 
 Coleridge as a child was precocious, imaginative, fond of 
 reading and bored by children's games. His education 
 
XXX Introduction 
 
 was begun early at the boys' school in London called 
 Christ's Hospital; later he went for a time to Cambridge, 
 but never took a degree. After leaving the university in 
 1794, he determined to devote himself to literature, and 
 he worked hard if unsteadily for three years. It was not 
 until he came under the influence of Wordsworth, however, 
 in 1797 and 1798, that his powers fully showed themselves. 
 The Ancient Mariner was thought out and written in 
 the autumn of 1797. At that time Coleridge was living 
 close by Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy. They 
 planned a walking trip, and as they had very little money, 
 the idea came to the two poets of writing something in 
 collaboration, which they might sell to a magazine, and 
 so pay their expenses. Coleridge had been telling of a 
 dream of a friend of his about an old sailor whom ghosts 
 had haunted and finally shipwrecked. Would this do for 
 a subject? Wordsworth agreed, but suggested that if the 
 sailor had committed some crime, there would be more 
 reason in his being haunted. The day before in a book of 
 "Voyages" he had been reading of the great veneration 
 most seafaring men had for the bird called the albatross. 
 Could not the crime of the sailor — "the old navigator" as 
 Coleridge preferred to call him — be the killing of an al- 
 batross? With so much of the story in hand, they began 
 composing. Very soon, however, Wordsworth saw that 
 Coleridge was better able to work alone; and he hmited 
 his own contribution to a few lines. 
 
 "And listens like a three-years child — 
 The Mariner hath his will," 
 
 is Wordsworth's; so is 
 
 "And he was long and lank and brown 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand." 
 
Samuel Taylor Coleridge xxxi 
 
 Ail the rest of the poem is Coleridge's own. As he worked 
 over the poem the scope of it grew larger; the poet aban- 
 doned the idea of printing it in a magazine, and began to 
 think of making it the central poem of a book which 
 should be made up of poetry by both authors, chiefly on 
 supernatural subjects. The next spring, 1798, they ac- 
 tually did issue such a book. It w^as called Lyrical Ballads; 
 The Ancient Mariner and other Poems. It made no stir 
 whatever; hardly any one bought it but sailors, and they 
 were deceived by the title, thinking it a volume of songs 
 for use on shipboard. Very few copies of that first edi- 
 tion are still in existence and they are almost worth their 
 weight in gold now. Besides The Ancient Mariner, the 
 Lyrical Ballads contained only three little pieces by Cole- 
 ridge, whereas Wordsw^orth contributed seventeen, one of 
 them the splendid Tintern Abbey. Yet so magical and 
 so complete has been the charm of The Mariner, that to 
 Coleridge more than to Wordsw^orth the subsequent fame 
 of the Httle book has been due. 
 
 Why is The Ancient Mariner so widely read and so 
 much liked? Some poems are praised by the critics, like 
 many of Wordsworth's, but for one reason or another never 
 become popular. Others enjoy tremendous popularity, 
 but because their form is weak or their feeling shallow, by 
 and by the public tires of them, and they are forgotten. 
 But here is a poem which every one, the critical and the 
 uncritical ahke, unite in praising. No two people wall 
 agree, perhaps, on the finest lyric in English, or the best 
 sonnet, or the greatest ode or elegy; but they will agree 
 that the English language knows no other ballad quite 
 equal to The Ancient Mariner. Why? 
 
 Partly because the story is interesting; it would be in- 
 teresting even told in prose. Partly because the pictures 
 
xxxii Introduction 
 
 are so sharply, clearly, vigorously painted — sunset in the 
 tropics, the dead men working the ship, the icebergs, and 
 the strange beings of the other world. Partly because 
 there are really no weak spots in the poem anywhere; it is 
 not only good, but all equally good, a very rare thing in 
 poems of any length. Partly because the music, the mel- 
 ody of the whole poem is so simple that any one can appre- 
 ciate it, yet so varied that no one can grow tired of it. All 
 these things one may discover in this ballad; each genera- 
 tion discovers them, and welcomes them afresh. 
 
 Coleridge wrote The Ancient Mariner in 1797, when he 
 was twenty-five, and published it in 1798, when he was 
 twenty-six. Those two years were the best in Coleridge's 
 life, the ''wonderful years," as they have been called. He 
 was married and still in love ; his acquaintance with Words- 
 worth was bringing out all the strength of his poetical pow- 
 ers; and he had not yet fallen into the habit that subse- 
 quently helped to destroy his chances of success. In 1797 
 and 1798 he wrote all but two of the poems that have since 
 been called great. Two of these -poems have interesting 
 histories. One, Kubla Khan, he dreamed, and afterwards 
 wrote down from memory just as he had dreamed it; only 
 unfortunately while he was writing it down a visitor in- 
 terrupted him, and when the visitor had gone the poet 
 could not remember any more of the poem. The other 
 poem, Christabel, is in a way still more odd. It was written 
 in a meter that had never before, Coleridge thought, been 
 used. Most of the poem was written in 1797, but it was 
 not published anywhere for nineteen years. Meanwhile 
 various people read it in manuscript, and thought it very 
 remarkable. Sir Walter Scott, among others, knew of it; 
 and Coleridge always believed and declared that Scott took 
 from Christabel the meter of the Lady of the Lake, The Lay 
 
Samuel Taylor Coleridge xxxiii 
 
 of the Last Minstrel, and the rest of the poems that made 
 Scott famous. However this may be, it is at least a fact 
 that Coleridge used this now well-known measure before 
 Scott did. Christahel is a fine poem, but it has never 
 shared the popularity of The Ancient Mariner, partly be- 
 cause it tells a less interesting story, and partly because it 
 was never finished. 
 
 Why was it never finished? Why did Coleridge, though 
 he lived more than thirty-five years longer, write no more 
 great poetry? The reason, like most reasons for failure, is 
 complicated. Part of it lay in the man's nature, part in 
 his bad health. He had always been visionary, unprac- 
 tical, queer. Now, with a family to support, and nothing 
 to live on, he worried himself sick. He got fearful dys- 
 pepsia from bad food at irregular hours; he took no care of 
 himself, and neuralgia attacked him. To ease the pain, 
 he began, just about the beginning of the century, to take 
 opium. From this time on his chance of development was 
 ended. He did not become such a slave to poison as De 
 Quincey was, who used to take sometimes more than a 
 quart of laudanum a day. Coleridge indeed, toward the 
 close of his life, conquered the habit, but not until it had 
 spoiled his manhood. He tried this and that, made a Httle 
 money as a dramatist, as a journalist, as a critic, but gave 
 it all up finally and was content to let his good friends take 
 care of him, as they were proud to do. There is a certain 
 resemblance between Coleridge and Wordsworth in this 
 early end of their poetical ability. Both wrote little or 
 nothing of poetical value in the last thirty-odd years of 
 their lives. But the failure of Coleridge is much more 
 striking than Wordsworth's. Wordsworth at all events 
 did a strong man's work; Coleridge had only one brilliant 
 year and a half, and that at twenty-five! 
 
xxxiv Introduction 
 
 Yet to call the author of The Ancient Mariner a failure 
 would be absurd. One of the poet's immediate descend- 
 ants — his great-nephew — became Lord Chief Justice of 
 England, the highest legal ofhcer in the land. He was a 
 very able man, with a fine mind; he did great good; he 
 earned more money in a year twice over than the poet in 
 all his days; he *'sat before kings/' as the Bible says. But 
 what is the Lord Chief Justice's fame, what did he do for 
 the world, compared with his great-uncle, who had so sad 
 a life, but yet who wrote The Ancient Mariner? In the an- 
 swer to that question lies the justification of the poet. 
 
 IV 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 Life and Works 
 
 In the sketch of Wordsworth's life and poetry, it was 
 said that because he was in opposition to the general ideas 
 of England about poetry, very few Englishmen of his own 
 day cared to read what he wrote. Percy Bysshe Shelley, 
 who was born in 1792, when Wordsworth had just left 
 Cambridge, and who died in 1822, when Wordsworth 
 had still almost thirty years to live — was in violent op- 
 position not only to English ideas of what was right in 
 poetry, but to Enghsh ideas of what was right in Hfe. In 
 consequence, Enghshmen not only were indifferent to what 
 he wrote, but also disHked what he did. His father quar- 
 reled bitterly with him; the Oxford authorities expelled him 
 from the University; the law took away his children from 
 him, and refused even to let him see them, on the ground 
 
Percy Bysshe Shelley xxxv 
 
 that he was not fit to associate with them ; and finally pub- 
 lic opinion drove him from the country, and forced him to 
 live and die abroad. Does it not all sound as if Shelley 
 were a criminal, or at least a very evil-hearted man? He 
 was not. He was perhaps nearer right about most things 
 than his country was. He was as honorable and pure- 
 minded as any one in England; as honorable and pure- 
 minded as the Chief Justice who refused him the right to 
 see his ow^n children. Yet one can hardly blame the people 
 of his time for thinking of him and doing to him as they 
 did. They wanted to stand still; he wanted to push ahead. 
 He did impatient and violent things, such as trying to stir 
 up Ireland to rebellion, and he said things still more vio- 
 lent — things foolish, absurd, sensational, bad. He was as 
 obstinate as only an honest, strongly emotional man can 
 be. He refused to make any concessions to w^hat other 
 people thought right. So what could his neighbors do but 
 quarrel with him, and finally drive him out? We, nowa- 
 days, can see how honest he was, how clean-minded, how 
 generous, above all, how great a poet; they could see him 
 only as a rebellious, disobedient, abusive, inconstant boy, 
 a dangerous citizen, and a writer of vague verses, advo- 
 cating strange theories, and impossible to understand. It 
 must be remembered that nearly all the poetry for which 
 we now call Shelley great was wTitten after he had been 
 practically exiled; it was pubKshed in an obscure fashion; 
 and it came, therefore, to the notice of very few people. On 
 the whole, famous as Shelley has now become, it is hard to 
 see how England could have treated him in any other way 
 than it did. 
 
 Shelley came of higher rank than either Wordsworth or 
 Coleridge. His father was a knight. Sir Timothy Shelley. 
 The son was sent to Eton, a school for the sons of rich men 
 
xxxvi Introduction 
 
 and noblemen, where he distinguished himself by refusing 
 to "fag." Fagging meant running errands and doing odd 
 jobs for boys higher up in the school. It had been the 
 custom for centuries. When Shelley refused to fag, the 
 older boys thrashed him, but in vain. He would cry, 
 but he would not fag. So they called him ''mad Shelley" 
 and gave him up in disgust. He never became popular at 
 Eton, but before he left he had defied the teachers as he 
 had defied the pupils, and so had gained some notoriety at 
 least. 
 
 At Oxford he had more freedom than at Eton. He spent 
 his time in reading Greek and philosophy, making wild 
 experiments in chemistry (then a much less known science 
 than now; it was not taught at Oxford, nor anywhere else 
 in England), taking long cross-country walks, and writing 
 novels and poetry. He and a young man named Thomas 
 Jefferson Hogg, who subsequently wrote his biography, 
 lived together an odd and secluded life. They saw a great 
 deal of each other and almost nothing of any one else. 
 They met at one o'clock each day and read or talked until 
 six, at which time Shelley usually went to sleep on the rug, 
 with his "Httle round head" close up to the fire. At ten 
 o'clock he woke, and the friends talked or read again until 
 two in the morning or later. He took his meals irregu- 
 larly, often forgetting to eat anything at all. Of Shelley's 
 appearance, and the appearance of his room, Hogg has 
 left excellent descriptions. 
 
 ''His figure was slight and fragile, and yet his bones and 
 joints were large and strong. . . . His clothes were ex- 
 pensive and fashionable; but they were tumbled, rumpled, 
 unbrushed. . . . His complexion was delicate and almost 
 feminine, of the purest red and white; yet he was tanned 
 and freckled by exposure to the sun. . . . His features, 
 
Percy Bysshe Shelley xxxvii 
 
 his whole face, and particularly his head, were, in fact, un- 
 usually small; yet the last appeared of a remarkable bulk, 
 for his hair was long and bushy, and ... he often rubbed 
 it fiercely with his hands, or passed his fingers through his 
 locks unconsciously, so that it was singularly wild and 
 rough. . . . His features . . . breathed an animation, a 
 fire, an enthusiasm, a vivid and preternatural intelligence, 
 that I never met with in any other countenance. . . . 
 But . . . the voice . . . was excruciating; it was intoler- 
 ably shrill, harsh, and discordant." Such was the poet at 
 eighteen; such he remained except that his harsh voice 
 softened greatly. As for his room — ''Books, boots, pa- 
 pers, shoes, philosophical instruments, clothes, pistols, 
 linen, crockery, ammunition, and phials innumerable, with 
 money, stockings, prints, crucibles, bags and boxes, were 
 scattered on the floor and in every place. . . . The tables, 
 and especially the carpet, were already stained with large 
 spots of various hues. ... An electrical machine, an air- 
 pump, a galvanic trough, a solar microscope, and large 
 glass jars and receivers, were conspicuous. . . . Upon the 
 table by his side were some books, lying open, several let- 
 ters, a bundle of new pens, and a bottle of . . . ink, . . . 
 a piece of deal, lately part of the lid of a box . . . and a 
 handsome razor that had been used as a knife. There were 
 bottles of sodawater, sugar, pieces of lemon, and the traces 
 of an effervescent beverage. Two piles of books supported 
 the tongs, and these upheld a small glass retort above an 
 Argand lamp. I had not been seated many minutes be- 
 fore the Hquor in the retort boiled over, adding fresh 
 stains to the table, and rising in fumes with a most disa- 
 greeable odor. Shelley snatched the glass quickly, and 
 dashing it in pieces among the ashes under the grate, in- 
 creased the unpleasant and disagreeable effluvium." 
 
xxxvili Introduction 
 
 Shelley, as has been said, did not remain at Oxford long. 
 Before he left, however, he and Hogg played a practical 
 joke on the Oxford scholars that is still remembered. 
 Shelley wrote some wild verses, which the two friends 
 published under the title of Posthumous Fragments of Mar- 
 garet Nicholson. Margaret Nicholson was a crazy woman 
 who had attempted to assassinate King George, and had 
 been put in an asylum. But the poems attributed to her 
 were gravely received and widely read at the University. 
 It was shortly after this that Shelley came into conflict 
 with the University authorities. He had had printed and 
 circulated a pamphlet attacking some of the doctrines of 
 Christianity. As Oxford was one of the two strongholds 
 of religious education in England, the faculty objected to 
 this action and called Shelley to account. His attitude 
 was defiant; so was that of Hogg, his friend, who was also 
 mixed up in the affair; and in the end they were both ex- 
 pelled. 
 
 After his expulsion from Oxford Shelley went up to 
 London, and presently, to every one's astonishment, eloped 
 and married. The girl was called Harriet Westbrook; she 
 was only sixteen, a small, blonde, pretty girl, madly in 
 love with Shelley, but not otherwise very interesting. 
 Their married life was a series of disastrous attempts at 
 housekeeping — in Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and England, 
 wherever an impulsive fancy led them. After a few years 
 they found life together intolerable; they separated by 
 mutual consent, and the poor young woman subsequently 
 committed suicide. The whole story of this marriage is 
 obscure; but though Shelley was undoubtedly fooUsh and 
 impractical throughout, there seems no reason to believe 
 that he was any more to blame than she was. 
 
 Her tragic death, however, was a great factor in turn- 
 
Percy Bysshe Shelley xxxlx 
 
 ing public opinion against Shelley. He had already pub- 
 lished a good deal of poetry that was undeniably intended 
 to show his hatred and contempt for the ordinary religion 
 and government of his own day — poetry the wildness of 
 which is only to be excused by its own brilliance and the 
 poet's youth. And besides, he had again eloped, this 
 time with Mary Godwin, another sixteen year old girl, 
 daughter of a philosopher and novehst well known in those 
 days, though now forgotten. It was at this time that he 
 was denied the right to bring up or even to see the chil- 
 dren of his first marriage. Soon after, in anger and dis- 
 gust with England, he fled abroad, and never afterwards 
 returned. 
 
 Practically all his great poetry was written in the next 
 five years. He wandered over Italy, stopping here and 
 there, in Florence, Rome, or Pisa, as his fancy chose, for 
 weeks or months at a time. He met Byron, whose fame 
 as a poet was at that time far greater than Shelley's own; 
 in fact Shelley himself firmly believed Byron to be much 
 the abler man; but the two poets had an excellent in- 
 fluence on each other, Byron learning grace from Shelley, 
 and Shelley perhaps clearness from Byron. At first he was 
 in bad health; later, however, he grew stronger than he had 
 ever been. Most of the time he was happy in spite of his 
 exile, and even in spite of the death of the two children 
 of his second marriage. He was wedded to a woman who 
 passionately loved him and who brought out the best 
 that was in him; he was surrounded by few, but those 
 very dear, friends — and above all he was conscious of 
 being able to do better and nobler work every year. He 
 wrote constantly, sometimes very rapidly — seven or eight 
 long poems, many lyrics, and even a play, which has been 
 called by many critics the finest poetic drama in English 
 
xl Introduction 
 
 since Shakespeare. His verses gradually lost their wild- 
 ness and vagueness, and became at the same time more 
 musical and easier to understand. Perhaps the best 
 known of all, the Adonais, was written the year before 
 Shelley died. It is an elegy, or lament upon the death of 
 John Keats, his fellow-poet. Little if any poetry of the 
 sort has ever surpassed it. 
 The last stanza of the Adonais is as follows: 
 
 "The breath whose might I have invoked in song 
 
 Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven 
 Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng 
 
 Whose sails were never to the tempest given. 
 The massy earth and sphered skies are riven! 
 
 I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar! 
 Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of heaven, 
 
 The soul of Adonais, like a star, 
 Beacons from the abode where the eternal are." 
 
 To call this a prophecy of Shelley's own death would be 
 absurd. Yet in the light of what happened the lines have 
 a strange interest. In the spring and summer of 1822, 
 Shelley was living on the Gulf of Spezzia on the coast of 
 Italy. Hearing that a friend from England, Leigh Hunt, 
 had arrived at Leghorn, fifty miles away, Shelley and a 
 young friend named Williams sailed over to see him. They 
 spent a week at Leghorn, and on July 8, 1822, set out for 
 home. The weather for weeks had been dry and fine; 
 but hardly had they left port when a sudden storm drove 
 down from the hills. A watcher in the lighthouse on shore 
 counted seven sails before the storm struck; half an hour 
 later, when the sun came out again, he saw only six. Shel- 
 ley's vessel had gone down. Afterwards divers found her 
 sunk so quietly in sixty feet of water that not even the 
 cushions of the seats were gone. More than a week 
 
Percy Bysshe Shelley xli 
 
 later the bodies of both Shelley and Williams were cast 
 on shore miles away. By order of the government both 
 were burned; but Shelley's ashes and his heart were 
 saved, and buried in the Httle Roman cemetery near to 
 Keats. 
 
 Concerning many of Shelley's longer poems there is 
 much dispute. They are rightly called vague, obscure; 
 they have been thought, in their passionate protest against 
 society and the accepted order of things, very wrong. 
 But a hundred years has helped them; what in its ow^n day 
 was wild seems less wdld now, and their beauty has not 
 dulled. As for the lyrics, each successive generation has 
 united to praise them. The Skylark, the Ode to the West 
 Wind, The Cloud, and many others, have a music magical, 
 a delicacy almost supernatural, a feeling as strong as it is 
 pure. They sound not as if a man had written them, but 
 as if a bird had sung them. "Ethereal spirit, pilgrim of 
 the sky!" — so Wordsworth described the skylark, and it is 
 Shelley's best description. 
 
 The material of these lyrics, it may be noted, is almost 
 all tinged with melancholy. In such a poem, for example, 
 as The Indian Serenade, where the lover is addressing his 
 mistress, and where we might expect therefore a certain 
 happiness to express itself — even there, melancholy reigns. 
 The Stanzas Written in Dejection are among the saddest 
 in English poetry; the Dirge is as mournful as the cry of 
 a lost child ; even The Cloud and The Skylark have an un- 
 dercurrent of depression. The fact is, Shelley w^as too 
 finely strung ever to be happy. He saw, as we all see, 
 that this world is full of suffering — men, women, and Httle 
 children dying of hunger all around us, and sinking into 
 wretchedness of spirit worse than death. He saw it, as 
 we all see it; but most of us can forget it in other interests, 
 
xlii Introduction 
 
 and Shelley could never forget it. So his most beautiful 
 songs are sad songs. For gaiety, for lightness of spirit, 
 we most turn to Scott, to Moore, to Keats even. But for 
 sheer and sincere pathos, unblunted by sentimentality, 
 these shorter verses of Shelley stand supreme. 
 
 JOHN KEATS 
 
 Life and Works 
 
 John Keats, latest born of the group of poets that dis- 
 tinguished the early years of the nineteenth century, died 
 so young that he may be said hardly to have had a history. 
 He lived less than twenty-six years. It is interesting to 
 compare his career with that of Thomas Carlyle, who was 
 born in the same year with Keats, 1795. Carlyle, by i860, 
 was perhaps the most famous person in the English lit- 
 erature of his day; even now he would probably be voted 
 by most critics the ablest prose writer of his century. 
 Yet if Carlyle had died when Keats died, in 1 821, he would 
 have died unknown. We should not have had even a 
 paragraph in the biographical dictionaries to tell us that 
 he once existed. His only epitaph, his only monument 
 would have been a line on some crude headstone in a for- 
 gotten Scottish cemetery. Of course writers of prose do 
 as a rule develop later than poets do. But if Wordsworth 
 had died at twenty-five, or Coleridge, or Scott, or Tenny- 
 son, or Browning, the world to-day would remember 
 nothing of them. Shelley was drowned at thirty; but he 
 did all his great work in his last five years. Byron per- 
 
John Keats xlili 
 
 ished in the swamps of Missolonghi at thirty-six, but at 
 twenty-five Byron was still a passionate boy, with Httle 
 or nothing written that hinted definitely of immortahty. 
 Perhaps no other writer of English ever achieved such 
 poetic triumph in his first quarter century as Keats did. 
 His early death was for this reason one of the most mourn- 
 ful things that the history of English poetry has known. 
 Keats was a cockney. He was born over a stable in 
 London, of an undistinguished though not a poverty- 
 stricken family. It is said that like many other Londoners 
 of his rank he had difficulty in pronouncing his h's cor- 
 rectly. He was from the first a boy of a strong temper, 
 with a love of fighting that amounted to a passion, — a 
 short, broad-shouldered, fiery lad, quick to resent and 
 quick to forgive. All his short life he was on terms of the 
 closest intimacy with his two younger brothers — George, 
 born two years after John, but bigger and more powerful, 
 and Tom, two years younger still, a frail boy who died 
 of consumption at eighteen. But George Keats has said 
 of John — 'Sve fought fiercely ... we loved, jangled 
 and fought alternately." Another schoolmate wrote: 
 "Keats . . . would fight anyone — morning, noon and 
 night. It was meat and drink to him." In 1818, Keats 
 himself writes — "went to the theater here the other 
 night . . . and got insulted, which I ought to remember 
 to forget to tell anybody; for I did not fight and as yet 
 have had no redress." About the same time he discov- 
 ered a stalwart young butcher tormenting a cat, and in a 
 stand-up fight, by rounds, thrashed him soundly. But 
 the testimony to his pugnacity is far exceeded in amount 
 by the evidence of his charm. "The generosity and dar- 
 ing of his character, with the extreme beauty and anima- 
 tion of his face . . . captivated the boys." "He was not 
 
xliv Introduction 
 
 merely the favorite of all, like a pet prize fighter, for his 
 terrier courage; but his high-mindedness, his utter un- 
 consciousness of a mean motive, his placability, his gen- 
 erosity, wrought so general a feeling in his behalf that I 
 never heard a word of disapproval from anyone, superior 
 or equal, who had known him." When his mother lay 
 dying of consumption the boy of fifteen "would suffer no- 
 body to give her medicine, or even cook her food, but 
 himself." When the younger brother developed the same 
 disease, it was John who nursed, guarded, and encouraged 
 him as long as the boy lived, and who alone was with him 
 as he died. A few months before John Keats himself died, 
 he wrote to a friend concerning Miss Fanny Brawne, the 
 girl he loved — "The thought of leaving Miss Brawne is 
 above everything horrible — the sense of darkness coming 
 over me. ... I can bear to die, I cannot bear to leave 
 her. . . . Everything I have in my trunks that reminds 
 me of her goes through me like a spear. . . . There is 
 nothing in the world of sufficient interest to divert me 
 from her a moment. O that I could be buried near where 
 she lives!" A man who could love so and fight so, had 
 it is plain the emotions of a poet. 
 
 But what of the training that is as essential as emotion 
 to the production of poetry? That training Keats had, 
 too. In fact, the careful education of all great Enghsh 
 poets (except Shakespeare) is one of the most noticeable 
 things about them. Poetry is the expression of deep 
 feeling, but such expression to be effective must be dis- 
 ciplined. From the time he was fourteen Keats read vo- 
 raciously — he even read at his meals when he was a school- 
 boy, eating "from beyond a book." History, philosophy, 
 science, he read whatever came his way; the Greek and 
 Latin classics also he devoured, the Latin in the original, 
 
John Keats xlv 
 
 the Greek in translation. His favorites always, however, 
 were poetry and romance. After he left school he was ad- 
 vised by his guardians to study medicine, and in the old- 
 fashioned way he first served as ofhce-boy and general 
 helper to a physician, and later "walked the hospitals" 
 in London — that is, acted as interne. His fellow-students, 
 who knew his passion for reading and versifying, and the 
 many nights he spent in the study of other than medical 
 works, were surprised when at the end he stood high in 
 his examinations and was licensed as a surgeon. He per- 
 formed various operations creditably; but his dreams and 
 longings invaded the operating-room and terrified him 
 with the fear that he might at some critical moment be- 
 come careless. Perhaps of all men a doctor can least af- 
 ford to think of anything except his work. So Keats de- 
 liberately turned his back on surgery. "My last opera- 
 tion," he said to a friend, "was the opening of a man's 
 temporal artery. I did it with the utmost nicety, but re- 
 flecting on what passed through my mind at the time, my 
 dexterity seemed a miracle and I never took up the lan- 
 cet again." He was hardly twenty-one. He had been al- 
 ready a poet in heart and aspiration for live or six years. 
 Now he turned to poetry as a profession, and in the next 
 three years achieved undying fame. 
 
 Of course he had for some time been writing and circu- 
 lating verses in manuscript among his friends, of whom 
 he had many. The dearest to Keats at this time was 
 Charles Cowden Clarke, son of his old schoolmaster. 
 The best known to us were Shelley (with whom Keats was 
 on friendly terms, though never intimate, or able to for- 
 get the difference in their rank), and Leigh Hunt, a hand- 
 some, black-haired, light-hearted improvident young man, 
 a third rate poet and essayist, but a first rate critic, who is 
 
xlvi Introduction 
 
 now remembered chiefly for the greater men who knew 
 and Uked him, and on whose work and life he exercised a 
 strange influence. Hunt had been prosecuted, and im- 
 prisoned for two years, for no other offense than telling 
 the truth in a newspaper he conducted, about the Prince 
 of Wales. The result was that many of the young men 
 of the time, haters of tyranny and lovers of free speech, 
 w^ere attracted to Hunt and made friends with him. Keats 
 met Hunt at the critical time when surgery was beginning 
 to prove itself an unsafe trade for a born poet. Hunt 
 read the young doctor's verses and encouraged him heart- 
 ily to go on writing, and published for him his first printed 
 poem. They read together, wrote sonnets (in a kind of 
 friendly competition) on the same subjects, and became 
 known to the other literary men of the day as intimates. 
 Keats's first volume of poems was brought out in 1817. 
 Like the Lyrical Ballads of nineteen years before, it fell 
 flat. But no one knew better than Keats himself that 
 it was faulty. "As to what you say about my being a 
 poet, I can return no answer but by saying that the high 
 idea I have of poetical fame makes me think I see it tower- 
 ing too high above me. At any rate I have no right to 
 talk until Endymion is finished." Endymion was the long 
 poem upon which he immediately set to work after his 
 first volume appeared. He wrote with the greatest stead- 
 iness. ''He sat down to his task, which was about fifty 
 lines a day, with his paper before him, and wTote with as 
 much regularity and apparent ease as he wrote his let- 
 ters." He tells a friend, "I find I cannot exist without 
 Poetry — without eternal Poetry; I began with a Httle, 
 but habit has made me a leviathan. I had become all in 
 a tremble from not having written anything of late; the 
 sonnet overleaf did me good; I slept the better last night 
 
John Keats xlvii 
 
 for it; this morning, however, I am nearly as bad again." 
 Yet when Endymion was published, Keats said in the 
 preface that the poem contained "great inexperience, im- 
 maturity, and every error denoting a feverish attempt 
 rather than a deed accomplished. ... It is just that this 
 youngster should die away; a sad thought for me, if I 
 had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be 
 plotting and fitting myself for verses fit to live." Such 
 w^ords, though modest, indicate, however, no despondency. 
 Keats w^as confident, at this time, of his own powers. 
 ''I think," he said, ''I shall be among the English poets 
 when I die." He was right. But he might well have de- 
 spaired if he had known how soon that death w^as coming. 
 Endymion, like the shorter poems, made no sensation. 
 It gave a chance, however, for the publication in a maga- 
 zine called the Quarterly Review of a criticism so harsh 
 and brutal that for years the legend was that it had 
 ' ' killed Keats. ' ' Byron wrote in Don Juan, 
 
 "John Keats, who was killed off by one critique, 
 Just as he really promised something great . . . 
 Poor fellow, his was an untoward fate; 
 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle. 
 Should let itself be snuffed out by an article." 
 
 And Shelley based on this idea his elegy on Keats, Adonais, 
 the most splendidly colored of all Shelley's vivid poems. 
 We know now, since the publication of Keats's letters, 
 how little the review really affected him. "The attempt 
 to crush me in the Quarterly has only brought me more 
 into notice, and it is a common expression among book- 
 men, 'I wonder the Quarterly should cut its own throat.' " 
 The real reason for the savageness of the review (which 
 called the poet contemptuously "Johnny Keats," and or- 
 
xlviii Introduction 
 
 dered him "back to the shop, Mr. John, stick to plasters, 
 pills," etc.) was not the badness of Endymion, but the 
 fact that Leigh Hunt and Keats were friends. For the 
 Quarterly was as much a political paper as a literary; it 
 hated Hunt's opinions, and therefore it abused his friends. 
 The review was brutal, the man who wrote it was a cad, 
 but since it indirectly inspired Adonais, who can regret 
 it now? 
 
 This review appeared in September, 1818. What gave 
 rise to the story that it killed Keats was the undoubted 
 fact that after that autumn of 18 18 Keats's health failed 
 steadily. He had spent part of the summer in a walking- 
 tour in Scotland, roughing it in the rain. The exposure 
 was too much for him; it stirred in him the seeds of con- 
 sumption, of which his mother had already died and his 
 brother Tom was dying. Close attendance on this brother 
 all through the early winter of that year, made matters 
 worse. "I live now," he wTote, *'in a continual fever. It 
 must be poisonous to life." Tom's death saddened while 
 it made Keats's days easier. The torture of a passionate 
 love affair with Miss Brawne began, too, about this time — 
 torture, because almost no sooner had he learned the 
 strength of his feeling for her, than, medically trained as 
 he was, he suspected also that he was doomed. His final 
 confession to himself of the truth we have in the words 
 of his friend Charles Brown: 
 
 "One night ... he came into the house in a state 
 that . . . was fearful. He . . . instantly yielded to my 
 request that he should go to bed. I followed with the 
 best immediate remedy in my power. . . . Before his 
 head was on the pillow, he slightly coughed, and I heard 
 him say, 'That is blood from my mouth.' I went towards 
 him; he was examining a single drop of blood upon the 
 
John Keats xllx 
 
 sheet. 'Bring me the candle, Brown, and let me see this 
 blood.' After regarding it steadfastly he looked up in my 
 face with a calmness of countenance that I can never 
 forget, and said, 'I know the color of that blood — it is 
 arterial blood — I cannot be deceived in that color — that 
 drop of blood is my death warrant — I must die! ' " This 
 was in February, 1820; and a year later, February, 182 1, 
 he was dead. 
 
 The history of that last year is all of misery. The disease 
 grew quickly worse. He could do no work, except to re- 
 vise the proofs of his last volume of poems, w^hich was 
 published in July, 1820; he spent his days ''lying on a 
 white bed, with white quilt and white sheets; the only 
 color . . . the hectic flush of his cheeks." In Septem- 
 ber, as a last desperate chance, he sailed for Italy; after 
 a few weeks in Naples, drove the two hundred miles to 
 Rome, and there settled down to die.' '' I feel the flowers 
 growing over me," he said, and he used to ask the doctor, 
 "When will this posthumous life of mine come to an 
 end?" It ended February it,, 1821. His friend Joseph 
 Severn w^as with him all the while. They were almost 
 the same age. It is strange to remember that Severn 
 died also in Rome, fifty-eight years later! The house in 
 which Keats died was recently bought by an association 
 of EngUsh and American lovers of poetry, and is now 
 kept up as a memorial of the poet, and of Shelley. The 
 tw^o, who died within eighteen months of each other, are 
 buried in the English cemetery at Rome — ''a light of 
 laughing flowers above their graves is spread." 
 
 Compared with the amount of poetry that Wordsworth, 
 Byron, SheUey, Tennyson, or Browning wrote, Keats's 
 total production is very slight. It may all be put into one 
 small volume; But even one or two poems, as in Gray's 
 
1 Introduction 
 
 case, are sometimes sufficient to ensure fame, and Keats 
 wrote enough to make the wonderful nature of his powers 
 clear. The longest poem, Endymion, though it contains 
 many beautiful passages, he was right in thinking imma- 
 ture. The next longest, Hyperion, he never finished. 
 Other extended efforts, Isabella and Lamia, are well 
 known, but not quite of the first rank. His finest achieve- 
 ments were The Eve of St. Agnes, half a dozen splendid 
 sonnets, the little ballad called La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 
 and the famous group of odes — to Autumn, to Indolence, 
 to Melancholy, to a Nightingale, and on a Grecian Urn. 
 For vividness of color, beauty of figure, and witchery of 
 melody, it would be hard if not impossible to find any lines 
 in EngHsh poetry to equal his. "The silver snarling 
 trumpets 'gan to chide," "And still she slept an azure- 
 lidded sleep," "Its little smoke in pallid moonshine 
 died," "From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon," 
 "Beaded bubbles wdnking at the brim," "Forever wilt 
 thou love and she be fair"— there is about all these, 
 whether elaborately worked like the first or simplified 
 almost to monosyllables like the last, a marvelous fasci- 
 nation to the ear — a fascination that rises to its greatest 
 height, perhaps, in two lines from the Ode to a Nightin- 
 gale — 
 
 "Charm'd magic casements opening on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn." 
 
 Critics have called Keats's poetry "sensuous," that is, 
 concerned with things that delight the senses, like odors 
 and flavors and sounds, rather than with what delights 
 the mind and the spirit. Some of it is sensuous, frankly 
 so. Keats was attracted by physical sensations. The 
 story goes, for instance, that on one occasion he covered 
 
John Keats li 
 
 his tongue with cayenne pepper, to thrill with the fiery 
 torment of the smart. His imagination played with rich 
 colors and poignant perfumes and sweet sounds. But if 
 such had been his only material, his work must have 
 died. He goes far beyond physical sensations in such 
 lines as these from the Grecian Urn: — 
 
 "Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
 As doth eternity! Cold Pastoral! 
 When old age shall this generation waste 
 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
 Than ours, a friend to man"; 
 
 or these again from the Nightingale: — 
 
 "Quite forget 
 What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
 The weariness, the fever and the fret 
 Here, where men sit and hear each other groan." 
 
 His one attempt at the ballad form. La Belle Dame Sans 
 Merci, is as striking a success in its simplicity as the Odes 
 are in their richness. It is hardly a story, rather a picture 
 of a knight whom love has enchanted to his ruin. It may 
 be that while he was writing it Keats was thinking of his 
 own wild passion and the beginning of his own sad end. 
 At all events the poem equals anything of Coleridge on 
 Coleridge's own ground — the supernatural. 
 
 What heights would Keats have reached had his strength 
 not failed him? No one can tell, of course. He might 
 have thrown away his powers like Coleridge, or lost the 
 gift of melody, like Wordsworth; but this it is hard to 
 believe. The faults of his poetry are boyish faults, faults 
 of judgment and taste, faults which it seems likely he 
 would have altogether outgrown. The charm of it is in 
 spite of these things. Shakespeare as a young poet had 
 
Hi Introduction 
 
 precisely the same faults. At his best, and free from these 
 faults, Keats showed a splendor of picture-making imag- 
 ination far more striking than Shakespeare or Milton pos- 
 sessed at twenty-five. Had he lived to be as old as they, 
 he might perhaps have become the greatest poet in the 
 EngHsh language. 
 
 VI 
 THE LESSER POETS 
 
 Biographical Sketches 
 
 Sketches have been already given of the four early nine- 
 teenth century poets who are commonly called the great- 
 est of their time. But, as is always true, the great poets 
 were not the only ones who wrote beautiful poetry; many 
 others occasionally rose to splendid verse. A httle of 
 this verse, either for its own sake alone, or because it is 
 well known, has been added here. A word or two about 
 its writers wdll be in place. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott (177 2-1 83 2) was the most famous of 
 the lesser poets. In fact, in his own day, he was far more 
 famous than any of the four who have already been dis- 
 cussed. His poetry, romantic, picturesque, and full of 
 adventure, suited nearly everybody, though Scott said 
 himself, half -seriously, that boys and soldiers were partic- 
 ularly fond of it. There is a story which illustrates his 
 point. In 1808, when the English were fighting Napoleon 
 in Spain, a company of soldiers was lying partly exposed 
 under fire. To keep the men steady one of the officers 
 read aloud the story of the battle from The Lady of the 
 
The Lesser Poets liii 
 
 Lake, then a new work; and the soldiers lay still, only 
 now and then interrupting the reader with cheers. 
 
 Scott was born in Edinburgh in 1772. He studied law, 
 but was chiefly interested in history and the Scottish 
 legends. He began his real career as a poet when he was 
 about thirty-five years old, and went on with it ten years. 
 Then he left verse-making and turned to novel-writing, 
 which he kept up constantly for the rest of his Hfe. For 
 his services to literature he was made a baronet in 1820. 
 Out of both his poems and his novels he made a great 
 deal of money ; but he became involved in the bankruptcy 
 of a firm of publishers, which left him $400,000 in debt. 
 The debt he paid off finally, but the struggle wore him 
 out and killed him. Scott was one of the most friendly, 
 generous, loyal men who ever wrote English, and in his 
 own time he was perhaps of all authors the best-loved. 
 
 Thomas Camphell (177 7-1 844), Thomas Moore (1779- 
 1852) and Thomas Hood (i 799-1845) were also men of 
 reputation in their own day, though of nothing like the 
 popularity of Scott. Campbell is remembered for his 
 patriotic and martial verse — Ye Mariners of England is a 
 famous national song. Moore w^as an Irishman, a true 
 song-wTiter ; many of his poems, such as Oft in the Stilly 
 Night, The Last Rose of Summer, and The Harp that Once 
 Through Tara's Halls are best known with their musical 
 settings. His longest poem, very popular in its own day, 
 is Lalla Rookh. Hood was chiefly a humorist — a man 
 something like, in spirit, our own Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
 never too comical to be unsympathetic. 
 
 Charles Lamb (i 775-1834) was the most brilliant essay- 
 ist of his day. He is better known for his prose than for 
 his poetry. Adopting the nom de plume of ''Elia," he 
 wrote scores of papers, intimate and whimsical, w^hich 
 
liv Introduction 
 
 have as much charm for the ordinary reader now, as they 
 had a hundred years ago. Of the poems given here The 
 Old Familiar Faces is perhaps the only one, however 
 (though he wrote many), which is still widely read. 
 
 Allan Cunningham (i 784-1842) was a Scotchman, a 
 poet and prose-writer, who did a great deal of magazine 
 work, but like Wolfe is famous for one poem, the song 
 here given. 
 
 Rev. Charles Wolfe (1791-1823) is also a poet of a single 
 production, The Burial of Sir John Moore. Not great 
 poetry, it has something about it nevertheless, quick, pa- 
 thetic, and simple, which has kept it fresh in every one's 
 memory. Sir John Moore, an English general, was killed 
 in 1809, while leading the English against the French, 
 near Corunna, in Spain. His death stirred up some feel- 
 ing in England, because he was thought to have been sac- 
 rificed to government policy. Seven years later, Charles 
 Wolfe, a young Irish clergyman, happening to read an 
 account of Moore's death, scribbled off the famous lines 
 in a friend's room. Later, when they were published, they 
 were at first attributed to Byron, who declared that "he 
 wished he had done them." Others since then have 
 claimed the honor of their authorship, but there is no 
 doubt that they belong to Wolfe. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 WORDSWORTH 
 
 The most satisfactory edition of the poetical works of Words- 
 worth, for the ordinary reader, is that published in one volume 
 by the Macmillan Company. A m.uch larger and complete 
 edition is that of W. Knight, in eight volumes. Knight's 
 William Wordsworth, in three volumes, is also the standard 
 biography. But the short life of Wordsworth by F. W. H. 
 Myers in the English Men of Letters Series is excellent. An 
 admirable criticism without biographical details is Raleigh's 
 Wordsworth. Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, and Coleridge's 
 Biographia Literaria, chaps. IV, V, XIV, XVII, XIX, XX, and 
 XXII, are of great interest, the first in the hght it throws on 
 Wordsworth's own experience, the second as explanatory of 
 his theory of poetic material and diction. Perhaps the best 
 essays on Wordsworth are those of Matthew Arnold {Essays 
 in Criticism, Second Series); Sir Leslie Stephen {Hours in a 
 Library, vol. I); and Walter Bagehot {Wordsworth, Tennyson 
 and Browning; Literary Studies, vol. II) . Two poems addressed 
 to Wordsworth (Watson: Wordsworth's Grave; and Shelley: 
 Sonnet to Wordsworth) are interesting. 
 
 COLERIDGE 
 
 The Globe edition (Macmillan) of Coleridge's poems, in one 
 volume, is the most convenient. Campbell's life {Samuel 
 Taylor Coleridge: a Narrative of the Events of his Life) is the 
 fullest biography. H. D. Traill's Coleridge, in the English 
 Men of Letters, is not extremely successful, but is compact and 
 
 Iv 
 
Ivi Descriptive Bibliography 
 
 simple. Admirable sketches of the poet are to be found by 
 Coleridge himself {Biographia Literaria, chap. X), by HazHtt 
 {My First Acquaintance with Poets) and by Carlyle {Life of 
 Sterling, chap. V). Lamb's essay {Christ's Hospital Five and 
 Thirty Years Ago) should be read if possible. Essays by Walter 
 Pater (in Appreciations), by J. R. Lowell, and by Swinburne 
 (in Essays and Studies) are the best among a multitude. 
 
 SHELLEY 
 
 Of the works of Shelley, the most convenient editions are 
 the Globe (Macmillan Company, i vol.) and the Cambridge 
 (Houghton Mifflin Company, i vol.). The standard large 
 edition is that of H. B. Forman, in eight volumes, with com- 
 plete variorum readings. The standard biography is by Ed- 
 ward Dowden, Life of Shelley. Shorter but more agreeable is 
 J. A. Symonds' Shelley in English Men of Letters. The per- 
 sonal recollections of T. J. Hogg {Life of Shelley) and of E. J. 
 Trelawney {Recollections of Shelley and Byron) are more vivid 
 and human than the later works. The Real Shelley by J. C. 
 Jeafifreson is savage and untrustworthy, but expresses a point 
 of view held by many. Among the critical essays upon Shel- 
 ley the most readable are Bagehot's (in Literary Studies), 
 Andrew Lang's (in Letters to Dead Authors), Matthew Arnold's 
 (in Essays in Criticism, Second Series) and G. E. Woodberry's 
 (in Makers of Literature) . Robert Browning has also an essay 
 on Shelley valuable as a study of one great poet by another. 
 
 KEATS 
 
 The best edition of Keats's works is by H. B. Forman, in four 
 volumes. The Globe edition is the best in one volume. Two 
 good brief biographies are those of Colvin {English Men of 
 Letters) and William Rossetti {Great Writers' Series). There 
 is no such free and detailed biography as we have of Words- 
 
Descriptive Bibliography hii 
 
 worth or Shelley. Neither are the essays in criticism of Keats 
 so good as those on other poets. Arnold's (Essays in Criticism, 
 Second Series) is hardly fair; Swinburne's (Miscellanies) is 
 perhaps overdone; as good as any, possibly, is J. R. Lowell's 
 (Prose Works, vol. I). Shelley's great Elegy (Adonais) is based 
 on a misapprehension of the facts of Keats's illness. Leigh 
 Hunt's memories of Keats (in Lord Byron and Some of his 
 Contemporaries), and in his Autobiography are interesting but 
 fragmentary and not altogether rehable. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
POEMS OF WORDSWORTH 
 
 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 
 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when dayhght appears, 
 Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: 
 Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard 
 In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 
 
 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 5 
 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; 
 
 Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide. 
 
 And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 
 
 Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale 
 
 Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail; 10 
 
 And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
 
 The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 
 
 She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, 
 
 The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; 
 
 The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 15 
 
 And the colors have all pass'd away from her eyes! 
 
 SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
 Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall, 
 An old man dwells, a little man, — ■ 
 'T is said he once was tall. 
 3 
 
William Wordsworth 
 
 Full five-and-thirty years he lived s 
 
 A running huntsman merry; 
 And still the center of his cheek 
 Is red as a ripe cherr3^ 
 
 No man like him the horn could sound, 
 
 And hill and valley rang with glee, lo 
 
 When Echo bandied, round and round, 
 
 The halloo of Simon Lee. 
 
 In those proud days he little cared 
 
 For husbandry or tillage; 
 
 To blither tasks did Simon rouse 15 
 
 The sleepers of the village. 
 
 He all the country could outrun, 
 
 Could leave both man and horse behind ; 
 
 And often, ere the chase was done, 
 
 He reel'd and was stone-blind. 20 
 
 And still there 's something in the world 
 
 At which his heart rejoices; 
 
 For when the chiming hounds are out, 
 
 He dearly loves their voices. 
 
 But oh the heavy change! — bereft 25 
 
 Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see! 
 
 Old Simon to the world is left 
 
 In liveried poverty: — 
 
 His master 's dead, and no one now 
 
 Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 30 
 
 Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 
 
 He is the sole survivor. 
 
 And he is lean and he is sick. 
 
 His body, dwindled and awry, 
 
 Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35 
 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 
Simon Lee the Old Huntsman 5 
 
 One prop he has, and only one, — 
 
 His wife, an aged woman, 
 
 Lives with him, near the waterfall, 
 
 Upon the village common. 40 
 
 Beside their moss-grown hut of clay. 
 
 Not twenty paces from the door, 
 
 A scrap of land they have, but they 
 
 Are poorest of the poor. 
 
 This scrap of land he from the heath 45 
 
 Enclosed when he was stronger; 
 
 But what to them avails the land 
 
 Which he can till no longer? 
 
 Oft, working by her husband's side, 
 
 Ruth docs what Simon cannot do; 50 
 
 For she, with scanty cause for pride, 
 
 Is stouter of the two. 
 
 And, though you with your utmost skill 
 
 From labor could not wean them, 
 
 'T is little, very Httle, all 55 
 
 That they can do between them. 
 
 Few months of life has he in store 
 
 As he to you will tell. 
 
 For still, the more he works, the moi ; 
 
 Do his weak ankles swell. 60 
 
 My gentle Reader, I perceive 
 
 How patiently you Ve waited. 
 
 And now I fear that you expect 
 
 Some tale will be related. 
 
 O Reader! had you in your mind 65 
 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 gentle Reader! you would find 
 A tale in every thing. 
 
William Wordsworth 
 
 What more I have to say is short, 
 
 And you must kindly take it : 70 
 
 It is no tale; but, should you think, 
 
 Perhaps a tale you '11 make it. 
 
 One summer-day I chanced to see 
 
 This old Man doing all he could 
 
 To unearth the root of an old tree, 75 
 
 A stump of rotten wood. 
 
 The mattock totter'd in his hand; 
 
 So vain was his endeavor 
 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 
 He might have work'd for ever. 80 
 
 You 're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, 
 
 Give me your tool," to him I said; 
 
 And at the word right gladly he 
 
 Received my proffer'd aid. 
 
 I struck, and with a single blow 85 
 
 The tangled root I sever 'd, 
 
 At which the poor old man so long 
 
 And vainly had endeavor'd. 
 
 The tears into his eyes were brought, 
 
 And thanks and praises seem'd to run 90 
 
 So fast out of his heart, I thought 
 
 They never would have done. 
 
 — I Ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deed 
 
 With coldness still returning; 
 
 Alas! the gratitude of men 95 
 
 Hath oftener left me mourning. 
 
Lines Written in Early Spring 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 
 
 I HEARD a thousand blended notes 
 While in a grove I sate reclined, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature Hnk 5 
 
 The human soul that through me ran; 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What Man has made of Man. 
 
 Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, 
 
 The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths; 10 
 
 And 't is my faith that every flower 
 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 The birds around me hopp'd and play'd. 
 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure, — 
 
 But the least motion which they made 15 
 
 It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan 
 
 To catch the breezy air; 
 
 And I must think, do all I can, 
 
 That there was pleasure there. 20 
 
 If this belief from heaven be sent, 
 If such be Nature's holy plan. 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What Man has made of Man? 
 
William Wordsworth 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 
 
 We walk'd along, while bright and red 
 Uprose the morning sun; 
 And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said 
 ' The will of God be done!" 
 
 A village schoolmaster was he, 5 
 
 With hair of glittering gray; 
 
 As blithe a man as you could see 
 
 On a spring holiday. 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass 
 
 And by the steaming rills 10 
 
 We travel'd merrily, to pass 
 
 A day among the hills. 
 
 Our work," said I, " was well begun; 
 
 Then, from thy breast what thought, 
 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun, 15 
 
 So sad a sigh has brought?" 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop; 
 
 And fixing still his eye 
 
 Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
 
 To me he made reply: 20 
 
 ■ Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind 
 A day like this, which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
 ' And just above yon slope of corn 25 
 
 Such colors, and no other, 
 Were in the sky that April morn, 
 Of this the very brother. 
 
The Two April Mornings 9 
 
 " With rod and line I sued the sport 
 Which that sweet season gave, 30 
 
 And to the churchyard come, stopp'd short 
 Beside my daughter's grave. 
 
 " Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
 The pride of all the vale; 
 
 And then she sang, — she would have been 35 
 
 A very nightingale. 
 
 " Six feet in earth my Emma lay; 
 And yet I loved her more — 
 For so it seem'd, — than till that day 
 I e'er had loved before. 40 
 
 " And turning from her grave, I met, 
 Beside the churchyard yew, 
 A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
 With points of morning dew. 
 
 " A basket on her head she bare; 45 
 
 Her brow was smooth and white : 
 To see a child so very fair. 
 It was a pure delight! 
 
 '' No fountain from its rocky cave 
 E'er tripped with foot so free ; 50 
 
 She seem'd as happy as a wave 
 That dances on the sea. 
 
 " There came from me a sigh of pain 
 Which I could ill confine; 
 
 I look'd at her, and look'd again: 55 
 
 And did not wish her mine!" 
 
 — Matthew is in his grave, yet now 
 
 Methinks I see him stand 
 
 As at that moment, with a bough 
 
 Of wilding in his hand. 60 
 
lO William Wordsworth 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN 
 
 A CONVERSATION 
 
 We talk'd with open heart, and tongue 
 Affectionate and true, 
 A pair of friends, though I was young, 
 And Matthew seventy-two. 
 
 We lay beneath a spreading oak, $ 
 
 Beside a mossy seat; 
 
 And from the turf a fountain broke 
 
 And gurgled at our feet. 
 
 Now, Matthew!" said I, " let us match 
 
 This water's pleasant tune lo 
 
 With some old border-song, or catch 
 
 That suits a summer's noon; 
 
 Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
 
 Sing here beneath the shade 
 
 That half-mad thing of witty rimes 15 
 
 Which you last April made!" 
 
 In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 
 The spring beneath the tree; 
 
 And thus the dear old man replied, 
 
 The gray-hair'd man of glee : 20 
 
 No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears, 
 How merrily it goes! 
 'T will murmur on a thousand years 
 And flow as now it flows. 
 
The Fountain il 
 
 " And here, on this delightful day, 25 
 
 I cannot choose but think 
 How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
 Beside this fountain's brink. 
 
 " My eyes are dim with childish tears. 
 My heart is idly stirr'd, 30 
 
 For the same sound is in my ears 
 Which in those days I heard. 
 
 " Thus fares it still in our decay: 
 And yet the wiser mind 
 
 Mourns less for what Age takes away, 35 
 
 Than what it leaves behind. 
 
 " The blackbird amid leafy trees. 
 The lark above the hill. 
 Let loose their carols when they please, 
 Are quiet when they will. 40 
 
 " With Nature never do they wage 
 A fooHsh strife; they see 
 A happy youth, and their old age 
 Is beautiful and free: 
 
 " But we are press'd by heavy laws; 45 
 
 And often, glad no more. 
 We wear a face of joy, because 
 We have been glad of yore. 
 
 " If there be one who need bemoan 
 His kindred laid in earth, 50 
 
 The household hearts that were his own, — 
 It is the man of mirth. 
 
12 William Wordsworth 
 
 " My days, my friend, are almost gone," 
 My life has been approved, 
 
 And many love me; but by none 55 
 
 Am I enough beloved." 
 
 " Now both himself and me he wrongs, 
 The man who thus complains! 
 I live and sing my idle songs 
 Upon these happy plains: 60 
 
 " And Matthew, for thy children dead 
 r '11 be a son to thee! " 
 At this he grasp'd my hand and said, 
 
 " Alas! that cannot be." 
 
 — We rose up from the fountain-side; 65 
 
 And down the smooth descent 
 
 Of the green sheep-track did we glide; 
 
 And through the ^^•ood we went; 
 
 And ere we came to Leonard's rock 
 
 He sang those witty rimes 70 
 
 About the crazy old church-clock, 
 
 And the bewilder'd chimes. 
 
 SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove; 
 A maid whom there were none to praise. 
 
 And very few to love. 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 
 Half-hidden from the eye! 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
The Education of Nature 13 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be; 10 
 
 But she is in her grave, and oh, 
 The difference to me! 
 
 / TRAVELD AMONG UNKNOWN MEN 
 
 I travel'd among unknown men 
 
 In lands beyond the sea; 
 Nor, England! did I know till then 
 
 What love I bore to thee. 
 
 "r is past, that melancholy dream! 5 
 
 Xor will I quit thy shore 
 A second time; for still I seem 
 
 To love thee more and more. 
 
 Among thy mountains did I feel 
 
 The joy of my desire; 10 
 
 And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel 
 
 Beside an English fire. 
 
 Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd 
 
 The bowers where Lucy play 'd ; 
 And thine too is the last green field 15 
 
 That Lucy's eyes survey'd. 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF NATURE 
 
 Three years she grew- in sun and shower; 
 
 Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 
 
 On earth was never sown: 
 
 This Child I to myself will take; 
 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 
 A lady of my own. 
 
14 William Wordsworth 
 
 " Myself will to my darling be 
 Both law and impulse: and with me 
 The girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, lO 
 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 " She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs; 15 
 
 And her's shall be the breathing balm, 
 And her's the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 " The floating clouds their state shall lend 
 To her; for her the willow bend; 20 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 Ev'n in the motions of the storm 
 Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 " The stars of midnight shall be dear 25 
 
 To her; and she shall lean her ear 
 In many a secret place 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 Shall pass into her face. 30 
 
 " And vital feehngs of delight 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 Her virgin bosom swell ; 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 While she and I together live 35 
 
 Here in this happy dell." 
 
Lucy Gray 15 
 
 Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 40 
 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 
 
 A SLUMBER did my spirit seal; 
 
 I had no human fears: 
 She seem'd a thing that could not feel 
 
 The touch of earthly years. 
 
 No motion has she now, no force; 
 
 She neither hears nor sees; 
 RoU'd round in earth's diurnal course 
 
 With rocks, and stones, and trees. 
 
 LUCY GRAY 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: 
 And when I cross'd the wild, 
 I chanced to see at break of day 
 The solitary child. 
 
 No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 
 She dwelt on a wide moor. 
 The sweetest thing that ever grew 
 Beside a human door! 
 
 You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
 The hare upon the green; 
 But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
 Will never more be seen. 
 
i6 William Wordsworth 
 
 " To-night will be a stormy nightT^ 
 You to the town must go; 
 
 And take a lantern, Child, to light 15 
 
 Your mother through the snow." 
 
 " That, Father! will I gladly do: 
 'T is scarcely afternoon — 
 The minster-clock has just struck two, 
 And yonder is the moon!" 20 
 
 At this the father raised his hook. 
 And snapp'd a faggot-band; 
 He plied his work; — and Lucy took 
 The lantern in her hand. 
 
 Not blither is the mountain roe: 25 
 
 With many a wanton stroke 
 
 Her feet disperse the powdery snow. 
 
 That rises up like smoke. 
 
 The storm came on before its time: 
 
 She wander'd up and down; 30 
 
 And many a hill did Lucy chmb: 
 
 But never reach 'd the town. 
 
 The wretched parents all that night 
 
 Went shouting far and wide; 
 
 But there was neither sound nor sight 35 
 
 To serve them for a guide. 
 
 At day-break on a hill they stood 
 
 That overlooked the moor; 
 
 And thence they saw the bridge of wood 
 
 A furlong from their door. 40 
 
Lucy Gray 17 
 
 They wept — and, turning homeward, cried 
 In heaven we all shall meet!" 
 — When in the snow the mother spied 
 The print of Lucy's feet. 
 
 Then downward from the steep hill's edge 45 
 
 They track'd the footmarks small; 
 
 And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
 
 And by the long stone wall: 
 
 And then an open field they cross'd: 
 
 The marks were still the same; 50 
 
 They track'd them on, nor ever lost; 
 
 And to the bridge they came: 
 
 They followed from the snowy bank 
 
 Those footmarks, one by one, 
 
 Into the middle of the plank; 55 
 
 And further there were none I 
 
 — Yet some maintain that to this day 
 
 She is a living child; 
 
 That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 
 Upon the lonesome wild. 60 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
 And never looks behind; 
 And sing a solitary song 
 That whistles in the wind. 
 
1 8 William Wordsworth 
 
 RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate 
 
 Her father took another mate; 
 
 And Ruth, not seven years old, 
 
 A slighted child, at her own will 
 
 Went wandering over dale and hill, 5 
 
 In thoughtless freedom, bold. 
 
 And she had made a pipe of straw, 
 
 And music from that pipe could draw 
 
 Like sounds of winds and floods; 
 
 Had built a bower upon the green, 10 
 
 As if she from her birth had been 
 
 An infant of the woods. 
 
 Beneath her father's roof, alone 
 
 She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own; 
 
 Herself her own delight: 15 
 
 Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay; 
 
 And passing thus the live-long day. 
 
 She grew to woman's height. 
 
 There came a youth from Georgia's shore — 
 
 A military casque he wore 20 
 
 With splendid feathers drest; 
 
 He brought them from the Cherokees; 
 
 The feathers nodded in the breeze 
 
 And made a gallant crest. 
 
 From Indian blood you deem him sprung: 25 
 
 But no! he spake the EngHsh tongue 
 
 And bore a soldier's name; 
 
 And, when America was free 
 
 From battle and from jeopardy, 
 
 He 'cross the ocean came. 30 
 
Ruth: or the Influences of Nature 19 
 
 With hues of genius on his cheek, 
 
 In finest tones the youth could speak: 
 
 — While he was yet a boy 
 
 The moon, the glory of the sun, 
 
 And streams that murmur as they run 35 
 
 Had been his dearest joy. 
 
 He was a lovely youth! I guess 
 
 The panther in the wilderness 
 
 Was not so fair as he; 
 
 And when he chose to sport and play, 40 
 
 No dolphin ever was so gay 
 
 Upon the tropic sea. 
 
 Among the Indians he had fought ; 
 
 And with him many tales he brought 
 
 Of pleasure and of fear; 45 
 
 Such tales as, told to any maid 
 
 By such a youth, in the green shade. 
 
 Were perilous to hear. 
 
 He told of girls, a happy rout! 
 
 Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 50 
 
 Their pleasant Indian town, 
 
 To gather strawberries all day long; 
 
 Returning with a choral song 
 
 When daylight is gone down. 
 
 He spake of plants that hourly change 55 
 
 Their blossoms, through a boundless range 
 
 Of intermingling hues; 
 
 With budding, fading, faded flowers. 
 
 They stand the wonder of the bowers 
 
 From morn to evening dews. 60 
 
 He told of the magnolia, spread 
 High as a cloud, high over head! 
 The cypress and her spire; 
 
20 William Wordsworth 
 
 — Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
 
 Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 65 
 
 To set the hills on fire. 
 
 The youth of green savannahs spake, 
 
 And many an endless, endless lake 
 
 With all its fairy crowds 
 
 Of islands, that together lie 70 
 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 
 Among the evening clouds. 
 
 " How pleasant," then he said, " it were 
 A fisher or a hunter there, 
 
 In sunshine or in shade 75 
 
 To wander with an easy mind, 
 And build a household fire, and find 
 A home in every glade! 
 
 " What days and what bright years! Ah me! 
 Our life were life indeed, with thee 80 
 
 So pass'd in quiet bliss; 
 And all the while," said he, " to know 
 That we were in a world of woe, 
 On such an earth as this!" 
 
 And then he sometimes interwove 85 
 
 Fond thoughts about a father's love. 
 " For there," said he, " are spun 
 Around the heart such tender ties, 
 That our own children to our eyes 
 Are dearer than the sun. 90 
 
 " Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me 
 My helpmate in the woods to be. 
 Our shed at night to rear; 
 
Ruth: or the Influences of Nature 
 
 21 
 
 Or run, my own adopted bride, 
 
 A sylvan huntress at my side, 95 
 
 And drive the flying deer! 
 
 " Beloved Ruth!" — No more he said. 
 The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
 A solitary tear: 
 
 She thought again — and did agree 100 
 
 With him to sail across the sea, 
 And drive the flying deer. 
 
 " And now, as fitting is and right, 
 We in the church our faith will plight, 
 A husband and a wife." 105 
 
 Even so they did; and I may say 
 That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
 Was more than human life. 
 
 Through dream and vision did she sink, 
 
 Delighted all the while to think 110 
 
 That, on those lonesome floods 
 
 And green savannahs, she should share 
 
 His board with lawful joy, and bear 
 
 His name in the wild woods. 
 
 But, as you have before been told, 115 
 
 This Striphng, sportive, gay, and bold, 
 
 And with his dancing crest 
 
 So beautiful, through savage lands 
 
 Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands 
 
 Of Indians in the West. 120 
 
 The wind, the tempest roaring high. 
 The tumult of a tropic sky 
 Might well be dangerous food 
 
22 William Wordsworth 
 
 For him, a youth to whom was given 
 
 So much of earth — so much of heaven, 125 
 
 And such impetuous blood. 
 
 Whatever in those cHmes he found 
 
 Irregular in sight and sound 
 
 Did to his mind impart 
 
 A kindred impulse, seem'd allied 130 
 
 To his own powers, and justified 
 
 The workings of his heart. 
 
 Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought. 
 
 The beauteous forms of Nature wrought, — 
 
 Fair trees and gorgeous flowers; 135 
 
 The breezes their own languor lent ; 
 
 The stars had feelings, which they sent 
 
 Into those favor'd bowers. 
 
 Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
 
 That sometimes there did intervene 140 
 
 Pure hopes of high intent: 
 
 For passions link'd to forms so fair 
 
 And stately, needs must have their share 
 
 Of noble sentiment. 
 
 But ill he lived, much evil saw, 145 
 
 With men to whom no better law 
 
 Nor better Hfe was known ; 
 
 Deliberately and undeceived 
 
 Those wild men's vices he received. 
 
 And gave them back his own. 150 
 
 His genius and his moral frame 
 Were thus impair'd, and he became 
 The slave of low desires: 
 
Ruth: or the Influences of Nature 23 
 
 A man who without self-control 
 
 Would seek what the degraded soul 155 
 
 Unworthily admires. 
 
 And yet he with no feign'd delight 
 
 Had woo'd the maiden, day and night 
 
 Had loved her, night and morn ; 
 
 What could he less than love a maid 160 
 
 Whose heart with so much nature play'd — 
 
 So kind and so forlorn? 
 
 Sometimes most earnestly he said, 
 " O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; 
 False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain 165 
 
 Encompass 'd me on every side 
 When I, in confidence and pride, 
 Had cross'd the Atlantic main. 
 
 " Before me shone a glorious world 
 Fresh as a banner bright, unfurj'd 170 
 
 To music suddenly: 
 I look'd upon those hills and plains. 
 And seem'd as if let loose from chains 
 To live at Hberty! 
 
 " No more of this — for now, by thee, 175 
 
 Dear Ruth! more happily set free. 
 With nobler zeal I burn; 
 My soul from darkness is released 
 Like the whole sky when to the east 
 The morning doth return." 180 
 
 Full soon that better mind was gone; 
 No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,— 
 Thev stirr'd him now no more; 
 
24 William Wordsworth 
 
 New objects did new pleasure give, 
 
 And once again he wish'd to live 185 
 
 As lawless as before. 
 
 Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
 
 They for the voyage were prepared, 
 
 And went to the sea-shore: 
 
 But, when they thither came, the youth 190 
 
 Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth 
 
 Could never find him more. 
 
 God help thee, Ruth! — Such pains she had 
 
 That she in half a year was mad 
 
 And in a prison housed; 195 
 
 And there, with many a doleful song 
 
 Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 
 
 She fearfully caroused. 
 
 Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
 
 Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 200 
 
 Nor pastimes of the May, 
 
 — They all were with her in her cell; 
 
 And a clear brook with cheerful knell 
 
 Did o'er the pebbles play. 
 
 When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 205 
 
 There came a respite to her pain; 
 
 She from her prison fled ; 
 
 But of the Vagrant none took thought; 
 
 And where it liked her best she sought 
 
 Her shelter and her bread. 210 
 
 Among the fields she breathed again : 
 The master-current of her brain 
 Ran permanent and free; 
 
Ruth: or the Influences of Nature 25 
 
 And, coming to the banks of Tone, 
 There did she rest; and dwell alone 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
 215 
 
 The engines of her pain, the tools 
 
 That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, 
 
 And airs that gently stir 
 
 The vernal leaves — she loved them still. 220 
 
 Nor ever tax'd them with the ill 
 
 Which had been done to her. 
 
 A barn her Winter bed supplies; 
 
 But, till the warmth of Summer skies 
 
 And Summer days is gone, 225 
 
 (And all do in this tale agree) 
 
 She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 
 
 And other home hath none. 
 
 An innocent life, yet far astray I 
 
 And Ruth will, long before her day, 230 
 
 Be broken down and old. 
 
 Sore aches she needs must have! but less 
 
 Of mind, than body's wretchedness, 
 
 From damp, and rain, and cold. 
 
 If she is prest by want of food 235 
 
 She from her dwelling in the wood 
 
 Repairs to a road-side; 
 
 And there she begs at one steep place 
 
 Where up and down with easy pace 
 
 The horsemen-travelers ride. 
 
 240 
 
 That oaten pipe of hers is mute 
 Or thrown away: but with a flute 
 Her loneliness she cheers; 
 
26 William Wordsworth 
 
 This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, 
 
 At evening in his homeward walk 245 
 
 The Quantock woodman hears. 
 
 I, too, have pass'd her on the hills 
 
 Setting her little water-mills 
 
 By spouts and fountains wild — 
 
 Such small machinery as she turn'd 250 
 
 Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn 'd, — 
 
 A young and happy child! 
 
 Farewell! and when thy days are told. 
 
 Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould 
 
 Thy corpse shall buried be ; 255 
 
 For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 
 
 And all the congregation sing 
 
 A Christian psalm for thee. 
 
 ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802 
 
 Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea, 
 
 One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice: 
 
 In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
 
 They were thy chosen music, Liberty! 
 
 There came a tyrant, and with holy glee 
 
 Thou fought'st against him, — but hast vainly striven: 
 
 Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, 
 
 Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
 
 — Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; 
 
 Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — 
 
 For, high-soul 'd Maid, what sorrow would it be 
 
 That Mountain floods should thunder as before. 
 
 And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 
 
 And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee! 
 
London, 1802 27 
 
 ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
 REPUBLIC 
 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 
 And was the safeguard of the West; the worth 
 Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
 Venice, the eldest child of Liberty. 
 She was a maiden city, bright and free; 
 No guile seduced, no force could violate; 
 And when she took unto herself a mate, 
 She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
 And what if she has seen those glories fade. 
 Those titles vanish, and that strength decay, — 
 Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
 When her long life hath reach'd its final day: 
 Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade 
 Of that which once was great is pass'd away. 
 
 LONDON, 1802 
 
 Friend! I know not which way I must look 
 
 For comfort, being, as I am, opprest 
 
 To think that now our life is only drest 
 
 For show; mean handy- work of craftsman, cook, 
 
 Or groom! — We must run glittering like a brook 
 
 In the open sunshine, or we are unblest; 
 
 The wealthiest man among us is the best : 
 
 No grandeur now in nature or in book 
 
 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense. 
 
 This is idolatry; and these we adore: 
 
 Plain living and high thinking are no more : 
 
 The homely beauty of the good old cause 
 
 Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence. 
 
 And pure religion breathing household laws. 
 
28 William Wordsworth 
 
 TO MILTON 
 
 Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: 
 
 England hath need of thee: she is a fen 
 
 Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, 
 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
 
 Have forfeited their ancient Enghsh dower 5 
 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men: 
 
 Oh! raise us up, return to us again; 
 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 
 Thy soul was hke a Star, and dwelt apart: 
 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, 10 
 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; 
 
 So didst thou travel on Hfe's common way 
 
 In cheerful godHness; and yet thy heart 
 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 
 WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 
 Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart 
 
 When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
 
 The student's bower for gold, — some fears unnamed 
 
 I had, my Country! — am I to be blamed? 5 
 
 Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art. 
 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart 
 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 
 For dearly must we prize thee; we who find 
 
 In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; 10 
 
 And I by my affection was beguiled: 
 
 What wonder if a Poet now and then, 
 
 Among the many movements of his mind, 
 
 Felt for thee as a lover or a child! 
 
By the Sea 29 
 
 UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE 
 SEPTEMBER 3, 1802 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair: 
 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 
 A sight so touching in its majesty: 
 
 This City now doth like a garment wear 
 
 The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, 5 
 
 Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples lie 
 
 Open unto the fields, and to the sky, — 
 
 All bright and ghttering in the smokeless air. 
 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep 
 
 In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; 10 
 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! 
 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will: 
 
 Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; 
 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still! 
 
 BY THE SEA 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; 
 
 The holy time is quiet a-s a Nun 
 
 Breathless with adoration; the broad sun 
 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea : 5 
 
 Listen! the mighty Being is awake, 
 
 And doth with his eternal motion make 
 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here. 
 
 If thou appear untouch'd by. solemn thought 10 
 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 
 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year 
 
 And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
30 William Wordsworth 
 
 TO THE DAISY 
 
 With little here to do or see 
 
 Of things that in the great world be, 
 
 Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee 
 
 For thou art worthy, 
 Thou unassuming Common-place 
 Of Nature, with that homely face, 
 And yet with something of a grace 
 
 Which Love makes for thee! 
 
 Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
 
 I sit and play with similes, lo 
 
 Loose types of things through all degrees, 
 
 Thoughts of thy raising; 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to thee, for praise or blame 
 As is the humor of the game, 15 
 
 While I am gazing. 
 
 A nun demure, of lowly port; 
 
 Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, 
 
 In thy simplicity the sport 
 
 Of all temptations; 20 
 
 A queen in crown of rubies drest; 
 A starveling in a scanty vest; 
 Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 
 
 Thy appellations. 
 
 A little Cyclops, with one eye 25 
 
 Staring to threaten and defy. 
 That thought comes next — and instantly 
 The freak is over, 
 
The Rainbow 31 
 
 The shape will vanish, and behold! 
 A silver shield with boss of gold 30 
 
 That spreads itself, some faery bold 
 In fight to cover. 
 
 I see thee ghttering from afar — 
 And then thou art a pretty star. 
 Not quite so fair as many are 35 
 
 In heaven above thee! 
 Yet like a star with glittering crest, 
 Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — 
 May peace come never to his nest 
 
 Who shall reprove thee! 40 
 
 Sweet Flower! for by that name at last 
 
 When all my reveries are past 
 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 
 
 Sweet silent Creature! 
 That breath'st with me in sun and air, 45 
 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My heart with gladness, and a share 
 Of thy meek nature ! 
 
 THE RAINBOW 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A rainbow in the sky: 
 So was it when my life began. 
 So is it now I am a man. 
 So be it when I shall grow old 
 
 Or let me die! 
 The Child is father of the Man: 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
32 William Wordsworth 
 
 COMPOSED AT NEW PATH CASTLE, THE 
 
 PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY 
 
 1803 
 
 Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord! 
 Whom mere despite of heart could so far please 
 And love of havoc, (for with such disease 
 Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word 
 To level with the dust a noble horde, 
 A brotherhood of venerable trees, 
 Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these, 
 Beggar'd and outraged! — Many hearts deplored 
 The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain 
 The traveler at this day will stop and gaze 
 On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed: 
 For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, 
 And the pure mountains, and the gentle weed, 
 And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 
 
 TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower! 
 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head: 
 
 And these gray rocks, that household lawn, 5 
 
 Those trees — a veil just half withdrawn. 
 
 This fall of water that doth make 
 
 A murmur near the silent lake. 
 
 This little bay, a quiet road 
 
 That holds in shelter thy abode : 10 
 
 In truth together ye do seem 
 
 Like something fashion 'd in a dream; 
 
To the Highland Girl of Inversneyde 33 
 
 15 
 
 Such forms as from their covert peep 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep! 
 But O fair Creature! in the light 
 
 common day, so heavenly bright 
 
 1 bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
 I bless thee with a human heart: 
 God shield thee to thy latest years! 
 
 Thee neither know I nor thy peers: 20 
 
 And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. 
 
 With earnest feeling I shall pray 
 
 For thee when I am far away; 
 
 For never saw I mien or face 
 
 In which more plainly I could trace 25 
 
 Benignity and home-bred sense 
 
 Ripening in perfect innocence. 
 
 Here scattered, hke a random seed, 
 
 Remote from men. Thou dost not need 
 
 The embarrass'd look of shy distress, 30 
 
 And maidenly shamefacedness: 
 
 Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
 
 The freedom of a Mountaineer: 
 
 A face with gladness overspread; 
 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred; 35 
 
 And seemhness complete, that sways 
 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays; 
 
 With no restraint, but such as springs 
 
 From quick and eager visi tings 
 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 40 
 
 Of thy few words of EngHsli speech: 
 
 A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife 
 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life! 
 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
 
 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind— 45 
 
 Thus beating up against the wind. 
 
34 William Wordsworth 
 
 What hand but would a garland cull 
 For thee who art so beautiful? 
 
 happy pleasure! here to dwell 
 
 Beside thee in some healthy dell; 50 
 
 Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
 
 A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! 
 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 
 More like a grave reahty: 
 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 55 
 
 Of the wild sea : and I would have 
 
 Some claim upon thee, if I could. 
 
 Though but of common neighborhood. 
 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see! 
 
 Thy elder brother I would be, 60 
 
 Th}^ father — anything to thee. 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 Hath led me to this lonely place: 
 Joy have I had; and going hence 
 
 1 bear away my recompence. 65 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 
 Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: 
 
 Then why should I be loth to stir? 
 
 I feel this place was made for her; 
 
 To give new pleasure like the past, 70 
 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 
 Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart. 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; 
 
 For I, me thinks, till I grow old 
 
 As fair before me shall behold 75 
 
 As I do now, the cabin small, 
 
 The lake, the bay, the waterfall; 
 
 And Thee, the Spirit of them all! 
 
The Solitary Reaper 35 
 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER 
 
 Behold her, single in the field, 
 
 Yon soHtary Highland Lass! 
 
 Reaping and singing by herself; 
 
 Stop here, or gently pass! 
 
 Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 5 
 
 And sings a melancholy strain; 
 
 listen ! for the vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No nightingale did ever chaunt 
 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 10 
 
 Of travelers in some shady haunt. 
 
 Among Arabian sands: 
 
 A voice so thriUing ne'er was heard 
 
 In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird 
 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 15 
 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings? 
 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
 
 And battles long ago : 20 
 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 
 Famihar matter of to-day? 
 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 
 That has been, and may be again! 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 25 
 
 As if her song could have no ending; 
 
 1 saw her singing at her work. 
 And o'er the sickle bending; — 
 
36 William Wordsworth 
 
 I listen'd, motionless and still; 
 
 And, as I mounted up the hill, 30 
 
 The music in my heart I bore 
 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 GLEN-ALMAIN, THE NARROW GLEN 
 
 In this still place, remote from men, 
 
 Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen; 
 
 In this still place, where murmurs on 
 
 But one meek streamlet, only one: 
 
 He sang of battles, and the breath 5 
 
 Of stormy war, and violent death; 
 
 And should, methinks, when all was past, 
 
 Have rightfully been laid at last 
 
 Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent 
 
 As by a spirit turbulent; 10 
 
 Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, 
 
 And everything unreconciled; 
 
 In some complaining, dim retreat. 
 
 For fear and melancholy meet; 
 
 But this is calm; there cannot be 15 
 
 A more entire tranquillity. 
 
 Does then the Bard sleep here indeed? 
 Or is it but a groundless creed? 
 What matters it? — I blame them not 
 Whose fancy in this lonely spot 20 
 
 Was moved; and in such way express'd 
 Their notion of its perfect rest. 
 A convent, even a hermit's cell. 
 Would break the silence of this Dell : 
 It is not quiet, is not ease; 25 
 
 But something deeper far than these: 
 
The Green Linnet 37 
 
 The separation that is here 
 
 Is of the grave; and of austere 
 
 Yet happy feehngs of the dead: 
 
 And, therefore, was it rightly said 30 
 
 That Ossian, last of all his race! . 
 
 Lies buried in this lonely place. 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
 
 Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
 
 With brightest sunshine round me spread 
 
 Of Spring's unclouded weather, 
 
 In this sequester'd nook how sweet 5 
 
 To sit upon my orchard-seat! 
 
 And flowers and birds once more to greet. 
 
 My last year's friends together. 
 
 One have I mark'd, the happiest guest 
 
 In all this covert of the blest: 10 
 
 Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
 
 In joy of voice and pinion! 
 
 Thou, Linnet! in thy green array 
 
 Presiding Spirit here to-day 
 
 Dost lead the revels of the May; i5 
 
 And this is thy dominion. 
 
 While birds, and butterflies, and flowers. 
 
 Make all one band of paramours. 
 
 Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 
 
 Art sole in thy employment; 20 
 
 A Life, a Presence like the air, 
 
 Scattering thy gladness without care. 
 
 Too blest with any one to pair; 
 
 Thyself thy own enjoyment. 
 
38 William Wordsworth 
 
 Amid yon tuft of hazel trees 25 
 
 That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
 
 Behold him perch'd in ecstasies 
 
 Yet seeming still to hover; 
 
 There! where the flutter of his wings 
 
 Upon his back and body flings 30 
 
 Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 
 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 My dazzled sight he oft deceives — 
 
 A brother of the dancing leaves; 
 
 Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 35 
 
 Pours forth his song in gushes; 
 
 As if by that exulting strain 
 
 He mock'd and treated with disdain 
 
 The voiceless Form he chose to feign, 
 
 While fluttering in the bushes. 40 
 
 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 
 
 She was a Phantom of dehght 
 
 When first she gleam'd upon my sight; 
 
 A lovely Apparition, sent 
 
 To be a moment's ornament; 
 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 5 
 
 Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 
 From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 
 
 A dancing shape, an image gay, 
 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 10 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A Spirit, yet a Woman too! 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin-liberty; 
 
A Lesson 39 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 15 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet; 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food, 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 20 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 
 The very pulse of the machine; 
 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 
 A traveler between life and death: 
 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 25 
 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
 
 A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd 
 
 To warn, to comfort, and command; 
 
 And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
 
 With something of an angel-light. 30 
 
 A LESSON 
 
 There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 
 That shrinks like many more from cold and rain, 
 And the first moment that the sun may shine, 
 Bright as the sun himself, 't is out again! 
 
 When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, 5 
 Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, 
 Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm 
 In close self-shelter, hke a thing at rest. 
 
 But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past, 
 
 And recognized it. though an alter'd form, 10 
 
 Now standing forth an offering to the blast. 
 
 And buffeted at will bv rain and storm. 
 
40 William Wordsworth 
 
 I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice, 
 " It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold 
 This neither is its courage nor its choice, 15 
 
 But its necessity in being old. 
 
 "The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; 
 It cannot help itself in its decay; 
 Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue," — 
 And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray. 20 
 
 To be a prodigal's favorite — then, worse truth, 
 A miser's pensioner — behold our lot ! 
 O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth 
 Age might but take the things Youth needed not ! 
 
 THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 
 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
 
 Where art thou, worse to me than dead? 
 
 Oh find me, prosperous or undone! 
 
 Or if the grave be now thy bed. 
 
 Why am I ignorant of the same 5 
 
 That I may rest; and neither blame 
 
 Nor sorrow may attend thy name? 
 
 Seven years, alas! to have received 
 
 No tidings of an only child — 
 
 To have despair'd, have hoped, beHeved, 10 
 
 And been for evermore beguiled, — 
 
 Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! 
 
 I catch at them, and then I miss; 
 
 Was ever darkness like to this? 
 
 He was among the prime in worth, 15 
 
 An object beauteous to behold; 
 
 Well born, well bred; I sent him forth 
 
The Affliction of Margaret 41 
 
 Ingenuous, innocent, and bold: 
 
 If things ensued that wanted grace 
 
 As hath been said, they were not base; 20 
 
 And never blush was on my face. 
 
 Ah! little doth the young-one dream 
 
 When full of play and childish cares, 
 
 What power is in his wildest scream 
 
 Heard by his mother unawares! 25 
 
 He knows it not, he cannot guess; 
 
 Years to a mother bring distress; 
 
 But do not make her love the less. 
 
 Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long 
 
 From that ill thought; and being blind 30 
 
 Said " Pride shall help me in my wrong: 
 
 Kind mother have I been, as kind 
 
 As ever breathed:" and that is true; 
 
 I 've wet my path with tears like dew. 
 
 Weeping for him when no one knew. 35 
 
 My Son, if thou be humbled, poor. 
 
 Hopeless of honor and of gain. 
 
 Oh! do not dread thy mother's door; 
 
 Think not of me with grief and pain: 
 
 I now can see with better eyes; 40 
 
 And worldly grandeur I despise 
 
 And fortune with her gifts and lies. 
 
 Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings. 
 
 And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; 
 
 They mount — how short a voyage brings 45 
 
 The wanderers back to their delight! 
 
 Chains tie us down by land and sea; 
 
 And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
 
 All that is left to comfort thee. 
 
42 William Wordsworth 
 
 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan 50 
 
 Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men; 
 
 Or thou upon a desert thrown 
 
 Inheritest the lion's den; 
 
 Or hast been summon'd to the deep 
 
 Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep 55 
 
 An incommunicable sleep. 
 
 I look for ghosts: but none will force 
 
 Their way to me; 't is falsely said 
 
 That there was ever intercourse 
 
 Between the living and the dead; 60 
 
 For surely then I should have sight 
 
 Of him I wait for day and night 
 
 With love and longings infinite. 
 
 My apprehensions come in crowds 
 
 I dread the rusthng of the grass; 65 
 
 The very shadows of the clouds 
 
 Have power to shake me as they pass: 
 
 I question things, and do not find 
 
 One that will answer to my mind; 
 
 And all the world appears unkind. 70 
 
 Beyond participation he 
 
 My troubles, and beyond relief: 
 
 If any chance to heave a sigh 
 
 They pity me, and not my grief. 
 
 Then come to me, my Son, or send 75 
 
 Some tidings that my woes may end! 
 
 I have no other earthly friend. 
 
To the Cuckoo 43 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO 
 
 BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice: 
 
 Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice? 
 
 While I am lying on the grass 5 
 
 Thy twofold shout I hear; 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
 At once far off and near. 
 
 Though babbling only to the vale 
 
 Of sunshine and of flowers, 10 
 
 Thou bringest unto me a tale 
 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
 No bird, but an invisible thing, 15 
 
 A voice, a mystery; 
 
 The same whom in my school-boy days 
 
 1 listen'd to; that Cry 
 
 Which made me look a thousand ways 
 
 In bush, and tree, and sky. 20 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Through woods and on the green; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
 Still long'd for, never seen! 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet; 25 
 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
44 William Wordsworth 
 
 blessed Bird! the earth we pace 
 
 Again appears to be 30 
 
 An unsubstantial, faery place, 
 
 That is fit home for Thee ! 
 
 THE DAFFODILS 
 
 I wander'd lonely as a cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 
 A host of golden daffodils, 
 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 5 
 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 
 And twinkle on the milky way, 
 
 They stretch'd in never-ending line 
 
 Along the margin of a bay: 10 
 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance 
 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced, but they 
 
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: — 
 
 A Poet could not but be gay 1 5 
 
 In such a jocund company! 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought; 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I He 
 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 20 
 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 
 Which is the bhss of solitude; 
 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
Ode to Duty 45 
 
 ODE TO DUTY 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! 
 O Duty! if that name thou love 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 To check the erring, and reprove; 
 
 Thou who art victory and law 5 
 
 When empty terrors overawe: 
 From vain temptations dost set free, 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 
 Be on them; who, in love and truth 10 
 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth: 
 Glad hearts! without reproach or blot, 
 Who do thy work, and know it not: 
 
 Oh! if through confidence misplaced 15 
 
 They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them 
 cast. 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright 
 And happy will our nature be 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 
 And joy its own security, 20 
 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 Ev'n now, who, not unwisely bold, 
 Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
 Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried, 25 
 
 No sport of every random gust, 
 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust: 
 
46 William Wordsworth 
 
 And oft, when in my heart was heard 
 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd 30 
 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray; 
 But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 I supplicate for thy control, 35 
 
 But in the quietness of thought: 
 Me this uncharter'd freedom tires; 
 I feel the weight of chance-desires: 
 My hopes no more must change their name ; 
 I long for a repose that ever is the same. 40 
 
 Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face: 
 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, . 45 
 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads; 
 Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong; 
 And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are fresh and 
 strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power! 
 
 I call thee: I myself commend 50 
 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
 Oh let my weakness have an end! 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice; 
 
 The confidence of reason give; 55 
 
 And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live. 
 
Nature and the Poet 47 
 
 TO THE SKYLARK 
 
 Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! 
 Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? 
 Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? 
 Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
 Those quivering wings composed, that music still! 
 
 To the last point of vision, and beyond 
 
 Mount, daring warbler! — that love-prompted strain 
 
 — 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond — 
 
 Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: 
 
 Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing 
 
 All independent of the leafy Spring. 
 
 Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 
 
 A privacy of glorious Hght is thine, 
 
 Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
 
 Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 
 
 Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — 
 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. 
 
 NATURE AND THE POET 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OP PEELE CASTLE IN A STORM, 
 PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT 
 
 I WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile ! 
 Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: 
 I saw thee every day; and all the while 
 Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 
 
48 William Wordsworth 
 
 So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! 
 So like, so very hke, was day to day! 
 Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there; 
 It trembled, but it never pass'd away. 
 
 How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep, 
 
 No mood, which season takes away, or brings: 10 
 
 I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
 
 Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 
 
 Ah! then — if mine had been the painter's hand 
 To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam 
 The light that never was on sea or land, 15 
 
 The consecration, and the Poet's dream, — 
 
 I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, 
 
 Amid a world how different from this! 
 
 Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; 
 
 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 20 
 
 Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house divine 
 Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven; — 
 Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine 
 The very sweetest had to thee been giver. 
 
 A picture had it been of lasting ease, 25 
 
 Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; 
 
 No motion but the moving tide; a breeze; 
 
 Or merely silent Nature's breathing Ufe. 
 
 Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
 
 Such picture would I at that time have made; 30 
 
 And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
 
 A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd. 
 
Nature and the Poet 49 
 
 So once it would have been, — 't is so no more; 
 
 I have submitted to a new control: 
 
 A power is gone, which nothing can restore; 35 
 
 A deep distress hath humanized my soul. 
 
 Not for a moment could I now behold 
 
 A smiling sea, and be what I have been: 
 
 The feehng of my loss will ne'er be old; 
 
 This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 40 
 
 Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend 
 
 If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, 
 
 This work of thine I blame not, but commend; 
 
 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 
 
 'tis a passionate work! — yet wise and well, 45 
 Well chosen is the spirit that is here; 
 
 That hulk which labors in the deadly swell, 
 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! 
 
 And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 
 
 1 love to see the look with which it braves, 50 
 — Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time — 
 
 The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. 
 
 — Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone 
 
 Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! 
 
 Such happiness, wherever it be known, 55 
 
 Is to be pitied; for 't is surely Wind. 
 
 But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. 
 
 And frequent sights of what is to be borne! 
 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me here: — 
 
 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 60 
 
50 William Wordsworth 
 
 ADMONITION TO A TRAVELER 
 
 Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! 
 
 — The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 
 
 Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook. 
 
 Its own small pasture, almost its own sky! 
 
 But covet not the abode; forbear to sigh 5 
 
 As many do, repining while they look; 
 
 Intruders — who would tear from Nature's book 
 
 This precious leaf with harsh impiety. 
 
 — Think what the home must be if it were thine, 
 
 Even thine, though few thy wants! — Roof, window, door, 10 
 
 The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 
 
 The roses to the porch which they entwine: 
 
 Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day 
 
 On which it should be touch'd, would melt away! 
 
 TO SLEEP 
 
 A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by 
 
 One after one; the sound of rain, and bees 
 
 Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas. 
 
 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; 
 
 I 've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 5 
 
 Sleepless; and soon the small bird's melodies 
 
 Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, 
 
 And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
 
 Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, 
 
 And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: 10 
 
 So do not let me wear tonight away: 
 
 Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? 
 
 Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! 
 
Ode on Intimations of Immortality 51 
 
 THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US 
 
 The World is too much with us; late and soon, 
 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; 
 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
 
 This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 5 
 
 The winds that will be howling at all hours 
 
 And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowTrs, 
 
 For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; 
 
 It moves us not. — Great God! I 'd rather be 
 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, — 10 
 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 
 Have ghmpses that would make me less forlorn; 
 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
 ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream. 
 The earth, and every common sight 
 To me did seem 
 Apparel'd in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day, 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 
 
 The rainbow comes and goes. 
 And lovely is the rose; 
 The moon doth with delight 
 
52 William Wordsworth 
 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare; 
 Waters on a starry night 
 
 Are beautiful and fair; 15 
 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 
 
 m 
 
 Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. 
 
 And while the young lambs bound 20 
 
 As to the tabor's sound. 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
 A timely utterance gave that thought rehef, 
 
 And I again am strong. 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; — 25 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong: 
 I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
 The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
 And all the earth is gay; 
 
 Land and sea 30 
 
 Give themselves up to jollity. 
 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every beast keep holiday; — 
 Thou child of joy 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
 
 Shepherd-boy! 35 
 
 IV 
 
 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
 My heart is at your festival, 
 
 My head hath its coronal, 40 
 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
 Oh evil day! if I were sullen 
 
Ode on Intimations of Immortality 53 
 
 While Earth herself is adorning 
 This sweet May-morning; 
 And the children are culHng 45 
 
 On every side 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm 
 And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm: — 
 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 50 
 
 — But there 's a tree, of many, one, 
 A single field which I have look'd upon, 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone: 
 The pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat: 55 
 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting 60 
 
 And cometh from afar; 
 Not in entire forgetfulness. 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory we do come 
 
 From God, who is our home: 65 
 
 Heaven hes about us in our infancy! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy, 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy; 70 
 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
 Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the Man perceives it die away, 75 
 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
54 William Wordsworth 
 
 VI 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 And, even with something of a mother's mind 
 
 And no unworthy aim, 80 
 
 The homely nurse doth all she can 
 To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, 
 
 Forget the glories he hath known 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 VII 
 
 Behold the Child among his new -born blisses, 85 
 
 A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
 
 With light upon him from his father's eyes! 
 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 90 
 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral; 
 
 And this hath now his heart. 95 
 
 And unto this he frames his song: 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside, 100 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The httle actor cons another part; 
 Fining from time to time his " humorous stage" 
 With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
 That life brings with her in her equipage; 105 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
Ode on Intimations of Immortality 55 
 
 VIII 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth behe 
 
 Thy soul's immensity; 
 Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 1 10 
 
 Thy heritage, thou eye among the bhnd, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind, — 
 
 Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 
 
 On whom those truths do rest 1 1 5 
 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
 In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 
 Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
 Broods hke the day, a master o'er a slave, 
 A Presence which is not to be put by; 120 
 
 Thou Httle child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 125 
 
 Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 
 
 O joy! that in our embers 
 
 Is something that doth live, 130 
 
 That Nature yet remembers 
 
 What was so fugitive! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction: not indeed 
 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest, 135 
 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: — 
 
56 William Wordsworth 
 
 — Not for these I raise 
 
 The song of thanks and praise; 140 
 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 Fallings from us, vanishings; 
 Blank misgivings of a creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized, 145 
 
 High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
 Did tremble hke a guilty thing surprised: 
 But for those first affections, 
 Those shadowy recollections. 
 
 Which, be they what they may, 150 
 
 Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 
 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 155 
 
 To perish never; 
 Which neither Hstlessness, nor mad endeavor, 
 
 Nor man nor boy 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy! 160 
 
 Hence, in a season of calm weather 
 Though inland far we be, 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither; 
 Can in a moment travel thither — 165 
 
 And see the children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolhng evermore. 
 
 Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 
 And let the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound! 170 
 
 We, in thought, will join your throng 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
 
Ode on Intimations of Immortality 57 
 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 
 Feel the gladness of the May! 
 What though the radiance which was once so bright 175 
 Be now for ever taken from my sight, 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 
 Strength in what remains behind; 180 
 
 In the primal sympathy 
 
 Which having been must ever be; 
 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 
 Out of human suffering; 
 
 In the faith that looks through death, 185 
 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 XI 
 
 And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
 
 Forbode not any severing of our loves! 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 
 
 I only have relinquish'd one delight 190 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway: 
 
 I love the brooks which down their channels fret 
 
 Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; 
 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
 
 Is lovely yet; 195 
 
 The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 200 
 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
58 William Wordsworth 
 
 YARROW UNVISITED 
 
 1803 
 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen 
 The mazy Forth unravel'd, 
 Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 
 And with the Tweed had travel'd ; 
 And when we came to Cloven ford, 5 
 
 Then said my " winsome Marrow," 
 " Whate'er betide, we '11 turn aside, 
 And see the Braes of Yarrow." 
 
 "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 
 Who have been buying, selling, 10 
 
 Go back to Yarrow, 't is their own, 
 Each maiden to her dwelling! 
 On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 
 Hares couch, and rabbits burrow; 
 But we will downward with the Tweed, 15 
 
 Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 
 
 "There 's Gala Water, Leader Haughs, 
 Both lying right before us; 
 And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed 
 The lintwhites sing in chorus; 20 
 
 There 's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
 Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
 Why throw away a needful day 
 To go in search of Yarrow? 
 
 "What 's Yarrow but a river bare 25 
 
 That glides the dark hills under? 
 There are a thousand such elsewhere 
 As worthy of your wonder," 
 
Yarrow Unvisited 59 
 
 — Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn; 
 My True-love sigh'd for sorrow, 30 
 
 And look'd me in the face, to think 
 I thus could speak of Yarrow! 
 
 "O green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, 
 And sweet is Yarrow flowing! 
 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 35 
 
 But we will leave it growing. 
 O'er hilly path and open strath 
 We '11 wander Scotland thorough; 
 But, though so near, we will not turn 
 Into the dale of Yarrow. 40 
 
 "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
 The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; 
 The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 
 Float double, swan and shadow! 
 
 We will not see them ; will not go 45 
 
 To-day, nor yet to-morrow; 
 Enough if in our hearts we know 
 There 's such a place as Yarrow. 
 
 "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! 
 It must, or we shall rue it: 50 
 
 We have a vision of our own, 
 Ah! why should we undo it? 
 The treasured dreams of times long past. 
 We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow! 
 For when we 're there, although 't is fair 55 
 
 'T will be another Yarrow! 
 
 " If Care with freezing years should come 
 And wandering seem but folly, — 
 Should we be loth to stir from home, 
 And yet be melancholy; 60 
 
6o William Wordsworth 
 
 Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
 'T will soothe us in our sorrow 
 That earth has something yet to show, 
 The bonnv holms of Yarrow!" 
 
 YARROW VISITED 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1814 
 
 And is this — Yarrow? — This the stream 
 
 Of which my fancy cherish'd 
 
 So faithfully, a waking dream. 
 
 An image that hath perish'd? 
 
 O that some minstrel's harp were near 5 
 
 To utter notes of gladness 
 
 And chase this silence from the air, 
 
 That fills my heart with sadness! 
 
 Yet why? — a silvery current flows 
 
 With uncontroll'd meanderings; lo 
 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 
 Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
 
 And, through her depths. Saint Mary's Lake 
 
 Is visibly delighted ; 
 
 For not a feature of those hills 15 
 
 Is in the mirror slighted. 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, 
 
 Save where that pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising sun diffused, 
 
 A tender hazy brightness; 20 
 
 Mild dawn of promise! that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection; 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
Yarrow Visited 6i 
 
 Where was it that the famous Flower 25 
 
 Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? 
 
 His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 
 
 On which the herd is feeding: 
 
 And haply from this crystal pool, 
 
 Now peaceful as the morning, 30 
 
 The Water-wraith ascended thrice, 
 
 And gave his doleful warning. 
 
 Delicious is the lay that sings 
 
 The haunts of happy lovers, 
 
 The path that leads them to the grove, 35 
 
 The leafy grove that covers: 
 
 And pity sanctifies the verse 
 
 That paints, by strength of sorrow. 
 
 The unconquerable strength of love; 
 
 Bear witness, rueful Yarrow! .« 
 
 40 
 
 But thou that didst appear so fair 
 
 To fond imagination, 
 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 
 Her dehcate creation: 
 
 Meek lovehness is round thee spread, 
 
 A softness still and holy: 
 
 The grace of forest charms decay'd, 
 
 And pastoral melancholy. 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
 That region left, the vale unfolds 
 
 Rich groves of lofty stature. 
 
 With Yarrow winding through the pomp 
 
 Of cultivated nature; 
 
 And rising from those lofty groves 
 
 Behold a ruin hoary, 
 
 The shatter'd front of Newark's towers, 55 
 
 Renown'd in Border story. 
 
62 William Wordsworth 
 
 Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 
 
 For sportive youth to stray in, 
 
 For manhood to enjoy his strength, 
 
 And age to wear away in ! 60 
 
 Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 
 
 A covert for protection 
 
 Of tender thoughts that nestle there — 
 
 The brood of chaste affection. 
 
 How sweet on this autumnal day 65 
 
 The wild-wood fruits to gather, 
 
 And on my True-love's forehead plant 
 
 A crest of blooming heather! 
 
 And what if I en wreathed my own? 
 
 'T were no offence to reason; 70 
 
 The sober hills thus deck their brows 
 
 To meet the wintry season. 
 
 I see — but not by sight alone, 
 
 Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; 
 
 A ray of Fancy still survives — 75 
 
 Her sunshine plays upon thee! 
 
 Thy ever-youthful waters keep 
 
 A course of lively pleasure; 
 
 And gladsome notes my lips can breathe 
 
 Accordant to the measure. 80 
 
 The vapors linger round the heights. 
 
 They melt, and soon must vanish; 
 
 One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
 
 Sad thought! which I would banish, 
 
 But that I know, where'er I go, 85 
 
 Thy genuine image, Yarrow! 
 
 Will dwell with me, to heighten joy, 
 
 And cheer my mind in sorrow. 
 
Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge 63 
 
 DESIDERIA 
 
 Surprised by joy — impatient as the wind — 
 
 I turn'd to share the transport — Oh! with whom 
 
 But Thee — deep buried in the silent tomb, 
 
 That spot which no vicissitude can find? 
 
 Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind — 
 
 But how could I forget thee? Through what power 
 
 Even for the least division of an hour 
 
 Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 
 
 To my most grievous loss! — That thought's return 
 
 Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore 
 
 Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, 
 
 Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; 
 
 That neither present time, nor years unborn 
 
 Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 
 
 WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense. 
 
 With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd 
 
 (Albeit laboring for a scanty band 
 
 Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense 
 
 And glorious work of fine intelligence! 5 
 
 — ^Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore 
 
 Of nicely-calculated less or more: — 
 
 So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense 
 
 These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 
 
 Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells 10 
 
 Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 
 
 Lingering — and wandering on as loth to die; 
 
 Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 
 
 That they were born for immortality. 
 
64 William Wordsworth 
 
 THE T ROSACES 
 
 There 's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 
 
 But were an apt confessional for One 
 
 Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, 
 
 That Life is but a tale of morning grass 
 
 Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase 5 
 
 That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes 
 
 Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities. 
 
 Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass 
 
 Untouch'd, unbreathed upon: — Thrice happy quest, 
 
 If from a golden perch of aspen spray 10 
 
 (October's workmanship to rival May), 
 
 The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 
 
 That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, 
 
 LulHng the year, with all its cares, to rest! 
 
 THE INNER VISION 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
 
 To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 
 
 While a fair region round the traveler lies 
 
 Which he forbears again to look upon; 
 
 Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene. 
 
 The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
 
 Of meditation, slipping in between 
 
 The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 
 
 — If Thought and Love desert us, from that day 
 
 Let us break off all commerce with the Muse: 
 
 With Thought and Love companions of our way — 
 
 Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, — 
 
 The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 
 
 Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 
 
To a Distant Friend 65 
 
 TO A DISTANT FRIEND 
 
 Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant 
 
 Of such weak fiber that the treacherous air 
 
 Of absence withers what was once so fair? 
 
 Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? 
 
 Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, 
 
 Bound to thy service with unceasing care — 
 
 The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 
 
 For nought but what thy happiness could spare. 
 
 Speak! — though this soft warm heart, once free to hold 
 
 A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, 
 
 Be left more desolate, more dreary cold 
 
 Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow 
 
 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine — 
 
 Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know! 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 
 
Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
POEMS OF COLERIDGE 
 
 KUBLA KHAN 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree: 
 Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
 Through caverns measureless to man 
 
 Down to a sunless sea. 5 
 
 So twice five miles of fertile ground 
 With walls and towers were girdled round: 
 And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
 Where blossom 'd many an incense-bearing tree; 
 And here were forests ancient as the hills, lo 
 
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 
 But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
 Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 
 A savage place! as holy and enchanted 
 As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 15 
 
 By woman wailing for her demon-lover! 
 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 
 As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
 A mighty fountain momently was forced: 
 Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20 
 
 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
 Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: 
 And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
 It flung up momently the sacred river. 
 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25 
 
 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. 
 Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man, 
 And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
 69 
 
yo Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
 Ancestral voices prophesying war! 30 
 
 The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
 
 Floated midway on the waves; 
 
 Where was heard the mingled measure 
 
 From the fountain and the caves. 
 It was a miracle of rare device, 35 
 
 A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! 
 
 A damsel with a dulcimer 
 
 In a vision once I saw: 
 
 It was an Abyssinian maid, 
 
 And on her dulcimer she play'd, 40 
 
 Singing of Mount Abora. 
 
 Could I revive within mc 
 
 Her symphony and song, 
 To such a deep delight 'twould win me 
 That with music loud and long, 45 
 
 I would build that dome in air, 
 That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
 And all who heard should see them there, 
 And all should cry, Beware! Beware! 
 His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 50 
 
 Weave a circle round him thrice. 
 And close your eyes with holy dread 
 For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
 And drunk the milk of Paradise. 
 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 71 
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 
 
 PART THE FIRST 
 
 It is an ancient Mariner, 
 
 And he stoppeth one of three. 
 
 By thy long gray beard and ghttering eye, 
 Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? 
 
 The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 
 
 And I am next of kin; 
 The guests are met, the feast is set: 
 
 May'st hear the merry din." 
 
 Ill 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand, 
 "There was a ship," quoth he. 
 Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon! 
 Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 
 
 10 
 
 He holds him with his glittering eye- 
 The Wedding-Guest stood still. 
 
 And Hstens like a three years' child 
 The Mariner hath his will. 
 
 15 
 
 The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 
 He cannot choose but hear; 
 
 And thus spake on that ancient man. 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 20 
 
72 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 VI 
 
 ''The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, 
 Merrily did we drop 
 Below the kirk, below the hill, 
 Below the lighthouse top. 
 
 The Mar- 
 iner tells 
 how the 
 ship sailed 
 southward 
 with a good 
 wind and 
 fair weather 
 till it 
 
 reached the 
 Line 
 
 \^II 
 
 The sun came up upon the left. 
 
 Out of the sea came he! 
 And he shone bright, and on the right 
 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 25 
 
 \iii 
 
 ■ Higher and higher every day. 
 Till over the mast at noon — " 
 
 The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast. 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 30 
 
 The Wed- 
 ding-Guest 
 heareth the 
 bridal 
 music; but 
 the Mariner 
 continueth 
 his tale 
 
 IX 
 
 The bride hath paced into the hall, 
 
 Red as a rose is she; 
 Nodding their heads before her goes 
 
 The merrv minstrelsv. 
 
 35 
 
 The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
 Yet he cannot choose but hear; 
 
 And thus spake on that ancient man. 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 40 
 
 XI 
 
 The ship 
 drawn by 
 storm to- 
 ward the 
 south pole 
 
 And now the Storm-Blast came, and he 
 
 Was tyrannous and strong: 
 He struck with his o'ertaking wings. 
 
 And chased us south along. 
 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 73 
 
 "With sloping masts and dipping prow, 45 
 
 As who pursued with yell and blow 
 
 Still treads the shadow of his foe, 
 And forward bends his head, 
 
 The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 
 
 And southward aye we fled. 50' 
 
 XIII 
 
 "And now there came both mist and snow, 
 And it grew wondrous cold : 
 And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
 As green as emerald. 
 
 The land of XIV 
 
 fearful "And through the drifts the snowy clifts 55 
 
 Did send a dismal sheen: 
 
 sound 
 where no 
 
 living thinK >sor shapes of men nor beasts we ken- 
 was to be T., . ill. 
 
 1 he ice was all between. 
 
 seen 
 
 XV 
 
 "The ice was here, the ice was there, 
 
 The ice was all around : 60 
 
 It cracked and growled, and roared and howled. 
 Like noises in a swound! 
 
 Till a great 
 sea-bird, 
 called the 
 Albatross, 
 came 
 through the 
 
 XVI 
 
 'At length did cross an Albatross: 
 Thorough the fog it came; 
 snow-fog! As if it had been a Christian soul, 65 
 
 SveTwith We hailed it in God's name. 
 
 great joy 
 
 and hospi- XVII 
 
 tality 
 
 "It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
 And round and round it flew. 
 The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
 
 The helmsman steered us through! 70 
 
74 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 And lo! the 
 Albatross 
 proveth a 
 bird of good 
 omen, and 
 followeth 
 the ship as 
 it returned 
 northward, 
 through fog 
 and floating 
 ice 
 
 XVIII 
 
 And a good south wind sprung up behind; 
 
 The Albatross did follow, 
 And every day, for food or play, 
 
 Came to the mariners' hollo! 
 
 XIX 
 
 In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
 
 It perched for vespers nine; 
 Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 
 
 Glimmered the white moon-shine." 
 
 75 
 
 XX 
 
 The ancient 
 Mariner 
 inhospita- 
 bly killeth 
 the pious 
 bird of good 
 omen 
 
 "God save thee, ancient Mariner! 
 
 From the fiends, that plague thee thus! — 
 Why look'st thou so?" — ''With my cross-bow 
 I shot the Albatross." 
 
 80 
 
 PART THE SECOND 
 
 XXI 
 
 The Sun now rose upon the right: 
 Out of the sea came he, 
 
 Still hid in mist, and on the left 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 85 
 
 XXII 
 
 And the good south wind still blew behind, 
 
 But no sweet bird did follow. 
 Nor any day, for food or play, 
 
 Came to the mariners' hollo! 
 
 90 
 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 75 
 
 His ship- 
 mates cry 
 out against 
 the ancient 
 Mariner, 
 for killing 
 the bird of 
 good luck 
 
 XXIII 
 
 And I had done a hellish thing, 
 And it would work 'em woe: 
 
 For all averred, I had killed the bird 
 That made the breeze to blow. 
 
 Ah, wretch!' said they, 'the bird to slay, 
 That made the breeze to blow!' 
 
 95 
 
 But when 
 the fog 
 cleared off, 
 they justify 
 the same, 
 and thus 
 make them- 
 selves ac- 
 complices 
 in the crime 
 
 The fair 
 breeze con- 
 tinues; the 
 ship enters 
 the Pacific 
 Ocean and 
 sails north- 
 ward, even 
 till it 
 
 reaches the 
 Line 
 
 xxi\- 
 'Nor dim nor red, like God's own head. 
 
 The glorious Sun uprist: 
 Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That brought the fog and mist. loo 
 
 "Twas right,' said they, 'such birds to slay, 
 
 That bring the fog and mist.' 
 
 xxv 
 "The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
 The furrow followed free: 
 We were the first that ever burst 105 
 
 Into that silent sea. 
 
 The ship 
 hath been 
 suddenly 
 becalmed 
 
 xxvi 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
 
 'T was sad as sad could be; 
 And we did speak only to break 
 
 The silence of the sea! no 
 
 XX vn 
 
 "All in a hot and copper sky. 
 The bloody Sun, at noon. 
 Right up above the mast did stand, 
 No bigger than the Moon. 
 
76 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 And the 
 Albatross 
 begins to be 
 avenged 
 
 XXMII 
 
 "Day after day, day after day, 
 
 We stuck, nor breath nor motion: 
 As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 "Water, water, everywhere, 
 
 And all the boards did shrink; 
 Water, water, everywhere. 
 Nor any drop to drink. 
 
 115 
 
 XXX 
 
 "The very deep did rot: O Christ! 
 That ever this should be! 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 Upon the sHmy sea. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 "About, about, in reel and rout 
 The death-fires danced at night; 
 The water, like a witch's oils, 
 
 Burnt green, and blue, and white. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 "And some in dreams assured were 
 Of the spirit that plagued us so: 
 Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 125 
 
 [30 
 
 A spirit had 
 followed 
 them; one 
 of the in- 
 visible in- 
 habitants of 
 this planet, 
 neither de- 
 parted souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned Jew Josephus, and the Platonic 
 Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, 
 and there is no climate or element without one or more 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 "And every tongue, through utter drought. 
 Was withered at the root; 
 We could not speak, no more than if 
 We had been choked with soot. 
 
 135 
 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 11 
 
 The ship- 
 mates in 
 their sore 
 distress 
 would fain 
 throw the 
 whole guilt 
 on the ancient Mariner; in sign 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 ' Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 
 
 Had I from old and young! 140 
 
 Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
 About my neck was hung. 
 
 hereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck 
 
 PART THE THIRD 
 
 The ancient 
 Mariner be- 
 holdeth a 
 sign in the - 
 element 
 afar off 
 
 XXXV 
 
 There passed a weary time. Each throat 
 
 Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
 A weary time! a weary time! 145 
 
 How glazed each weary eye! 
 When looking westward, I beheld 
 
 A something in the sky. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 'At first it seemed a httle speck, 
 
 And then it seemed a mist: 150 
 
 It moved, and moved, and took at last 
 A certain shape, I wist. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 At its 
 nearer ap- 
 proach, it 
 seemeth 
 him to be 
 ship; and 
 at a dear 
 ransom 
 he freeth 
 his speech 
 from the 
 bonds of 
 thirst 
 
 A .speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 
 
 And still it neared and neared: 
 As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
 
 It plunged and tacked and veered. 
 
 15s 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
 
 We could nor laugh nor wail; 
 Through utter drought all dumb we stood! 
 I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 160 
 
 And cried, A sail! a sail! 
 
78 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 A flash of 
 joy 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
 
 Agape they heard me call: 
 Gramercy! they for joy did grin, 
 And all at once their breath drew in, 165 
 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 XL 
 
 And horror "See! See! (I cried) she tacks no more! 
 can°k be a Hither to work us weal, — 
 
 ship that Without a breeze, without a tide, 
 
 comes on- ' 
 
 ward with- She Steadies with upright keel ! 
 
 out wind or 
 tide? 
 
 170 
 
 XLI 
 
 The western wave was all a-flame. 
 The day was well-nigh done! 
 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 Rested the broad bright Sun; 
 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
 175 
 
 It seemeth 
 him but the 
 skeleton of 
 a ship 
 
 XLII 
 
 "And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
 (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) 
 As if through a dungeon-grate he peered, 
 With broad and burning face. 
 
 180 
 
 XLIII 
 
 "Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud,) 
 How fast she nears and nears! 
 Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
 Like restless gossameres? 
 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 79 
 
 XLIV 
 
 Are those her ribs through which the Sun 
 Did peer, as through a grate? 
 
 And is that Woman all her crew? 
 
 Is that a Death? and are there two? 
 Is Death that Woman's mate? 
 
 And its ribs 
 are seen as 
 bars on the 
 face of the 
 setting Sun. 
 The Spec- 
 ter-Woman 
 and her 
 Death- 
 mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship 
 
 185 
 
 Like vessel, 
 like crew! ' 
 
 Death and 
 Life-in- 
 Death have 
 diced for 
 the ship's 
 crew, and 
 she (the 
 latter) win- 
 neth the 
 ancient 
 Mariner 
 
 No twilight 
 within the 
 courts of 
 the Sun 
 
 At the ris- 
 ing of the 
 Moon. 
 
 XLV 
 
 "Her lips were red, her looks were free, 190 
 
 Her- locks were yellow as gold : 
 Her skin was as white as leprosy. 
 The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold. 
 
 XLVI 
 
 "The naked hulk alongside came, 195 
 
 And the twain were casting dice; 
 'The game is done! I 've won! I 've won!' 
 
 Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 "The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: 
 
 At one stride comes the dark; 200 
 
 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
 Off shot the specter-bark. 
 
 XL VIII 
 
 "We listened and looked sideways up! 
 Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 
 
 My life-blood seemed to sip ! 205 
 
 The stars were dim, and thick the night. 
 The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; 
 
 From the sails the dew did drip — 
 Till clomb above the eastern bar 
 The horned Moon, with one bright star 210 
 
 Within the nether tip. 
 
8o 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 One after 
 another. 
 
 XLIX 
 
 One after one, by the star-dogged Moon. 
 
 Toe quick for groan or sigh, 
 Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 
 
 And cursed me with his eye. 
 
 215 
 
 His ship- 
 mates drop 
 down dead 
 
 But Life- 
 in-Death 
 begins her 
 work on the 
 ancient 
 Mariner 
 
 Four times fifty Hving men, 
 
 (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
 
 With heavy thump, a Hfeless lump, 
 They dropped down one by one. 
 
 LI 
 
 The souls did from their bodies fly. — 
 
 They fled to bliss or woe I 
 And every soul, it passed me by. 
 
 Like the whizz of my cross-bow!" 
 
 PART THE FOURTH 
 
 The Wed- 
 ding-Guest 
 feareth 
 that a 
 Spirit is 
 talking to 
 him: 
 
 But the an- 
 cient Mar- 
 iner assureth 
 him of his 
 bodily life, 
 and pro- 
 ceedeth to 
 relate his 
 horrible 
 penance 
 
 I fear thee, ancient Mariner! 
 
 I fear thy skinny hand ! 
 And thou art long, and lank, and brown. 
 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand. 
 
 225 
 
 LIII 
 
 I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
 And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 
 
 Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 230 
 
 LIV 
 
 Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
 Alone on a wide wide sea! 
 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 My soul in agony. 
 
 235 
 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 8i 
 
 LV 
 
 He despis- "The many men, so beautiful! 
 creatures And they all dead did lie: 
 
 of the calm ^j^^ ^ thousand thousand slimy things 
 Lived on; and so did I. 
 
 LVI 
 
 And envi- "I lookcd uDon the rotting sea, 24.0 
 
 eth that » , , & ' ■* 
 
 they should And drew my eyes away: 
 man/fie '" ^ ^^^^ed upon the rotting deck, 
 dead And there the dead men lay. 
 
 Lvn 
 ''I looked to Heaven and tried to pray; 
 
 But or ever a prayer had gusht 245 
 
 A wicked whisper came, and made 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 L\'ni 
 "I closed my Hds, and kept them close, 
 And the bails like pulses beat; 
 For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky 250 
 Lay like a load on my weary eye. 
 And the dead were at my feet. 
 
 LIX 
 
 But the "The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
 
 for himTn^ Nor rot nor reek did they: 
 
 the eye of The look with which they looked on me 2 s n 
 
 the dead ^t 1 , 
 
 men Had never passed away. 
 
 LX 
 
 "An orphan's curse would drag to Hell 
 
 A spirit from on high; 
 But oh! more horrible than that 
 
 Is a curse in a dead man's eye! 260 
 
 Seven days, seven nights, 1 saw that curse, 
 
 And yet I could not die. 
 
82 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 In his lone- 
 liness and 
 fixedness he 
 yearneth 
 towards the 
 journeying 
 Mc 
 
 LXI 
 
 ' The moving Moon went up the sky, 
 
 And nowhere did abide: 
 Softly she was going up, 
 
 And a star or two beside — ■ 
 
 LXII 
 
 Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
 
 Like April hoar-frost spread; 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
 The charmed water burnt alway 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 26 = 
 
 loon, and 
 the stars 
 that still 
 sojourn, yet 
 still move 
 onward; 
 and every- 
 where the 
 blue sky be- 
 longs to 
 them, and is 
 their ap- 
 pointed rest 
 and their 
 
 native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, 
 lords that are certainly expected and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival 
 
 270 
 
 By the light 
 of the Moon 
 he behold- 
 eth God's 
 creatures of 
 the great 
 calm 
 
 LXIII 
 
 "Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
 I watched the water-snakes: 
 They moved in tracks of shining white. 
 And when they reared, the elfish light 
 Fell ofif in hoary flakes. 
 
 275 
 
 LXIV 
 
 "Within the shadow of the ship 
 I watched their rich attire: 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. 
 They coiled and swam; and every track 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 280 
 
 Their 
 
 beauty and 
 their happi- 
 ness 
 
 He blesseth 
 them in his 
 heart 
 
 LXV 
 
 "O happy living things! no tongue 
 Their beauty might declare : 
 
 A spring of love gushed from my heart. 
 And I blessed them unaware! 
 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
 And I blessed them unaware! 
 
 28s 
 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 83 
 
 The spell 
 begins to 
 break 
 
 LXVI 
 
 'The selfsame moment I could pray; 
 
 And from my neck so free 
 The Albatross fell off, and sank 
 
 Like lead into the sea. 
 
 290 
 
 PART THE FIFTH 
 
 LXVII 
 
 ^Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, 
 
 Beloved from pole to pole! 
 To Mary Queen the praise be given! 
 She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
 
 That sHd into my soul. 
 
 295 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 By grace of 
 the holy 
 Mother, the 
 ancient 
 Mariner is 
 refreshed 
 with rain 
 
 The silly buckets on the deck. 
 
 That had so long remained, 
 I dreamt that they were filled with dew; 
 
 And when I awoke, it rained. 
 
 300 
 
 LXIX 
 
 'My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
 My garments all were dank ; 
 
 Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 LXX 
 
 "I moved, and could not feel my limbs. 
 I was so light — almost 
 I thought that I had died in sleep, 
 And was a blessed ghost. 
 
 305 
 
84 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 He heareth 
 sounds, 
 and seeth 
 strange 
 sights and 
 commo- 
 tions in the 
 sky and the 
 element 
 
 LXXI 
 
 And soon 1 heard a roaring wind: 
 
 It did not come anear; 
 But with its sound it shook the sails 
 
 That were so thin and sere. 
 
 LXXII 
 
 The upper air burst into Hfe! 
 
 And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
 To and fro they were hurried about; 
 And to and fro, and in and out, 
 
 The wan stars danced between. 
 
 310 
 
 31S 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
 
 And the sails did sigh like sedge; 319 
 
 And the rain poured down from one black cloud; 
 The Moon was at its edge. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
 
 The Moon was at its side: 
 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 The lightning fell with never a jag, 325 
 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 of the^shfp's ''The loud wind never reached the ship, 
 crew are Yet now the ship moved on ! 
 
 inspired, ^. 
 
 and the Beneath the lightnmg and the Moon 
 
 ship moves ^j^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^ ^^^^^^ 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 "They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
 Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; 
 It had been strange, even in a dream. 
 To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 330 
 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 85 
 
 LXX\1I 
 
 'The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; 335 
 
 Yet never a breeze up-blew; 
 The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 
 
 Where they were wont to do; 
 They raised their limbs hke Hfeless tools — 
 
 We were a ghastly crew. 340 
 
 But not by 
 the souls of 
 the men, 
 nor by 
 demons of 
 earth or ' 
 middle air. 
 but by a 
 blessed 
 troop of an- 
 gelic spirits, 
 sent down 
 by the invo- 
 cation of 
 the guardian 
 saint 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 The body of my brother's son 
 Stood by me, knee to knee: 
 
 The body and I pulled at one rope, 
 But he said naught to me." 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 I fear thee, ancient Mariner!" 
 "Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 
 'T was not those souls that fled in pain. 
 Which to their corses came again. 
 But a troop of spirits blest: 
 
 345 
 
 For when it dawned — they dropped their arms 
 
 And clustered round the mast ; 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths. 
 
 And from their bodies passed. 
 
 350 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 Around, around, flew each sweet sound. 
 
 Then darted to the Sun; 
 Slowly the sounds came back again, 
 
 Now mixed, now one by one. 
 
 355 
 
86 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 ' Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 
 I heard the sky-lark sing; 
 Sometimes all little birds that are, 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
 
 With their sweet jargoning! 
 
 360 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 And now 't was like all instruments, 
 
 Now like a lonely flute; 
 And now it is an angel's song, 
 
 That makes the heavens be mute. 
 
 365 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 "It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 Singeth a quiet tune. 
 
 370 
 
 LXXX\' 
 
 The lone- 
 some Spirit 
 from the 
 south-pole 
 carries on 
 the ship as 
 far as the 
 Line, in 
 obedience 
 to the an- 
 gelic troop, 
 but still re- 
 quireth ven- 
 geance 
 
 Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe: 
 
 Slowly and smoothly went the ship 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 "Under the keel nine fathom deep. 
 From the land of mist and snow, 
 
 The spirit slid : and it was he 
 That made the ship to go. 
 
 The sails at noon left off their tune, 
 And the ship stood still also. 
 
 375 
 
 380 
 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 87 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 "The sun, right up above the mast, 
 
 Had fixed her to the ocean : 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir, 385 
 
 With a short uneasy motion — 
 Backwards and forwards half her length 
 
 With a short uneasy motion, 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 "Then like a pawing horse let go, 
 
 She made a sudden bound; 390 
 
 It flung the blood into my head, 
 And I fell down in a swound. 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 "How long in that same fit I lay, 
 I have not to declare; 
 But ere my living life returned, 395 
 
 I heard and in my soul discerned 
 The Polar f^o voices in the air. 
 
 Spint s fel- 
 low-demons, YP 
 the invisible ^^ 
 
 ouhede-*' '"Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man? 
 
 ment, take By him who died on cross, 
 
 wrong; and With his cruel bow he laid full low, 400 
 
 Sate!ol!r ^^^ harmless Albatross. 
 
 to the other 
 
 that pen- ^^^ 
 
 aS^he^^ '"The spirit who bideth by himself 
 
 for the an- j^ the land of mist and snow, 
 
 iner hath He loved the bird that loved the man 
 
 corded^to Who shot him with his bow.' 405 
 
 the Polar 
 
 Spirit, who XCII 
 
 southward "The Other was a softer voice, 
 As soft as honey-dew: 
 Quoth he. 'The man hath penance done, 
 And penance more will do.' 
 
88 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 PART THE SIXTH 
 
 XCIII 
 FIRST VOICE 
 
 But tell me, tell me! speak again, 
 Thy soft response renewing — 
 
 What makes that ship drive on so fast? 
 What is the Ocean doing?' 
 
 410 
 
 The Mari- 
 iner hath 
 been cast 
 into a 
 trance; for 
 the angelic 
 power caus- 
 eth the ves- 
 sel to drive 
 northward 
 faster than 
 human life 
 could en- 
 dure 
 
 XCIV 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 ' Still as a slave before his lord, 
 
 The Ocean hath no blast; 
 His great bright eye most silently 
 
 Up to the Moon is cast — 
 
 xcv 
 'If he may know which way to go; 
 
 For she guides him smooth or grim 
 See, brother, see! how graciously 
 She looketh down on him.' 
 
 xcvi 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 
 'But why drives on that ship so fast 
 Without or wave or wind? ' 
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 'The air is cut away before. 
 And closes from behind. 
 
 XVCII 
 
 'Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! 
 
 Or we shall be belated: 
 For slow and slow that ship will go. 
 When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 
 
 415 
 
 420 
 
 42s 
 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 89 
 
 The super- 
 natural 
 motion is 
 retarded; 
 the Mariner 
 awakes, and 
 his penance 
 begins 
 anew 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 'I woke, and we were sailing on 430 
 
 As in a gentle weather: 
 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high; 
 The dead men stood together. 
 
 XCIX 
 
 All stood together on the deck, 
 
 For a charnel-dungeon fitter: 435 
 
 All fixed on me their stony eyes 
 
 That in the Moon did gHtter. 
 
 The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
 
 Had never passed .away : 
 I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
 
 Nor turn them up to pray. 
 
 440 
 
 The curse 
 is finally 
 expiated 
 
 CI 
 
 ''And now this spell was snapt: once more 
 I viewed the Ocean green, 
 And looked far forth, yet little saw 
 Of what had else been seen — 
 
 CII 
 
 ''Like one that on a lonesome road 
 Doth walk in fear and dread. 
 And having once turned round, walks on, 
 
 And turns no more his head; 
 
 Because he knows a frightful fiend 
 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 445 
 
 450 
 
 cm 
 
 But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
 Nor sound nor motion made : 
 
 Its path was not upon the sea, 
 In ripple or in shade. 
 
 455 
 
90 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 CIV 
 
 "It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
 Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
 It mingled strangely with my fears, 
 Yet it felt Hke a welcoming. 
 
 cv 
 
 "Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 
 Yet she sailed softly too: 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze- 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 460 
 
 And the 
 ancient 
 Mariner be- 
 holdeth his 
 native 
 country 
 
 CVI 
 
 Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed 
 The light-house top I see? 
 
 Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 
 Is this mine own countree? 
 
 465 
 
 CVII 
 
 'We drifted o'er the harbor-bar, 
 And I with sobs did pray — 
 
 'O let me be awake, my God! 
 Or let me sleep alway.' 
 
 470 
 
 C\III 
 
 "The harbor-bay was clear as glass, 
 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
 And the shadow of the Moon. 
 
 475 
 
 cix 
 
 "The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
 That stands above the rock : 
 The moonlight steeped in silentness 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 The angelic 
 spirits leave 
 the dead 
 bodies, 
 
 CX 
 
 "And the bay was white with silent Hght, 
 Till rising from the same, 
 Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
 In crimson colors came. 
 
 91 
 
 480 
 
 CXI 
 
 A little distance from the prow 
 Those crimson shadows were: 
 
 I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
 Oh, Christ I what saw I there! 
 
 485 
 
 And appear 
 in their own 
 forms of 
 light 
 
 CXII 
 
 "Each corse lay flat, hfeless and flat, 
 And, by the holy rood! 
 A man all light, a seraph -man. 
 On every corse there stood. 
 
 490 
 
 CXIII 
 
 "This seraph-band, each waved his hand: 
 It was a heavenly sight! 
 They stood as signals to the land, 
 Each one a lovely light ; 
 
 495 
 
 CXIV 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand; 
 
 No voice did they impart — 
 No voice; but oh! the silence sank 
 
 Like music on my heart. 
 
 cx\' 
 
 "But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
 I heard the Pilot's cheer; 
 My head was turned perforce away, 
 And I saw a boat appear. 
 
 500 
 
92 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 cxvi 
 "The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy 
 
 I heard them coming fast: 505 
 
 Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
 The dead men could not blast. 
 
 CXVII 
 
 " I saw a third — I heard his voice: 
 
 It is the Hermit good! 
 He singeth loud his godly hymns 510 
 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 He '11 shrieve my soul, he '11 wash away 
 
 The Albatross's blood. 
 
 PART THE SEVENTH 
 
 CXVIII 
 
 The Hermit "This Hermit good lives in that wood 
 
 of the wood 
 
 Which slopes. down to the sea: 515 
 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears! 
 He loves to talk with marineres 
 
 That come from a far countree. 
 
 " He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 
 
 He hath a cushion plump: 520 
 
 It is the moss that wholly hides 
 The rotted old oak-stump. 
 
 cxx 
 "The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 
 'Why this is strange, I trow! 
 Where are those lights so many and fair, 525 
 
 That signal made but now?' 
 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 93 
 
 cxxi 
 Approach- '"Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said — 
 withwon-'^ 'And they answered not our cheer! 
 ^" The planks look warped! and see those sails 
 
 How thin they are and sere! 530 
 
 I never saw aught like to them, 
 Unless perchance it were 
 
 CXXII 
 
 "'Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
 
 My forest-brook along; 
 When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 535 
 
 And the owlet whoops to the wolf below 
 
 That eats the she-wolf's young.' 
 
 CXXIII 
 
 "'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look ' — 
 (The Pilot made reply) 
 'I am a-feared' — 'Push on, push on!' 540 
 
 Said the Hermit cheerily. 
 
 cxxiv 
 The boat came closer to the ship. 
 
 But I nor spake nor stirred; 
 The boat came close beneath the ship, 
 
 And straight a sound was heard. 545 
 
 cxxv 
 The ship "Under the water it rumbled on, 
 sinketh Still louder and more dread: 
 
 It reached the ship, it split the bay; 
 The ship went down like lead. 
 
Pilot's boat 
 
 94 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 cxxvi 
 MarinerT*^ "Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 550 
 
 saved in the Which skv and ocean smote, 
 
 Like one that hath been seven days drowned 
 
 My body lay afloat; 
 But swift as dreams, myself I found 
 
 Within the Pilot's boat. 555 
 
 CXXVII 
 
 "Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
 The boat spun round and round: 
 And all was still, save that the hill 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 CXXVIII 
 
 "I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 560 
 
 And fell down in a fit; 
 The Holy Hermit raised his eyes 
 And prayed where he did sit. 
 
 CXXIX 
 
 "I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, 
 
 Who now doth crazy go, 565 
 
 Laughed loud and long, and all the while 
 
 His eyes went to and fro. 
 'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see, 
 The Devil knows how to row.' 
 
 CXXX 
 
 "And now, all in my own countree, 570 
 
 I stood on the firm land! 
 The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 95 
 
 The ancient 
 Mariner 
 earnestly 
 entreateth 
 the Hermit 
 to shrieve 
 him; and 
 the penance 
 of life falls 
 on him 
 
 And ever 
 and anon 
 throughout 
 his future 
 life an 
 agony con- 
 straineth 
 him to 
 travel from 
 land to 
 land 
 
 CXXXI 
 
 "'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!' 
 The Hermit crossed his brow, 
 'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say — 
 What manner of man art thou? ' 
 
 CXXXII 
 
 ''Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
 With a woful agony. 
 Which forced me to begin my tale: 
 And then it left me free. 
 
 CXXXIII 
 
 "Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
 That agony returns; 
 And till my ghastly tale is told. 
 This heart within me burns. 
 
 cxxxiv 
 "I pass, like night, from land to land; 
 I have strange power of speech ; 
 That moment that his face I see, 
 I know the man that must hear me: 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 cxxxv 
 
 "What loud uproar bursts from that door! 
 
 The Wedding-Guests are there: 
 But in the garden-bower the bride 
 
 And bride-maids singing are; 
 And hark the little vesper bell. 
 
 Which biddeth me to prayer! 
 
 cxxxvi 
 "0 Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been 
 Alone on a wide wide sea: 
 So lonely 't was, that God himself 
 Scarce seemed there to be. 
 
 575 
 
 S8o 
 
 S8S 
 
 S90 
 
 595 
 
 6oo 
 
96 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 CXXXVII 
 
 O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
 
 'T is sweeter far to me, 
 To walk together to the kirk . 
 
 With a goodly company! — 
 
 CXXXVIII 
 
 To walk together to the kirk, 
 
 And all together pray. 
 While each to his great Father bends, 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 
 
 And youths and maidens gay! 
 
 605 
 
 And to 
 teach, by 
 his own ex- 
 ample, love 
 ana rever- 
 ence to all 
 things that 
 God made 
 and loveth 
 
 CXXXIX 
 
 "Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 
 
 To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! 
 
 He prayeth well, who loveth well 
 
 Both man and bird and beast. 
 
 CXL 
 
 "He prayeth best, who loveth best 
 All things both great and small; 
 For the dear God who loveth us, 
 He made and loveth all." 
 
 610 
 
 615 
 
 CXLI 
 
 The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
 Whose beard with age is hoar. 
 
 Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 
 Turned from the bridegroom's door. 
 
 620 
 
 CXLII 
 
 He went like one that hath been stunned, 
 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 A sadder and a wiser man, 
 
 He rose the morrow morn. 
 
 625 
 
Love 
 
 LOVE 
 
 97 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all dehghls. 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 All are but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 5 
 
 Live o'er again that happy hour, 
 When midway on the mount I lay, 
 Beside the ruin'd tower. 
 
 The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
 Had blended with the lights of eve; 10 
 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
 My own dear Genevieve! 
 
 She lean'd against the armed man. 
 The statue of the armed knight; 
 She stood and listen'd to my lay, 15 
 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
 My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! 
 She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
 
 The songs that make her grieve. 20 
 
 I play'd a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang an old and moving story — 
 An old rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 She listen'd with a flitting blush, 25 
 
 With dow'ncast eyes and modest grace; 
 For well she knew, I could not choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
98 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 I told her of the Knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand; 30 
 
 And that for ten long years he woo'd 
 The Ladv of the Land. 
 
 I told her how he pined: and ah! 
 The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
 With which I sang another's love 35 
 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listen'd with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes, and modest grace; 
 And she forgave me, that I gazed 
 
 Too fondly on her face! 40 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
 And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, 
 Nor rested day nor night; 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den, 45 
 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade, — 
 
 There came and look'd him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright; 50 
 
 And that he knew it was a Fiend. 
 This miserable Knight! 
 
 And that unknowing what he did, 
 He leap'd amid a murderous band. 
 And saved from outrage worse than death 55 
 
 The Lady of the Land; — 
 
Love 99 
 
 And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; . 
 And how she tended him in vain — 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his brain; — 60 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cave, 
 And how his madness went away, 
 When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay; — 
 
 His dying words — but when I reach'd 65 
 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
 My faltering voice and pausing harp 
 Disturb'd her soul with pity! 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 
 Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; 70 
 
 The music and the doleful tale, 
 The rich and balmy eve; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
 An undistinguishable throng. 
 
 And gentle wishes long subdued, 75 
 
 Subdued and cherish'd long! 
 
 She wept with pity and delight, 
 
 She blush'd with love, and virgin shame; 
 
 And like the murmur of a dream, 
 
 I heard her breathe my name. 80 
 
 Her bosom heaved — she stepp'd aside, 
 As conscious of my look she stept — 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
oo Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 ^ She half inclosed me with her arms. 85 
 
 She press'd me with a meek embrace; 
 And bending back her head, look'd up, 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'T was partly love, and partly fear, 
 And partly 't was a bashful art 90 
 
 That I might rather feel, than see, 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, 
 And told her love with virgin pride; 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 95 
 
 My bright and beauteous Bride. 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE 
 
 Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, 
 Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
 Both were mine! Life went a-maying 
 With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
 
 When I was young! 5 
 
 When I was young? — Ah, woful When! 
 Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! 
 This breathing house not built with hands, 
 This body that does me grievous wrong, 
 O'er aery cHffs and gHttering sands 10 
 
 How lightly then it flash'd along: 
 Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
 On winding lakes and rivers wide. 
 That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
 
 That fear no spite of wind or tide! 15 
 
 Nought cared this body for wind or weather 
 When youth and I lived in 't together. 
 
Youth and Age loi 
 
 Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; 
 Friendship is a sheltering tree; 
 0! the joys, that came down shower-like, 20 
 
 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
 
 Ere I was old ! 
 Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere, 
 Which tells me, Youth 's no longer here! 
 
 Youth! for years so many and sweet, 25 
 'Tis known that Thou and I were one, 
 
 1 '11 think it but a fond conceit — 
 It cannot be, that Thou art gone! 
 Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd : — 
 
 And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 30 
 
 What strange disguise hast now put on 
 
 To make believe that Thou art gone? 
 
 I see these locks in silvery slips, 
 
 This drooping gait, this alter'd size: 
 
 But Springtide blossoms on thy lips, 35 
 
 And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! 
 
 Life is but Thought: so think I will 
 
 That Youth and I are house-mates still. 
 
 Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 
 But the tears of mournful eve ! 40 
 
 Where no hope is, hfe 's a warning 
 That only serves to make us grieve 
 
 When we are old: 
 — That only serves to make us grieve 
 With oft and tedious taking-leave, 45 
 
 Like some poor nigh-related guest 
 That may not rudely be dismist. 
 Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while, 
 And tells the jest without the smile. 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 After the portrait by Miss Curran 
 
POEMS OF SHELLEY 
 
 OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT 
 
 I MET a traveler from an antique land 
 Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
 Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, 
 Half sunk, a shatter'd visage hes, whose frown 
 And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command 5 
 
 Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
 Which yet survive, stamp'd on these Hfeless things, 
 The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed; 
 And on the pedestal these words appear: 
 '*My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: 10 
 
 Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" 
 Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
 Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, 
 The lone and level sands stretch far away. 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR 
 NAPLES 
 
 The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 
 The waves are dancing fast and bright, 
 Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
 The purple noon's transparent might: 
 The breath of the moist earth is Ught 
 Around its unexpanded buds; 
 Like many a voice of one delight — 
 The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods' — 
 The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. 
 
io6 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 * 
 
 I see the defep's untrampled floor lo 
 
 With green and purple sea-weeds slrown; 
 I see the waves upon the shore 
 Like Hght dissolved in star-showers thrown: 
 I sit upon the sands alone; 
 
 The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 1 5 
 
 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, 20 
 
 Nor that content, surpassing wealth. 
 The sage in meditation found, 
 And walk'd with inward glory crown VI — 
 Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure; 
 Others I see whom these surround — 25 
 
 Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; 
 To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 
 
 Yet now despair itself is mild 
 Even as the winds and waters are; 
 I could lie down like a tired child, 30 
 
 And weep away the life of care 
 Which I have borne, and yet must bear, — 
 Till death Hke sleep might steal on mc, 
 And I might feel in the warm air 
 
 My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 35 
 
 Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 
 
Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills 107 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS 
 
 Many a green isle needs must be 
 
 In the deep wide sea of Misery, 
 
 Or the mariner, worn and wan. 
 
 Never thus could voyage on 
 
 Day and night, and night and day, 5 
 
 Drifting on his dreary way, 
 
 With the soHd darkness black 
 
 Closing round his vessel's track ; 
 
 Whilst above, the sunless sky 
 
 Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 10 
 
 And behind the tempest fleet 
 
 Hurries on with lightning feet, 
 
 Riving sail, and cord, and plank, 
 
 Till the ship has almost drank 
 
 Death from the o'er-brimming deep; 15 
 
 And sinks down, down, like that sleep 
 
 When the dreamer seems to be 
 
 Weltering through eternity; 
 
 And the dim low line before 
 
 Of a dark and distant shore 20 
 
 Still recedes, as ever still 
 
 Longing with divided will, 
 
 But no power to seek or shun, 
 
 He is ever drifted on 
 
 O'er the unreposing wave, 25 
 
 To the haven of the grave. 
 
 Ah, many flowering islands he 
 In the waters of wide Agony: 
 To such a one this morn was led 
 My bark, by soft winds piloted. 30 
 
 — 'Mid the mountains Euganean 
 I stood listening to the paean 
 
lo8 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 With which the legion 'd rooks did hail 
 
 The Sun's uprise majestical: 
 
 Gathering round with wings all hoar, 35 
 
 Through the dewy mist they soar 
 
 Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 
 
 Bursts; and then, — as clouds of even 
 
 Fleck'd with fire and azure, he 
 
 In the unfathomable sky, — 40 
 
 So their plumes of purple grain 
 
 Starr'd with drops of golden rain 
 
 Gleam above the sunlight woods, 
 
 As in silent multitudes 
 
 On the morning's fitful gale 45 
 
 Through the broken mist they sail; 
 
 And the vapors cloven and gleaming 
 
 Follow down the dark steep streaming, 
 
 Till all is bright, and clear, and still 
 
 Round the sohtary hill. 50 
 
 Beneath is spread hke a green sea 
 The waveless plain of Lombardy, 
 Bounded by the vaporous air, 
 Islanded by cities fair; 
 
 Underneath Day's azure eyes, 55 
 
 Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, — 
 A peopled labyrinth of walls, 
 Amphitrite's destined halls, 
 Which her hoary sire now paves 
 With his blue and beaming waves. 60 
 
 Lo! the sun upsprings behind, 
 Broad, red, radiant, half-rechned 
 On the level quivering line 
 Of the waters crystalline; 
 
 And before that chasm of light, 65 
 
 As within a furnace bright. 
 Column, tower, and dome, and spire, 
 
Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills 109 
 
 Shine like obelisks of fire, 
 
 Pointing with inconstant motion 
 
 From the altar of dark ocean 70 
 
 To the sapphire- tinted skies; 
 
 As the flames of sacrifice 
 
 From the marble shrines did rise 
 
 As to pierce the dome of gold 
 
 Where Apollo spoke of old. 75 
 
 Sun-girt City! thou hast been 
 Ocean's child, and then his queen; 
 Now is come a darker day, 
 And thou soon must be his prey. 
 If the power that raised thee here 80 
 
 Hallow so thy watery bier. 
 A less drear ruin then than now, 
 With thy conquest-branded brow 
 Stooping to the slave of slaves 
 From thy throne among the waves 85 
 
 Wilt thou be, — when the sea-mew 
 FHes, as once before it flew, 
 O'er thine isles depopulate, 
 And all is in its ancient state, 
 
 Save where many a palace-gate 90 
 
 With green sea-flowers overgrown 
 Like a rock of ocean's own, 
 Topples o'er the abandon'd sea 
 As the tides change sullenly. 
 
 The fisher on his watery way 95 
 
 Wandering at the close of day, 
 Will spread his sail and seize his oar 
 Till he pass the gloomy shore. 
 Lest thy dead should, from their sleep, 
 Bursting o'er the starlight deep, 100 
 
 Lead a rapid masque of death 
 O'er the waters of his path. 
 
no Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 Noon descends around me now: 
 'T is the noon of autumn's glow, 
 When a soft and purple mist 105 
 
 Like a vaporous amethyst, 
 Or an air-dissolved star 
 Mingling light and fragrance, far 
 From the curved horizon's bound 
 To the point of heaven's profound, no 
 
 Fills the overflowing sky; 
 And the plains that silent lie 
 Underneath; the leaves unsodden 
 Where the infant Frost has trodden 
 With his morning-winged feet " 115 
 
 Whose bright print is gleaming yet; 
 And the red and golden vines 
 Piercing with their trellised lines 
 The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; 
 The dun and bladed grass no less, 120 
 
 Pointing from this hoary tower 
 In the windless air; the flower 
 Glimmering at my feet; the line 
 Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine 
 In the south dimly islanded ; 125 
 
 And the Alps, whose snows are spread 
 High between the clouds and sun; 
 And of living things each one; 
 And my spirit, which so long 
 
 Darken'd this swift stream of song, — 130 
 
 Interpenetrated lie 
 By the glory of the sky; 
 Be it love, Hght, harmony, 
 Odor, or the soul of all 
 
 Which from heaven Hke dew doth fall, 135 
 
 Or the mind which feeds this verse. 
 Peopling the lone universe. 
 
Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills iii 
 
 Noon descends, and after noon 
 Autumn's evening meets me soon, 
 Leading the infantine moon 140 
 
 And that one star, which to her 
 Almost seems to minister 
 Half the crimson light she brings 
 From the sunset's radiant springs: 
 And the soft dreams of the morn 145 
 
 (Which like winged winds had borne 
 To that silent isle, which lies 
 'Mid remember'd agonies, 
 The frail bark of this lone being) , 
 Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, 150 
 
 And its ancient pilot, Pain, 
 Sits beside the helm again. 
 
 Other flowering isles must be 
 In the sea of Life and Agony: 
 Other spirits float and flee 155 
 
 O'er that gulf: Ev'n now, perhaps, 
 On some rock the wild wave wraps, 
 With folded wings they waiting sit 
 For my bark, to pilot it 
 
 To some calm and blooming cove; 160 
 
 Where for me, and those I love. 
 May a windless bower be built. 
 Far from passion, pain, and guilt, 
 In a dell 'mid lawny hills 
 
 Which the wild sea-murmur fills, 165 
 
 And soft sunshine, and the sound 
 Of old forests echoing round. 
 And the light and smell divine 
 Of all flowers that breathe and shine. 
 — We may live so happy there, 170 
 
 That the Spirits of the Air 
 Envying us, may ev'n entice 
 
Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 To our healing paradise 
 
 The polluting multitude: 
 
 But their rage would be subdued 175 
 
 By that clime divine and calm, 
 
 And the winds whose wings rain balm 
 
 On the uphfted soul, and leaves 
 
 Under which the bright sea heaves; 
 
 While each breathless interval 180 
 
 In their whisperings musical 
 
 The inspired soul supplies 
 
 With its own deep melodies; 
 
 And the Love which heals all strife 
 
 Circling, like the breath of life, 185 
 
 All things in that sweet abode 
 
 With its own mild brotherhood: — 
 
 They, not it, would change; and soon 
 
 Every sprite beneath the moon 
 
 Would repent its envy vain, 190 
 
 And the Earth grow young again. 
 
 ODE TO THE WEST WIND 
 
 O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
 Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
 Are driven, Hke ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 
 Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
 Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou 
 Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 
 The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
 Each Hke a corpse within its grave, until 
 Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 
 Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
 (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
 With living hues and odors plain and hill : 
 
/« 
 
 Ode to the West Wind 113 
 
 Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
 Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear! 
 
 Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commo- 
 tion, 15 
 Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, 
 Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, 
 Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread 
 On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
 Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20 
 Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge 
 Of the horizon to the zenith's height — 
 The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 
 Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
 Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25 
 Vaulted with all thy congregated might 
 Of vapors, from whose sohd atmosphere 
 Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams 
 The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30 
 
 LuU'd by the coil of his crystalline streams, 
 Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
 And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
 Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 
 All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 35 
 
 So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou 
 For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 
 Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
 The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
 The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 40 
 
 Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear 
 And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear! 
 
114 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 IV 
 
 If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 
 If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 
 A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45 
 
 The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
 Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even 
 I were as in my boyhood, and could be 
 The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
 As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 50 
 
 Scarce seem'd a vision, — I would ne'er have striven 
 As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
 Oh! hft me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 
 I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! 
 A heavy weight of hours has chain 'd and bow'd 55 
 
 One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. 
 
 Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is: 
 What if my leaves are falhng like its own ! 
 The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
 Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 60 
 
 Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, 
 My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one! 
 Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, 
 Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; 
 And, by the incantation of this verse, 65 
 
 Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth 
 Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! 
 Be through my Hps to unawaken'd earth 
 The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind, 
 If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 70 
 
The Indian Serenade 115 
 
 THE INDIAN SERENADE 
 
 I ARISE from dreams of Thee 
 
 In the first sweet sleep of night 
 
 When the winds are breathing low 
 
 And the stars are shining bright: 
 
 I arise from dreams of thee, 5 
 
 And a spirit in my feet 
 
 Hath led me — who knows how? 
 
 To thy chamber-window. Sweet! 
 
 The wandering airs they faint 
 
 On the dark, the silent stream — 10 
 
 The champak odors fail 
 
 Like sweet thoughts in a dream; 
 
 The nightingale's complaint 
 
 It dies upon her heart, 
 
 As I must die on thine 15 
 
 beloved as thou art ! 
 
 Oh hft me from the grass! 
 
 1 die, I faint, I fail! 
 
 Let thy love in kisses rain 
 
 On my lips and eyeHds pale. 20 
 
 My cheek is cold and white, alas! 
 
 My heart beats loud and fast; 
 
 Oh! press it close to thine again 
 
 Where it will break at last. 
 
Ii6 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 LOVES PHILOSOPHY 
 
 The fountains mingle with the river 
 
 And the rivers with the ocean, 
 
 The winds of heaven mix for ever 
 
 With a sweet emotion ; 
 
 Nothing in the world is single, 5 
 
 All things by a law divine 
 
 In one another's being mingle — 
 
 Why not I with thine? 
 
 See the mountains kiss high heaven, 
 
 And the waves clasp one another; 10 
 
 No sister-flower would be forgiven 
 
 If it disdain'd its brother: 
 
 And the sunhght clasps the earth, 
 
 And the moonbeams kiss the sea — 
 
 What are all these kissings worth, 15 
 
 If thou kiss not me? 
 
 A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN 
 
 I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way 
 Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, 
 
 And gentle odors led my steps astray, 
 Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring 
 
 Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 5 
 
 Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 
 
 Its green arms round the bosom of the stream. 
 
 But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream. 
 
 There grew pied wind-flowers and violets. 
 
 Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, 10 
 
 The constellated flower that never sets; 
 
 Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth 
 
A Dream of the Unknown 117 
 
 The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets 
 
 Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, 
 
 When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. 15 
 
 And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine. 
 Green cow-bind and the moonlight-color'd May, 
 
 And cheery-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine 
 Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day; 
 
 And wild roses, and ivy serpentine 20 
 
 With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; 
 
 And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold. 
 
 Fairer than any waken 'd eyes behold. 
 
 And nearer to the river's trembling edge 
 
 There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white, 25 
 And starry river-buds among the sedge, 
 
 And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, 
 Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 
 
 With moonlight beams of their own watery light; 
 And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green 30 
 
 As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 
 
 Methought that of these visionary flowers 
 
 I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 
 That the same hues, which in their natural bowers 
 
 Were mingled or opposed, the like array 35 
 
 Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours 
 
 Within my hand, — and then, elate and gay, 
 I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come 
 That I might there present it — O! to Whom? 
 
ii8 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 THE CLOUD 
 
 I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 
 
 From the seas and the streams; 
 I bear Hght shade for the leaves when laid 
 
 In their noonday dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 5 
 
 The sweet buds every one 
 When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 
 
 As she dances about in the sun. 
 I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 
 
 And whiten the green plains under, 10 
 
 And then again I dissolve it in rain, 
 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 
 I sift the snow on the mountains below. 
 
 And their great pines groan aghast; 
 And ah the night 't is my pillow white, 15 
 
 While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
 Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, 
 
 Lightning my pilot sits; 
 In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 
 
 It struggles and howls at fits; 20 
 
 Over earth and ocean with gentle motion. 
 
 This pilot is guiding me. 
 Lured by the love of the genii that move 
 
 In the depths of the purple sea; 
 Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 25 
 
 Over the lakes and the plains. 
 Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 
 
 The Spirit he loves remains; 
 And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. 
 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 30 
 
 The sanguine sunrise with his meteor eyes. 
 And his burning plumes outspread. 
 
The Cloud 1 19 
 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
 
 When the morning star shines dead, 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag, 35 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
 An eagle alit one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings. 
 And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 
 
 Its ardors of rest and love, 40 
 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 From the depth of heaven above. 
 With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 
 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 45 
 
 Whom mortals call the moon, 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. 
 
 By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
 And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 
 
 Which only the angels hear, 50 
 
 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. 
 
 The stars peep behind her and peer; 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees. 
 When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 55 
 
 Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
 Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. 
 
 Are each paved with the moon and these. 
 
 1 blind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 
 
 And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; 60 
 
 The volcanoes are dim and the stars reel and swim. 
 
 When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
 From cape to cape, with a bridge-hke shape, 
 
 Over a torrent sea, 
 Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 65 
 
 The mountains its columns be. 
 
I20 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 The triumphal arch through which I march 
 
 With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
 When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 
 
 Is the million-colored bow; 70 
 
 The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove 
 •^' Whilst the moist earth was laughing below. 
 
 I am the daughter of earth and water, 
 
 And the nursHng of the sky; 
 I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 75 
 
 I change, but I cannot die. 
 For after the rain, when with never a stain. 
 
 The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
 And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams. 
 
 Build up the blue dome of air, 80 
 
 I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain, 
 Like a child from the womb, hke a ghost from the tomb, 
 
 I arise and unbuild it again.. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK 
 
 Hail to thee, bhthe Spirit! 
 
 Bird thou never wert. 
 That from heaven, or near it 
 
 Pourest thy full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 5 
 
 Higher still and higher 
 
 From the earth thou springest, 
 Like a cloud of fire, 
 
 The blue deep thou wingest. 
 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 10 
 
To a Skylark 121 
 
 In the golden lightning 
 
 Of the sunken sun 
 O'er which clouds are brightening, 
 
 Thou dost float and run, 
 Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 15 
 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts around thy flight; 
 Like a star of heaven 
 
 In the broad daylight 
 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: 20 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 
 Of that silver sphere 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 
 In the white dawn clear 
 Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 25 
 
 All the earth and air 
 
 With thy voice is loud. 
 As, when night is bare. 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. 30 
 
 What thou art we know not; 
 
 What is most like thee? 
 From rainbow clouds there flow not 
 
 Drops so bright to see 
 As from thy presence showers a rain of melody; — 35 
 
 Like a poet hidden 
 
 In the light of thought, 
 Singing hymns unbidden, 
 
 Till the world is wrought 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 40 
 
122 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 Like a high-born maiden 
 
 In a palace tower, 
 Soothing her love-laden 
 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 45 
 
 Like a glow-worm golden 
 
 In a dell of dew, 
 Scattering unbeholden 
 
 Its aerial hue 
 Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view, 50 
 
 Like a rose embower'd 
 
 In its own green leaves, 
 By warm winds deflower'd, 
 
 Till the scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves, 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 56 
 
 On the twinkhng grass, 
 Rain-awaken 'd flowers, 
 
 All that ever was 
 Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 60 
 
 Teach us, sprite or bird. 
 
 What sweet thoughts are thine: 
 I have never heard 
 Praise of love or wine 
 That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 65 
 
 Chorus hymeneal 
 
 Or triumphal chaunt 
 Match'd with thine, would be all 
 
 But an empty vaunt — 
 A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 7° 
 
To a Skylark 123 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain? 
 What fields, or waves, or mountains? 
 
 What shapes of sky or plain? 
 What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 75 
 
 With thy clear keen joyance 
 
 Languor cannot be: 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 Never came near thee : 
 Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety, 80 
 
 Waking or asleep 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 Things more true and deep 
 
 Than we mortals dream, 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 85 
 
 We look before and after, 
 
 And pine for what is not : 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught ; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 90 
 
 Yet if we could scorn 
 
 Hate, and pride, and fear; 
 If we were things born 
 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 95 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound, 
 Better than all treasures 
 
 That in books are found. 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 100 
 
124 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 
 That thy brain must know, 
 Such harmonious madness 
 
 From my lips would flow, 
 The world should listen then, as I am listening now! 105 
 
 A SONG 
 
 I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden; 
 Thou needest not fear mine; 
 My spirit is too deeply laden 
 Ever to burthen thine. 
 
 I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; 
 Thou needest not fear mine; 
 Innocent is the heart's devotion 
 With which I worship thine. 
 
 TO THE NIGHT 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave, 
 
 Spirit of Night! 
 Out of the misty eastern cave 
 Where, all the long and lone daylighf 
 Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 5 
 
 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 of Day, 10 
 
 Kiss her until she be wearied out: 
 Then wander o'er city and sea and land, 
 Touching all with thine opiate wand — 
 
 Come, long-sought! 
 
To the Moon 125 
 
 When I arose and saw the dawn, 15 
 
 I sigh'd for thee; 
 WTien Hght rode high, and the dew was gone, 
 And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
 And the weary Day turn'd to his rest 
 Lingering Uke an unloved guest, 20 
 
 I sigh'd for thee. 
 
 Thy brother Death came, and cried 
 
 VVouldst thou me? 
 Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
 Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee 25 
 
 Shall I nestle near thy side? 
 Wouldst thou me? — And I replied 
 
 No, not thee! 
 
 Death will come when thou art dead. 
 
 Soon, too soon — 30 
 
 Sleep will come when thou art fled; 
 Of neither would I ask the boon 
 I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
 Swift be thine approaching flight, 
 
 Come soon, soon! 35 
 
 TO THE MOON 
 
 Art thou pale for weariness 
 Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth. 
 
 Wandering companionless 
 Among the stars that have a different birth,- 
 And ever-changing, like a joyless eye 
 That finds no object worth its constancy? 
 
26 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE 
 
 Music, when soft voices die, 
 Vibrates in the memory — 
 Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 
 Live within the sense they quicken. 
 
 Rose leaves, when the rose is dead. 
 Are heap'd for the beloved's bed; 
 And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone, 
 Love itself shall slumber on. 
 
 ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED 
 
 One word is too often profaned 
 
 For me to profane it. 
 One feeling too falsely disdain 'd 
 
 For thee to disdain it. 
 One hope is too like despair 5 
 
 For prudence to smother. 
 And pity from thee more dear 
 
 Than that from another. 
 
 I can give not what men call love; 
 
 But wilt thou accept not 10 
 
 The worship the heart lifts above 
 
 And the Heavens reject not: 
 The desire of the moth for the star 
 
 Of the night for the morrow. 
 The devotion to something afar 15 
 
 From the sphere of our sorrow? 
 
The Flight of Love 127 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF LOVE 
 
 When the lamp is shalter'd 
 
 The light in the dust lies dead — 
 
 When the cloud is scatter'd, 
 
 The rainbow's glory is shed. 
 
 When the lute is broken, 5 
 
 Sweet tones are remember'd not; 
 
 When the lips have spoken, 
 
 Loved accents are soon forgot. 
 
 As music and splendor 
 
 Survive not the lamp and the lute, 10 
 
 The heart's echoes render 
 
 No song when the spirit is mute — 
 
 No song but sad dirges, 
 
 Like the wind through a ruin'd cell. 
 
 Or the mournful surges 15 
 
 That ring the dead seaman's knell. 
 
 When hearts have once mingled, 
 
 Love first leaves the well-built nest; 
 
 The weak one is singled 
 
 To endure what it once possesst. 20 
 
 O Love! who bewailest 
 
 The frailty of all things here, 
 
 Why choose you the frailest 
 
 For your cradle, your home, and your bier? 
 
 Its passions will rock thee 25 
 
 As the storms rock the ravens on high; 
 Bright reason will mock thee 
 Like the sun from a wintry sky. 
 
128 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 From thy nest every rafter 
 
 Will rot, and thine eagle home 30 
 
 Leave thee naked to laughter, 
 
 When leaves fall and cold winds come. 
 
 THRENOS 
 
 world! OLife! O Time! 
 On whose last steps I climb, 
 
 Trembling at that where I had stood before; 
 When will return the glory of your prime? 
 
 No more — Oh, never more! 5 
 
 Out of the day and night 
 A joy has taken flight: 
 
 Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar 
 Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight 
 
 No more — Oh, never more! 10 
 
 THE INVITATION 
 
 Best and brightest, come away, — 
 Fairer far than this fair Day, 
 Which, like thee, to those in sorrow- 
 Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 
 To the rough year just awake 5 
 
 In its cradle on the brake. 
 The brightest hour of unborn Spring 
 Through the winter wandering. 
 Found, it seems, the halcyon morn 
 To hoar February born ; 10 
 
 Bending from heaven, in azure mirth, 
 It kiss'd the forehead of the earth, 
 
The Invitation 129 
 
 And smiled upon the silent sea, 
 
 And bade the frozen streams be free, 
 
 And waked to music all their fountains, 15 
 
 And breathed upon the frozen mountains, 
 
 And like a prophetess of May 
 
 Strew'd flowers upon the barren way, 
 
 Making the wintry world appear 
 
 Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 20 
 
 Away, away, from men and towns. 
 To the wild wood and the downs — 
 To the silent wilderness 
 Where the soul need not repress 
 Its music, lest it should not find 25 
 
 An echo in another's mind, 
 While the touch of Nature's art 
 Harmonizes heart to heart. 
 
 Radiant Sister of the Day 
 Awake! arise! and come away! 30 
 
 To the wild woods and the plains, 
 To the pools where winter rains 
 Image all their roof of leaves, 
 Where the pine its garland weaves 
 Of sapless green, and ivy dun, 35 
 
 Round stems that never kiss the sun; 
 Where the lawns and pastures be 
 And the sandhills of the sea; 
 Where the melting hoar-frost wets 
 The daisy-star that never sets, 40 
 
 And wind-flowers and violets 
 Which yet join not scent to hue 
 Crown the pale year weak and new; 
 When the night is left behind 
 In the deep east, dim and blind, 45 
 
130 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 And the blue noon is over us, 
 
 And the multitudinous 
 
 Billows murmur at our feet, 
 
 Where the earth and ocean meet, 
 
 And all things seem only one 50 
 
 In the universal Sun. 
 
 THE RECOLLECTION 
 
 Now the last day of many days 
 
 All beautiful and bright as thou. 
 
 The loveliest and the last, is dead: 
 
 Rise, Memory, and write its praise! 
 
 Up — to thy wonted work! come, trace 5 
 
 The epitaph of glory fled, 
 
 For now the earth has changed its face, 
 
 A frown is on the heaven's brow. 
 
 We wander'd to the Pine Forest 
 
 That skirts the Ocean's foam; 10 
 
 The lightest wind was in its nest, 
 
 The tempest in its home. 
 The whispering waves were half asleep, 
 
 The clouds were gone to play. 
 And on the bosom of the deep 15 
 
 The smile of heaven lay; 
 It seem'd as if the hour were one 
 
 Sent from beyond the skies 
 Which scatter'd from above the sun 
 
 A light of Paradise! 20 
 
 We paused amid the pines that stood 
 
 The giants of the waste, 
 Tortured by storms to shapes as rude 
 
 As serpents interlaced, — 
 
The Recollection 131 
 
 And soothed by every azure breath 25 
 
 That under heaven is blown, 
 To harmonies and hues beneath, 
 
 As tender as its own : 
 Now all the tree-tops lay asleep 
 
 Like green waves on the sea, 30 
 
 As still as in the silent deep 
 
 The ocean- woods may be. 
 
 How calm it was! — The silence there 
 
 By such a chain was bound, 
 That even the busy woodpecker 35 
 
 Made stiller with her sound 
 The inviolable quietness; 
 
 The breath of peace we drew 
 With its soft motion made not less 
 
 The calm that round us grew. 40 
 
 There seem'd, from the remotest seat 
 
 Of the white mountain waste 
 To the soft flower beneath our feet, 
 
 A magic circle traced, — 
 A spirit interfused around, 45 
 
 A thriUing silent Hfe; 
 To momentary peace it bound 
 
 Our mortal nature's strife; — 
 And still I felt the center of 
 
 The magic circle there 50 
 
 Was one fair form that fill'd with lovs 
 
 The lifeless atmosphere. 
 
 We paused beside the pools that lie 
 
 Under the forest bough ; 
 Each seem'd as 't were a little sky 55 
 
 Gulf'd in a world below; 
 A firmanent of purple light 
 
 Which in the dark earth lay. 
 
132 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 More boundless than the depth of night 
 
 And purer than the day — 60 
 
 In which the lovely forests grew 
 
 As in the upper air, 
 More perfect both in shade and hue 
 
 Than any spreading there. 
 There lay the glade and neighboring lawn, 65 
 
 And through the dark-green wood 
 The white sun twinkling like the dawn 
 
 Out of a speckled cloud. 
 Sweet views in which our world above 
 
 Can never well be seen 70 
 
 Were imaged in the water's love 
 
 Of that fair forest green: 
 And all was interfused beneath 
 
 With an Elysian glow, 
 An atmosphere without a breath, 75 
 
 A softer day below. 
 Like one beloved, the scene had lent 
 
 To the dark water's breast 
 Its every leaf and lineament 
 
 With more than truth exprest; 80 
 
 Until an envious wind crept by, 
 
 Like an unwelcome thought 
 Which from the mind's too faithful eye 
 
 Blots one dear image out. 
 — Though thou art ever fair and kind, 85 
 
 The forests ever green, 
 Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind 
 
 Than calm in waters seen! 
 
To a Lady, with a Guitar 133 
 
 TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR 
 
 Ariel to Miranda: — Take 
 
 This slave of music, for the sake 
 
 Of him, who is the slave of thee; 
 
 And teach it all the harmony 
 
 In which thou canst, and only thou, 5 
 
 Make the delighted spirit glow, 
 
 Till joy denies itself again 
 
 And, too intense, is turn'd to pain. 
 
 For by permission and command 
 
 Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 10 
 
 Poor Ariel sends this silent token 
 
 Of more than ever can be spoken; 
 
 Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who 
 
 From hfe to life must still pursue 
 
 Your happiness, for thus alone 15 
 
 Can Ariel ever find his own. 
 
 From Prospero's enchanted cell, 
 
 As the mighty verses tell. 
 
 To the throne of Naples he 
 
 Lit you o'er the trackless sea, 20 
 
 Flitting on, your prow before, 
 
 Like a living meteor. 
 
 When you die, the silent Moon 
 
 In her interlunar swoon 
 
 Is not sadder in her cell 25 
 
 Than deserted Ariel : — 
 
 When you live again on earth, 
 
 Like an unseen Star of birth 
 
 Ariel guides you o'er the sea 
 
 Of life from your nativity : — 30 
 
 Many changes have been run 
 
 Since Ferdinand and you begun 
 
 Your course of love, and Ariel still 
 
134 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 Has track'd your steps and served your will. 
 
 Now in humbler, happier lot, 35 
 
 This is all remember 'd not; 
 
 And now, alas ! the poor Sprite is 
 
 Imprison 'd for some fault of his 
 
 In a body like a grave — 
 
 From you he only dares to crave, 40 
 
 For his service and his sorrow 
 
 A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 
 
 The artist who this idol wrought 
 
 To echo all harmonious thought, 
 
 Fell'd a tree, while on the steep 45 
 
 The woods were in their winter sleep, 
 
 Rock'd in that repose divine 
 
 On the wind-swept Apennine; 
 
 And dreaming, some of Autumn past. 
 
 And some of Spring approaching fast, 50 
 
 And some of April buds and showers, 
 
 And some of songs in July bowers. 
 
 And all of love: And so this tree, — 
 
 Oh that such our death may be! — 
 
 Died in sleep, and felt no pain, 55 
 
 To live in happier form again: 
 
 From which, beneath heaven's fairest star, 
 
 The artist wrought this loved Guitar; 
 
 And taught it justly to reply 
 
 To all who question skilfully 60 
 
 In language gentle as thine own; 
 
 Whispering in enamour'd tone 
 
 Sweet oracles of woods and dells, 
 
 And summer winds in sylvan cells: 
 
 — For it had learnt all harmonies 65 
 
 Of the plains and of the skies, 
 
 Of the forests and the mountains, 
 
 And the many- voiced fountains; 
 
The Poet's Dream 135 
 
 The clearest echoes of the hills, 
 
 The softest notes of falHng rills, 70 
 
 The melodies of birds and bees, 
 
 The murmuring of summer seas, 
 
 And pattering rain, and breathing dew, 
 
 And airs of evening ; and it knew 
 
 That seldom-heard mysterious sound 75 
 
 Which, driven on- its diurnal round. 
 
 As it floats through boundless day. 
 
 Our world enkindles on its way: 
 
 — All this it knows, but will not tell 
 
 To those who cannot question well 80 
 
 The Spirit that inhabits it; 
 
 It talks according to the wit 
 
 Of its companions; and no more 
 
 Is heard than has been felt before 
 
 By those who tempt it to betray 85 
 
 These secrets of an elder day. 
 
 But, sweetly as its answers will 
 
 Flatter hands of perfect skill, 
 
 It keeps its highest holiest tone 
 
 For our beloved Friend alone. 90 
 
 THE POETS DREAM 
 
 On a Poet's lips I slept 
 
 Dreaming like a love-adept 
 
 In the sound his breathing kept; 
 
 Nor seeks nor finds he mortal bhsses, 
 
 But feeds on the aerial kisses 
 
 Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. 
 
 He will watch from dawn to gloom 
 
 The lake-reflected sun illume 
 
 The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom. 
 
136 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 Nor heed nor see what things they be- 
 But from these create he can 
 Forms more real than hving Man, 
 
 Nurshngs of ImmortaUty! 
 
 A DIRGE 
 
 Rough wind, that moanest loud 
 
 Grief too sad for song; 
 Wild wind, when sullen cloud 
 
 Knells all the night long; 
 Sad storm whose tears are vain, 
 Bare woods whose branches stain, 
 Deep caves and dreary main, — 
 
 Wail for the world's wrong! 
 
JOHN KEATS 
 
John Keats 
 
POEMS OF KEATS 
 
 TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT 
 
 To one who has been long in city pent, 
 
 'T is very sweet to look into the fair 
 
 And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer 
 
 Full in the smile of the blue firmanent. 
 
 Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, 5 
 
 Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
 
 Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 
 
 And gentle tale of love and languishment? 
 
 Returning home at evening, with an ear 
 
 Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 10 
 
 Watching the saihng cloudlet's bright career, 
 
 He mourns that day so soon has glided by : 
 
 E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
 
 That falls through the clear ether silently. 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 
 
 Much have I travel'd in the realms of gold 
 And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 
 Round many western islands have I been 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
 That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: 
 — Then felt I Hke some watcher of the skies 
 139 
 
140 Jol^n Keats 
 
 When a new planet swims into his ken; 
 Or Hke stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 
 He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
 Look'd at each other with a wild surmise- 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 
 
 THE TERROR OF DEATH 
 
 When I have fears that I may cease to be 
 
 Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, 
 
 Before high-piled books, in charact'ry 
 
 Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; 
 
 When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, 5 
 
 Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 
 
 And think that I may never live to trace 
 
 Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; 
 
 And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour! 
 
 That I shall never look upon thee more, 10 
 
 Never have relish in the faery power 
 
 Of unreflecting love — then on the shore 
 
 Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
 
 Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 
 
 HAPPY INSENSIBILITY 
 
 In a drear-nighted December, 
 
 Too happy, happy tree. 
 
 Thy branches ne'er remember 
 
 Their green felicity : 
 
 The north cannot undo them 
 
 With a sleety whistle through them, 
 
 Nor frozen thawings glue them 
 
 From budding at the prime. 
 
The Eve of St. Agnes 141 
 
 In a drear-nighted December, 
 
 Too happy, happy brook, 10 
 
 Thy bubbUngs ne'er remember 
 
 Apollo's summer look; 
 
 But with a sweet forgetting 
 
 They stay their crystal fretting. 
 
 Never, never petting 15 
 
 About the frozen time. 
 
 Ah! would 't were so with many 
 
 A gentle girl and boy! 
 
 But were there ever any 
 
 Writhed not at passed joy? 20 
 
 To know the change and feel it, 
 
 When there is none to heal it 
 
 Nor numbed sense to steal it — 
 
 Was never said in rhyme. 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 
 
 I 
 St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! 
 The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; 
 The hare Hmp'd trembling through the frozen grass, 
 And silent was the flock in woolly fold: 
 Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told 
 His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
 Like pious incense from a censer old, 
 Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death. 
 Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 
 
 His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; 10 
 
 Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. 
 And back returneth, meager, barefoot, wan, 
 
142 John Keats 
 
 x\long the chapel aisle by slow degrees: 
 The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, 
 Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: 15 
 
 Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
 He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails 
 To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 
 
 Ill 
 Northward he turneth through a little door, 
 And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 2c 
 
 Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; 
 But no — already had his deathbell rung; 
 The joys of all his Hfe were said and sung; 
 His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: 
 Another way he went, and soon among 25 
 
 Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
 And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to grieve. 
 
 That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; 
 And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide. 
 From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 30 
 
 The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: 
 The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
 Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: 
 The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 
 
 Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 35 
 
 With hair blown back, and wings put cross- wise on their breasts. 
 
 v 
 At length burst in the argent revelry, 
 With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 
 Numerous as shadows haunting fairly 
 The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay 40 
 Of old romance. These let us wish away, 
 
The Eve of St. Agnes 143 
 
 And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, 
 Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
 On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, 
 As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 45 
 
 VI 
 
 They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
 Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
 And soft adorings from their loves receive 
 Upon the honey'd middle of the night. 
 If ceremonies due they did aright; 50 
 
 As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
 And couch supine their beauties, lily white; 
 Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
 Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 
 
 VII 
 
 Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: 55 
 
 The music, yearning like a God in pain. 
 She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, 
 Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
 Pass by — she heeded not at all: in vain 
 Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 60 
 
 And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain, 
 But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: 
 She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 
 
 \'iii 
 She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes, 
 Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: 65 
 The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs 
 Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
 Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 
 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
 Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort, 70 
 
 Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, 
 And all the bhss to be before to-morrow morn. 
 
144 John Keats 
 
 IX 
 
 So, purposing each moment to retire, 
 She Hnger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, 
 Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 75 
 
 For MadeHne. Beside the portal doors, 
 Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
 All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
 But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
 That he might gaze and worship all unseen; 80 
 
 Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have 
 been. 
 
 X 
 
 He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: 
 All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
 Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel: 
 For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 85 
 
 Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
 Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
 Against his lineage: not one breast affords 
 Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
 Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 90 
 
 XI 
 
 Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, 
 Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
 To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
 Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
 The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 95 
 
 He startled her; but soon she knew his face. 
 And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, 
 Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; 
 They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race! 
 
 XII 
 
 "Get hence! get hence! there 's dwarfish Hildebrand; 100 
 He had a fever late, and in the fit 
 
The Eve of St. Agnes I45 
 
 He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: 
 Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
 More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit ! 
 Flit like a ghost away." — "Ah, Gossip dear, 105 
 
 We 're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit, 
 And tell me how" — "Good Saints; not here, not here: 
 Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." 
 
 XIII 
 
 He foUow'd through a lowly arched way, 
 Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; no 
 
 And as she mutter'd "Well-a — well-a-day!" 
 He found him in a httle moonhght room, 
 Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
 "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
 "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 115 
 
 Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
 When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 
 
 XIV 
 
 "St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 
 Yet men will murder upon holy days; 
 Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 120 
 
 And be Hege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
 To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
 To see thee, Porphyro! — St. Agnes' Eve! 
 God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
 This very night: good angels her deceive! 125 
 
 But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time to grieve." 
 
 XV 
 
 Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. 
 
 While Porphyro upon her face doth look. 
 
 Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
 
 Who keepeth closed a wond'rous riddle-book, 130 
 
146 John Keats 
 
 As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
 But soon his eyes grew brilHant, when she told 
 His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook 
 Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, 
 And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 135 
 
 XVI 
 
 Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
 Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
 Made purple riot: then doth he propose 
 A stratagem that makes the beldame start: 
 "A cruel man and impious thou art: 140 
 
 Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream 
 Alone with her good angels, far apart 
 From wicked men like thee. Go, go! — I deem 
 Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." 
 
 XVII 
 
 "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 145 
 
 Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace 
 When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
 If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
 Or look with ruffian passion in her face: 
 Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 150 
 
 Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
 Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears. 
 And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and 
 bears." 
 
 XVIII 
 
 "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? 
 A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, 155 
 
 Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; 
 Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
 Were never miss'd." — Thus plaining, doth she bring 
 
The Eve of St. Agnes 147 
 
 A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
 So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 160 
 
 That Angela gives promise she will do 
 Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 
 
 XIX 
 
 Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
 Even to MadeHne's chamber, and there hide 
 Him in a closet, of such privacy 165 
 
 That he might see her beauty unespied. 
 And win perhaps that night a peerless bride. 
 While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet. 
 And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
 Never on such a night have lovers met, 170 
 
 Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 
 
 XX 
 
 "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: 
 "All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
 Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame 
 Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare, 175 
 
 For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
 On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
 Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer 
 The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed. 
 Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 180 
 
 XXI 
 
 So saying, she hobbled of? with busy fear. 
 The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; 
 The dame returned, and whisper'd in his ear 
 To follow her; with aged eyes aghast 
 From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 185 
 
 Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
 The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste; 
 Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. 
 His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 
 
148 John Keats 
 
 XXII 
 
 Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, 190 
 
 Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 
 When Madehne, St. Agnes' charmed maid. 
 Rose, Hke a mission'd spirit, unaware: 
 With silver taper's light, and pious care, 
 She turn'd. and down the aged gossip led 195 
 
 To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 
 Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; 
 She comes, she comes again, hke ring-dove fray'd and fled. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Out went the taper as she hurried in; 
 Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: 200 
 
 She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
 To spirits of the air, and visions wide: 
 No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide! 
 But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
 Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 205 
 
 As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
 Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 A casement high and triple-arch'd there was, 
 All garlanded with carven imag'ries 
 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 210 
 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
 Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
 As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; 
 And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, 
 And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 215 
 
 A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. 
 
 Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 
 And threw warm gules on Madehne's fair breast. 
 
The Eve of St. Agnes 149 
 
 As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; 
 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 220 
 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
 And on her hair a glory, hke a saint : 
 She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, 
 Save wings, for heaven :—Porphyro grew faint: 
 She knelt so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 225 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, 
 Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees, 
 Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one, 
 Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees 
 Her rich attire creeps rusthng to her knees: 230 
 
 Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. 
 Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 
 In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
 But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 
 
 XXMI 
 
 Soon, trembhng in her soft and chilly nest, 2.35 
 
 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, 
 Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
 Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; 
 Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day, 
 Bhssfully haven 'd both from joy and pain, 240 
 
 Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray. 
 Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
 As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, 
 
 Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 245 
 
 And Hsten'd to her breathing, if it chanced 
 
 To wake into a slumberous tenderness; 
 
 Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. 
 
150 John Keats 
 
 And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept, 
 Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 250 
 
 And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept. 
 And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! — how fast she slept. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
 Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
 A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 255 
 
 A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — 
 O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! 
 The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
 The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
 Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 260 
 
 The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 
 
 XXX 
 
 And still she slept an azure-hdded sleep, 
 In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, 
 While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
 Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd, 265 
 
 With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
 And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon, 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
 From Fez, and spiced dainties, every one, 
 From silken Samarcand to cedar 'd Lebanon. 270 
 
 XXXI 
 
 These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
 On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
 Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand 
 In the retired quiet of the night, 
 
 Fining the chilly room with perfume light. — 275 
 
 "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! 
 Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: 
 Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake. 
 Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 
 
The Eve of St. Agnes 151 
 
 xxxn 
 Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 280 
 
 Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
 By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a midnight charm 
 Impossible to melt as iced stream: 
 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
 Broad golden fringe upon the carpet Hes: 285 
 
 It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
 From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; 
 So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
 Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 290 
 He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
 In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans mercy:" 
 Close to her ear touching the melody; — 
 Wherewith disturb 'd, she utter'd a soft moan: 
 He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 295 
 
 Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : 
 Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
 Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: 
 There was a painful change, that night expell'd 300 
 
 The blisses of her dream so pure and deep; 
 At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
 And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; 
 While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; 
 Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 305 
 
 Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now 
 Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear. 
 
152 John Keats 
 
 Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; 
 And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: 310 
 
 How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear! 
 Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
 Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! 
 Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
 For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." 315 
 
 xxxvi 
 
 Beyond a mortal man impassion 'd far 
 At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
 Ethereal, flush'd, and Hke a throbbing star 
 Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; 
 Into her dream he melted, as the rose 320 
 
 Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
 Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows 
 Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
 Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 
 
 XXX\II 
 
 'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: 325 
 "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" 
 'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: 
 "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! 
 Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.— 
 Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring? 330 
 
 I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
 Though thou forsakest a deceived thing — 
 A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 "My Madehne! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! 
 Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 335 
 
 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? 
 Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
 After so many hours of toil and quest, 
 
The Eve of St. Agnes 153 
 
 A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
 Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 340 
 
 Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
 To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 "Hark! 't is an elfin storm from faery land, 
 Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
 Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; — 345 
 
 The bloated wassailers will never heed :■ — 
 Let us away, my love, with happy speed; 
 There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
 Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: 
 Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 350 
 
 For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." 
 
 XL 
 
 She hurried at his words, beset with fears. 
 For there were sleeping dragons all around. 
 At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears; 
 Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found; 355 
 In all the house was heard no human sound. 
 A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; 
 The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
 Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; 
 And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 360 
 
 XLI 
 
 They ghde, hke phantoms, into the wide hall; 
 Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
 Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
 With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
 The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 365 
 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: 
 By one, and one, the bolts full easy sHde: — 
 The chains he silent on the footworn stones; 
 The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 
 
154 John Keats 
 
 XLII 
 
 And they are gone: ay, ages long ago 370 
 
 These lovers fled away into the storm. 
 That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, 
 And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
 Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm. 
 Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 375 
 
 Died palsy-twitch'd, with meager face deform; 
 The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
 For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 
 
 THE HUMAN SEASONS 
 
 Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; 
 
 There are four seasons in the mind of man: 
 
 He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 
 
 Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 
 
 He has his Summer, when luxuriously 5 
 
 Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves 
 
 To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 
 
 Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves 
 
 His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 
 
 He furleth close; contented so to look 10 
 
 On mists in idleness — to let fair things 
 
 Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 
 
 He has his Winter too of pale misfeature 
 
 Or else he would forego his mortal natun 
 
 THE MERMAID TAVERN 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern, 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
 
The Realm of Fancy 155 
 
 Have ye tippled drink more fine S 
 
 Than mine host's Canary wine? 
 
 Or are fruits of Paradise 
 
 Sweeter than those dainty pies 
 
 Of venison? O generous food! 
 
 Drest as though bold Robin Hood 10 
 
 Would, with his Maid Marian, 
 
 Sup and bowse from horn and can. 
 
 I have heard that on a day 
 Mine host's sign-board flew away 
 Nobody knew whither, till 15 
 
 An astrologer's old quill 
 To a sheepskin gave the story. 
 Said he saw you in your glory, 
 Underneath a new-old sign 
 
 Sipping beverage divine, 20 
 
 And pledging with contented smack 
 The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone. 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern, 25 
 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
 
 THE REALM OF FANCY 
 
 Ever 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: 
 
 Open wide the mind's cage-door. 
 
 She '11 dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
 
156 John Keats 
 
 O sweet Fancy! let her loose; 
 
 Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 10 
 
 And the enjoying of the Spring 
 
 Fades as does its blossoming; 
 
 Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, 
 
 Blushing through the mist and dew, 
 
 Cloys with tasting: What do then? 15 
 
 Sit thee by the ingle, when 
 
 The sear faggot blazes bright, 
 
 Spirit of a winter's night; 
 
 When the soundless earth is muffled, 
 
 And the caked snow is shuffled 20 
 
 From the ploughboy's heavy shoon: 
 
 When the Night doth meet the Noon 
 
 In a dark conspiracy 
 
 To banish Even from her sky. 
 
 Sit thee there, and send abroad, 25 
 
 With a mind self-overaw'd, 
 
 Fancy, high-commission'd: — send her! 
 
 She has vassals to attend her: 
 
 She will bring, in spite of frost, 
 
 Beauties that the earth hath lost; 30 
 
 She will bring thee, all together 
 
 All dehghts of summer weather; 
 
 All the buds and bells of May, 
 
 From dewy sward or thorny spray; 
 
 All the heaped Autumn's wealth, . 35 
 
 With a still, mysterious stealth: 
 
 She will mix these pleasures up 
 
 Like three fit wines in a cup, 
 
 And thou shalt quaff it: — thou shalt hear 
 
 Distant harvest-carols clear; 40 
 
 Rustle of the reaped corn; 
 
 Sweet birds antheming the morn : 
 
 And, in the same moment — hark! 
 
 'Tis the early April lark. 
 
The Realm of Fancy 157 
 
 Or the rooks, with busy caw, 45 
 
 Foraging for sticks and straw. 
 
 Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
 
 The daisy and the marigold ; 
 
 White-plumed lilies, and the first 
 
 Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 50 
 
 Shaded hyacinth, alway 
 
 Sapphire queen of the mid-May; 
 
 And every leaf, and every flower 
 
 Pearled with the self-same shower. 
 
 Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 55 
 
 Meager from its celled sleep; 
 
 And the snake all winter-thin 
 
 Cast on sunny bank its skin; 
 
 Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
 
 Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 60 
 
 When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
 
 Quiet on her mossy nest; 
 
 Then the hurry and alarm 
 
 When the bee-hive casts its swarm, 
 
 Acorns ripe down-pattering, 65 
 
 While the autumn breezes sing, 
 
 Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; 
 Everything is spoilt by use : 
 Where 's the cheek that doth not fade. 
 Too much gazed at? Where 's the maid 70 
 
 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, 75 
 
 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 : 80 
 
158 John Keats 
 
 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 85 
 
 Shpt 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; 90 
 
 Quickly break her prison-string, 
 
 And such joys as these she '11 bring. 
 
 — Let the winged Fancy roam, 
 
 Pleasure never is at home. 
 
 ODE ON THE POETS 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth 
 
 Ye have left your souls on earth! 
 
 Have ye souls in heaven too. 
 
 Double-lived in regions new? 
 
 — Yes, and those of heaven commune 5 
 
 With the spheres of sun and moon; 
 
 With the noise of fountains wond'rous 
 
 And the parle of voices thund'rous; 
 
 With the whisper of heaven's trees 
 
 And one another, in soft ease 10 
 
 Seated on Elysian lawns 
 
 Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; 
 
 Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
 
 Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
 
 And the rose herself has got 15 
 
 Perfume which on earth is not; 
 
 Where the nightingale doth sing 
 
 Not a senseless, tranced thing, 
 
Ode on a Grecian Urn 159 
 
 But divine melodious truth; 
 
 Philosophic numbers smooth; 20 
 
 Tales and golden histories 
 
 Of heaven and its mysteries. 
 
 Thus ye hve on high, and then 
 On the earth ye live again; 
 
 And the souls ye left behind you 25 
 
 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 Httle week; 30 
 
 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, 35 
 
 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-hved in regions new! 40 
 
 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 
 
 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness. 
 Thou foster-child of silence and slow time. 
 
 Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
 A flowery tale more sweetly than our rime, 
 
 What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
 Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
 In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
 
i6o John Keats 
 
 What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? 
 What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
 What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? lo 
 
 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 
 Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
 Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, 
 
 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
 Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15 
 
 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; 
 Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
 Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 
 
 She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
 
 For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20 
 
 Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 
 
 Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
 And, happy melodist, unwearied. 
 
 For ever piping songs for ever new; 
 More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25 
 
 For ever warm and still to be enjoy 'd, 
 For ever panting, and for ever young; 
 All breathing human passion far above. 
 
 That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, 
 
 A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30 
 
 Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 
 
 To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
 Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 
 
 And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
 What Httle town by river or sea shore, 35 
 
 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
 Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? 
 And, httle town, thy streets for evermore 
 
 Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 
 
 Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40 
 
Ode to a Nightingale l6l 
 
 O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede 
 
 Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
 With forest branches and the trodden weed; 
 
 Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
 As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 45 
 
 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," — that is all 
 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 50 
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
 My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
 
 One minute past, and Lethe- wards had sunk: 
 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5 
 
 But being too happy in thine happiness, — 
 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
 In some melodious plot 
 Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
 
 Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 10 
 
 O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been 
 
 Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
 Tasting of Flora and the country green, 
 
 Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! 
 for a beaker full of the warm South, 15 
 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
 And purple-stained mouth; 
 That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. 
 And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 20 
 
62 John Keats 
 
 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 
 What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 
 Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 
 Where palsy shakes a iew, sad, last gray hairs, 25 
 
 Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies 
 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
 And leaden-eyed despairs; 
 Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 30 
 
 Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 
 
 Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 
 Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 
 Already with thee! tender is the night, 35 
 
 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
 Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; 
 But here there is no light, 
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 40 
 
 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 
 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
 
 Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 45 
 
 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
 Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; 
 And mid-May's eldest child. 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 
 
 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 50 
 
 Darkling I listen; and for many a time 
 
 I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
 
 Call'd him soft names in many a mused rime, 
 To take into the air my quiet breath; 
 
Ode to Autumn 163 
 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55 
 
 To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
 In such an ecstasy! 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. 60 
 
 Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 
 
 No hungry generations tread thee down; 
 The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
 
 In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
 Perhaps the self -same song that found a path 65 
 
 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home. 
 She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
 The same that oft-times hath 
 Charm 'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70 
 
 Forlorn! the very word is hke a bell 
 
 To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
 Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
 Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 75 
 
 Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
 Up the hill-side; and now 't is buried deep 
 In the next valley-glades: 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 
 
 Fled is that music: — Do I w^ake or sleep? 80 
 
 ODE TO AUTUMN 
 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 
 
 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
 
 Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
 
 With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; 
 
164 John Keats 
 
 To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 5 
 
 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 
 
 To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
 
 With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 
 
 And still more, later flowers for the bees. 
 
 Until they think warm days will never cease; 10 
 
 For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. 
 
 Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 
 
 Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
 
 Thee sitting careless on a granary floor. 
 
 Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 15 
 
 Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
 
 Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
 
 Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 
 
 And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
 
 Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 20 
 
 Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 
 
 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 25 
 
 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 Hght wind lives or dies; 
 
 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 30 
 
 Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 
 
 The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; 
 
 And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 
 
La Belle Dame Sans Merci 165 
 
 LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 
 
 "O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms. 
 Alone and palely loitering? 
 The sedge has wither'd from the lake, 
 And no birds sing. 
 
 "O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 5 
 
 So haggard and so woe-begone? 
 The squirrel's granary is full, 
 And the harvest 's done. 
 
 "I see a lily on thy brow 
 
 With anguish moist and fever-dew, 10 
 
 And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
 Fast withereth too." 
 
 "I met a lady in the meads. 
 
 Full beautiful — a faery's child, 
 Her hair was long, her foot was light, 15 
 
 And her eyes were wild. 
 
 "I made a garland for her head, 
 
 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 
 She look'd at me as she did love, 
 
 And made sweet moan. 20 
 
 "I set her on my pacing steed 
 
 And nothing else saw all day long, 
 For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
 A faery's song. 
 
 "She found me roots of relish sweet, 25 
 
 And honey wild and manna-dew. 
 And sure in language strange she said 
 'I love thee true.' 
 
i66 John Keats . 
 
 "She took me to her elfin grot, 
 
 And there she wept and sigh'd full sore; 30 
 
 And there I shut her wild wild eyes 
 With kisses four. 
 
 "And there she lulled me asleep, 
 
 And there I dream'd — Ah! woe betide! 
 The latest dream I ever dream'd 35 
 
 On the cold hill's side. 
 
 "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 ! ' 40 
 
 "I saw their starved lips in the gloam 
 With horrid warning gaped wide. 
 And I awoke and found me here 
 On the cold hill's side. 
 
 "And this is why I sojourn here 45 
 
 Alone and palely loitering, 
 Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake. 
 And no birds sing." 
 
 BRIGHT STAR! WOULD I WERE STEADFAST 
 
 Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art — 
 
 Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night, 
 
 And watching, with eternal lids apart. 
 
 Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite. 
 
 The moving waters at their priestHke task 
 
 Of pure ablution round earth's human shores. 
 
 Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 
 
 Of snow upon the mountains and the moors: — 
 
Bright Star! Would I Were Steadfast 167 
 
 No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 
 
 Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast 10 
 
 To feel forever its soft fall and swell. 
 
 Awake forever in a sweet unrest ; 
 
 Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 
 
 And so live ever, — or else swoon to death. 
 
THE LESSER POETS 
 
Sir Walter Scott 
 An engraving by Heath after a portrait by Saxon 
 
SELECTIONS FROM THE LESSER POETS 
 
 GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil 
 Wake thy wild voice anew. 
 
 Summon Clan Conuil. 
 Come away, come away, 5 
 
 Hark to the summons! 
 Come in your war-array. 
 
 Gentles and commons. 
 
 Come from deep glen, and 
 
 From mountain so rocky; lo 
 
 The war-pipe and pennon 
 
 Are at Inverlocky. 
 Come every hill-plaid, and 
 
 True heart that wears one. 
 Come every steel blade, and 15 
 
 Strong hand that bears one. 
 
 Leave untended the herd, 
 
 The flock without shelter; 
 Leave the corpse uninterr'd, 
 
 The bride at the altar; 20 
 
 Leave the deer, leave the steer, 
 
 Leave nets and barges: 
 Come with your fighting gear, 
 
 Broadswords and targes. 
 171 
 
172 The Lesser Poets 
 
 Come as the winds come, when 25 
 
 Forests are rended, 
 Come as the waves come, when 
 
 Navies are stranded: 
 Faster come, faster come, 
 
 Faster and faster, 30 
 
 Chief, vassal, page and groom. 
 
 Tenant and master. 
 
 Fast they come, fast they come; 
 
 See how they gather! 
 Wide waves the eagle plume 35 
 
 Blended with heather. 
 Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 
 
 Forward each man set! 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 
 
 Knell for the onset ! 40 
 
 Scott. 
 
 A SERENADE 
 
 Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh. 
 
 The sun has left the lea, 
 The orange-flower perfumes the bower, 
 
 The breeze is on the sea. 
 The lark, his lay who trill'd all day. 
 
 Sits hush'd his partner nigh; 
 Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour. 
 
 But where is County Guy? 
 
 The village maid steals through the shade 
 
 Her shepherd's suit to hear; 
 To Beauty shy, by lattice high. 
 
 Sings high-born CavaHer. 
 
Coronach 173 
 
 The star of Love, all stars above, 
 
 Now reigns o'er earth and sky, 
 And high and low the influence know — 15 
 
 But where is County Guy? 
 
 Scott. 
 
 CORONACH 
 
 He is gone on the mountain, 
 
 He is lost to the forest, 
 Like a summer-dried fountain. 
 
 When our need was the sorest. 
 The font reappearing 5 
 
 From the raindrops shall borrow. 
 But to us comes no cheering, 
 
 To Duncan no morrow! 
 
 The hand of the reaper 
 
 Takes the ears that are hoary, 10 
 
 But the voice of the weeper 
 
 Wails manhood in glory. 
 The autumn winds rushing 
 
 Waft the leaves that are searest 
 But our flower was in flushing 15 
 
 When blighting was nearest. 
 
 Fleet foot on the correi, 
 
 Sage counsel in cumber, 
 Red hand in the foray, 
 
 How sound is thy slumber! 20 
 
 Like the dew on the mountain. 
 
 Like the foam on the river. 
 Like the bubble on the fountain. 
 
 Thou art gone; and for ever! 
 
 Scoti. 
 
174 The Lesser Poets 
 
 HUNTING SONG 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 On the mountain dawns the day; 
 All the jolly chase is here 
 With hawk and horse and hunting-spear; 
 Hounds are in their couples yelling, 5 
 
 Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 
 Merrily merrily mingle they, 
 'Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
 
 The mist has left the mountain gray, 10 
 
 Springlets in the dawn are steaming. 
 
 Diamonds on the brake are gleaming; 
 
 And foresters have busy been 
 
 To track the buck in thicket green ; 
 
 Now we come to chant our lay 15 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 To the greenwood haste away; 
 We can show you where he lies. 
 Fleet of foot and tall of size; 20 
 
 We can show the marks he made 
 When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; 
 You shall see him brought to bay; 
 'Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
 Louder, louder chant the lay 25 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay! 
 
 Tell them youth and mirth and glee 
 
 Run a course as well as we; 
 
Datur Hora Quieti 175 
 
 Time, stern hunt^an! who can balk, 
 
 Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk; 30 
 
 Think of this, and rise with day, 
 
 Gentle lords and ladies gay! 
 
 Scott. 
 
 DATUR HORA QUIETI 
 
 The sun upon the lake is low, 
 
 The wild birds hush their song, 
 The hills have evening's deepest glow, 
 
 Yet Leonard tarries long. 
 Now all whom varied toil and care 5 
 
 From home and love divide, 
 In the calm sunset may repair 
 
 Each to the loved one's side. 
 
 The noble dame, on turret high, 
 
 Who waits her gallant knight, 10 
 
 Looks to the western beam to spy 
 
 The flash of armor bright. 
 The village maid, with hand on brow 
 
 The level ray to shade, 
 Upon the footpath watches now 15 
 
 For Colin's darkening plaid. 
 
 Now to their mates the wild swans row, 
 
 By day they swam apart. 
 And to the thicket wanders slow 
 
 The hind beside the hart. 20 
 
 The woodlark at his partner's side 
 
 Twitters his closing song — 
 All meet whom day and care divide, 
 
 But Leonard tarries long! 
 
 Scott. 
 
176 The Lesser Poets 
 
 THE ROVER 
 
 A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, 
 
 A weary lot is thine! 
 To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 
 
 And press the rue for wine. 
 A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 5 
 
 A feather of the blue, 
 A doublet of the Lincoln green — 
 
 No more of me you knew 
 
 My Love! 
 No more of me you knew. 10 
 
 This morn is merry June, I trow. 
 
 The rose is budding fain; 
 But she shall bloom in winter snow 
 
 Ere we two meet again." 
 He turn'd his charger as he spake 15 
 
 Upon the river shore. 
 He gave the bridal-reins a shake, 
 
 Said "Adieu for evermore 
 
 My Love! 
 And adieu for evermore." 20 
 
 Scott. 
 
 JOCK OF HAZELDEAN 
 
 "Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide? 
 
 I '11 wed ye to my youngest son, 
 
 And ye sail be his bride: 
 And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 5 
 
 Sae comely to be seen " — 
 But aye she loot ^ the tears down fa' 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 1 Loot = let. 
 
Song to the Evening Star 177 
 
 "Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 
 
 And dry that cheek so pale; 10 
 
 Young Frank is chief of Errington 
 
 And Lord of Langley-dale ; 
 His step is first in peaceful ha', 
 
 His sword in battle keen" — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 15 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 "A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 
 
 Nor braid to bind your hair, 
 Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 
 
 Nor palfrey fresh and fair; 20 
 
 And you the foremost o' them a' 
 
 Shall ride our forest-queen" — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, 25 
 
 The tapers glimmer'd fair; 
 The priest and bridegroom wait the bride. 
 
 And dame and knight are there: 
 They sought her baith by bower and ha'; 
 
 The ladie was not seen! 30 
 
 She 's o'er the Border, and awa' 
 
 Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 Scott. 
 
 SONG TO THE EVENING STAR 
 
 Star that bringest home the bee, 
 And sett'st the weary laborer free! 
 If any star shed peace, 't is Thou 
 
 That send'st it from above, 
 x\ppearing when Heaven's breath and brow S 
 
 Are sweet as hers we love. 
 
1 7^ The Lesser Poets 
 
 Come to the luxuriant skies, 
 Whilst the landscape's odors rise, 
 Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard 
 
 And songs when toil is done, lo 
 
 From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd 
 
 Curls yellow in the sun. 
 
 Star of love's soft interviews, 
 
 Parted lovers on thee muse ; 
 
 Their remembrancer in Heaven 15 
 
 Of thriUing vows thou art, 
 Too delicious to be riven 
 
 By absence from the heart. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 LORD ULLIN'S DA UGHTER 
 
 A Chieftain to the Highlands bound 
 Cries " Boatman, do not tarry! 
 And I '11 give thee a silver pound 
 To row us o'er the ferry!" 
 
 " Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
 This dark and stormy water? " 
 
 " I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
 And this, Lord UlHn's daughter. 
 
 " And fast before her father's men 
 Three days we 've fled together, 
 For should he find us in the glen. 
 My blood would stain the heather. 
 
 " His horsemen hard behind us ride — 
 Should they our steps discover, 
 Then who will cheer my bonny bride. 
 When they have slain her lover?" 
 
Lord Ullin's Daughter 179 
 
 Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
 " I '11 go, my chief, I 'm ready: 
 It is not for your silver bright. 
 But for your winsome lady: — 20 
 
 " And by my word! the bonny bird 
 In danger shall not tarry; 
 So though the waves are raging white 
 I '11 row you o'er the ferry." 
 
 By this the storm grew loud apace, 25 
 
 The water-wraith was shrieking; 
 And in the scowl of Heaven each face 
 Grew dark as they were speaking. 
 
 But still as wilder blew the wind. 
 
 And as the night grew drearer, 30 
 
 Adown the glen rode armed men, 
 
 Their tramphng sounded nearer. 
 
 ' haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, 
 ' Though tempests round us gather; 
 
 I '11 meet the raging of the skies, 35 
 
 But not an angry father." 
 
 The boat has left a stormy land, 
 
 A stormy sea before her,— 
 
 When, oh! too strong for human hand 
 
 The tempest gather 'd o'er her. 40 
 
 And still they row'd amidst the roar 
 Of waters fast prevailing: 
 Lord Ulhn reach'd that fatal shore,— 
 His wrath was changed to wailing. 
 
i8o The Lesser Poets 
 
 For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade 45 
 
 His child he did discover: — 
 
 One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, 
 
 And one was round her lover. 
 
 " Come back! come back!" he cried in grief 
 
 " Across this stormy water: 50 
 
 And I '11 forgive your Highland chief, 
 
 My daughter! — Oh, my daughter!" 
 
 'T was vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, 
 Return or aid preventing: 
 
 The waters wild went o'er his child, 55 
 
 And he was left lamenting. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 HOHENLINDEN 
 
 On Linden, when the sun was low. 
 All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolKng rapidly. 
 
 But Linden saw another sight, 5 
 
 When the drum beat at dead of night . 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast array'd 
 Each horseman drew his battle-blade 10 
 
 And furious every charger neigh 'd 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder riven; 
 Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven; 
 And louder than the bolts of Heaven 15 
 
 Far flashed the red artillery. 
 
Ye Mariners of England i8i 
 
 But redder yet that light shall grow 
 On Linden's hills of stained snow; 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 20 
 
 'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds, roUing dun, 
 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 The combat deepens. On, ye Brave 25 
 
 Who rush to glory, or the grave! 
 Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, 
 And charge with all thy chivalry! 
 
 Few, few shall part, where many meet! 
 The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 30 
 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 
 
 That guard our native seas! 
 
 Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 
 
 The battle and the breeze! 
 
 Your glorious standard launch again 
 
 To match another foe: 
 
 And sweep through the deep, 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow ; 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
The Lesser Poets 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave — 
 
 For the deck it was their field of fame, 
 
 And Ocean was their grave: 
 
 Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 15 
 
 Your manly hearts shall glow, 
 
 As ye sweep through the deep, 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow; 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 20 
 
 Britannia needs no bulwarks. 
 
 No towers along the steep; 
 
 Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 
 
 Her home is on the deep. 
 
 With thunders from her native oak 25 
 
 She quells the floods below — 
 
 As they roar on the shore, 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow ; 
 
 When the battle rages loud and long, 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 30 
 
 The meteor flag of England 
 Shall yet terrific burn; 
 Till danger's troubled night depart 
 And the star of peace return. 
 
 Then, then, ye ocean- warriors ! 35 
 
 Our song and feast shall flow 
 To the fame of your name, 
 When the storm has ceased to blow; 
 When the fiery fight is heard no more, 
 And the storm has ceased to blow. 40 
 
 Campbell. 
 
Hester 183 
 
 HESTER 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die 
 Their place ye may not well supply, 
 Though ye among a thousand try 
 
 With vain endeavor. 
 A month or more hath she been dead, 5 
 
 Yet cannot I by force be led 
 To think upon the wormy bed 
 
 And her together. 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 
 A rising step, did indicate 10 
 
 Of pride and joy no common rate 
 
 That flush'd her spirit : 
 I know not by what name beside 
 I shall it call: if 't was not pride, 
 It was a joy to that allied 15 
 
 She did inherit. 
 
 Her parents held the Quaker rule. 
 Which doth the human feehng cool; 
 But she was train'd in Nature's school, 
 
 Nature had blest her. 20 
 
 A waking eye, a prying mind, 
 A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; 
 A hawk's keen sight ye cannot bhnd 
 
 Ye could not Hester. 
 
 My sprightly neighbor! gone before 25 
 
 To that unknown and silent shore, 
 Shall we not meet, as heretofore 
 
 Some summer morning — 
 
184 The Lesser Poets 
 
 When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
 Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 30 
 
 A bliss that would not go away, 
 A sweet fore-warning? 
 
 Lamh. 
 
 ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN 
 
 I SAW where in the shroud did lurk 
 
 A curious frame of Nature's work; 
 
 A flow'ret crushed in the bud, 
 
 A nameless piece of Babyhood, 
 
 Was in her cradle-coffin lying; 5 
 
 Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: 
 
 So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb 
 
 For the darker closets of the tomb! 
 
 She did but ope an eye, and put 
 
 A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 10 
 
 For the long dark: ne'er more to see 
 
 Through glasses of mortality. 
 
 Riddle of destiny, who can show 
 
 What thy short visit meant, or know 
 
 What thy errand here below? 15 
 
 Shall we say, that Nature blind 
 
 Check'd her hand, and changed her mind 
 
 Just when she had exactly wrought 
 
 A finish'd pattern without fault? 
 
 Could she flag, or could she tire, 20 
 
 Or lack'd she the Promethean fire 
 
 (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) 
 
 That should thy Httle limbs have quicken'd? 
 
 Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure 
 
 Life of health, and days mature: 25 
 
 Woman's self in miniature! 
 
 Limbs so fair, they might supply 
 
 (Themselves now but cold imagery) 
 
On an Infant Dying as Soon as Born 185 
 
 The sculptor to make Beauty by. 
 
 Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry 30 
 
 That babe or mother, one must die; 
 
 So in mercy left the stock 
 
 And cut the branch; to save the shock 
 
 Of young years widow'd, and the pain 
 
 When Single State comes back again 35 
 
 To the lone man who, reft of wife, 
 
 Thenceforward drags a maimed life? 
 
 The economy of Heaven is dark, 
 
 And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark 
 
 Why human buds, like this, should fall, 40 
 
 More brief than fly ephemeral 
 
 That has his day; while shrivel'd crones 
 
 Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; 
 
 And crabbed use the conscience sears 
 
 In sinners of an hundred years. 45 
 
 — Mother's prattle, mother's kiss. 
 
 Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss: 
 
 Rites, which custom does impose, 
 
 Silver bells, and baby clothes; 
 
 Coral redder than those hps 50 
 
 Which pale death did late eclipse; 
 
 Music framed for infants' glee. 
 
 Whistle never tuned for thee; 
 
 Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, 
 
 Loving hearts were they which gave them.. 55 
 
 Let not one be missing; nurse, 
 
 See them laid upon the hearse 
 
 Of infant slain by doom perverse. 
 
 Why should kings and nobles have 
 
 Pictured trophies to their grave, 60 
 
 And we, churls, to thee deny 
 
 Thy pretty toys with thee to lie — ■ 
 
 A more harmless vanity? 
 
 Lamb. 
 
1 86 The Lesser Poets 
 
 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 
 
 I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, 
 In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I have been laughing, 1 have been carousing, 
 Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I loved a Love once, fairest among women: 
 Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — 
 All, all are gone, the old famihar faces. 
 
 1 have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: 
 Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; 
 Left him, to muse on the old famihar faces. 
 
 Ghost-like 1 paced round the haunts of my childhood, 
 Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, 
 Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 
 
 Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
 Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? 
 So might we talk of the old familiar faces, 
 
 How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
 And some are taken from me; all are departed; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 Lamb, 
 
Past and Present 187 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT 
 
 I REMEMBER, I remember 
 
 The house where I was born, 
 
 The httle window where the sun 
 
 Came peeping in at morn; 
 
 He never came a wink too soon 5 
 
 Nor brought too long a day; 
 
 But now, I often wish the night 
 
 Had borne my breath away. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The roses, red and white, 10 
 
 The violets, and the lily-cups — 
 
 Those flowers made of light ! 
 
 The Klacs where the robin built, 
 
 And where my brother set 
 
 The laburnum on his birth-day, — 15 
 
 The tree is living yet! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swing, 
 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing; 20 
 
 My spirit flew in feathers then 
 
 That is so heavy now, 
 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 
 The fever on my brow. 
 
 I remember, I remember 25 
 
 The fir trees dark and high; 
 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 
 Were close against the sky: 
 
1 88 The Lesser Poets 
 
 It was a childish ignorance, 
 
 But now 't is httle joy 30 
 
 To know I 'm farther off from Heaven 
 
 Than when I was a boy. 
 
 Hood. 
 
 THE DEATH BED 
 
 We watch'd her breathing thro' the night, 
 
 Her breathing soft and low, 
 As in her breast the wave of Ufe 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 So silently we seem'd to speak, 5 
 
 So slowly moved about, 
 As we had lent her half our powers 
 
 To eke her living out. 
 
 Our very hopes beHed our fears, • 
 
 Our fears our hopes belied — 10 
 
 We thought her dying when she slept. 
 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 For when the morn came dim and sad 
 
 And chill with early showers. 
 Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 15 
 
 Another morn than ours. 
 
 Hood. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT 
 CORUNNA 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
 As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; 
 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
The Burial of Sir John Moore 189 
 
 We buried him darkiy at dead of night, 5 
 
 The sods with our bayonets turning; 
 By the struggHng moonbeam's misty Hght 
 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
 
 Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 10 
 
 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15 
 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 We thought, as we hoUow'd his narrow bed 
 
 And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 
 
 And we far away on the billow! 20 
 
 Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone 
 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 
 But little he '11 reck, if they let him sleep on, 
 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done 25 
 
 When the clock struck the hour for retiring: 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun 
 That the foe was sullenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 30 
 
 We carved not a Hne, and we raised not a stone. 
 
 But we left him alone with his glory. 
 
 Wolfe. 
 
190 The Lesser Poets 
 
 THE YOUNG MAY MOON 
 
 The young May moon is beaming, love, 
 The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, 
 
 How sweet to rove 
 
 Through Morna's grove, 
 When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! 5 
 
 Then awake! — the heavens look bright, my dear, 
 'T is never too late for delight, my dear. 
 
 And the best of all ways 
 
 To lengthen our days, 
 Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! 10 
 
 Now all the world is sleeping, love. 
 
 But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, 
 
 And I, whose star, 
 
 More glorious far. 
 Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. 15 
 
 Then awake! — till rise of sun, my dear. 
 The Sage's glass we '11 shun, my dear, 
 
 Or, in watching the flight 
 
 Of bodies of light. 
 He might happen to take thee for one, my dear. 20 
 
 Moore. 
 
 THE JOURNEY ONWARDS 
 
 As slow our ship her foamy track 
 
 Against the wind was cleaving. 
 Her trembhng pennant still look'd back 
 
 To that dear isle 't was leaving. 
 So loth we part from all we love. 
 
 From all the links that bind us; 
 So turn our hearts, as on we rove. 
 
 To those we 've left behind us ! 
 
The Light of Other Days 191 
 
 When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years 
 
 We talk with joyous seeming — 10 
 
 With smiles that might as well be tears, 
 
 So faint, so sad their beaming; 
 While memory brings us back again 
 
 Each early tie that twined us, 
 Oh, sweet 's the cup that circles then 15 
 
 To those we 've left behind us! 
 
 And when, in other climes, we meet 
 
 Some isle or vale enchanting. 
 Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, 
 . And nought but love is wanting; 20 
 
 We think how great had been our bliss 
 
 If Heaven had but assign'd us 
 To live and die in scenes like this, 
 
 With some we 've left behind us ! 
 
 As travelers oft look back at eve 25 
 
 When eastward darkly going. 
 To gaze upon that light they leave 
 
 Still faint behind them glowing,— 
 So, when the close of pleasure'd day 
 
 To gloom hath near consign 'd us, 30 
 
 We turn to catch one fading ray 
 
 Of joy that 's left behind us. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS 
 
 Oft in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Fond Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me : 
 The smiles, the tears 
 Of boyhood's years. 
 
192 The Lesser Poets 
 
 The words of love then spoken; 
 The eyes that shone, 
 Now dimm'd and gone, 
 The cheerful hearts now broken! 10 
 
 Thus in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad Memory brings the Hght 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 When I remember all 15 
 
 The friends so hnk'd together 
 I 've seen around me fall 
 
 Like leaves in wintry weather, 
 I feel like one 
 
 Who treads alone 20 
 
 Some banquet-hall deserted, 
 Whose lights are fled 
 Whose garlands dead, 
 And all but he departed! 
 Thus in the stilly night 25 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me 
 Sad Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA 
 
 A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 
 
 A wind that follows fast 
 And fills the white and rustUng sail 
 
 And bends the gallant mast; 
 And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 
 
 While Hke the eagle free 
 Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
 
 Old England on the lee. 
 
A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 193 
 
 for a soft and gentle wind! 
 
 I heard a fair one cry; 10 
 
 But give to me the snoring breeze 
 
 And white waves heaving high; 
 And white waves heaving high, my lads, 
 
 The good ship tight and free — 
 The world of waters is our home, 15 
 
 And merry men are we. 
 
 There 's tempest in yon horned moon, 
 
 And lightning in yon cloud; 
 But hark the music, mariners! 
 
 The wind is piping loud; 20 
 
 The wind is piping loud, my boys. 
 
 The Hghtning flashes free — 
 While the hollow oak our palace is, 
 
 Our heritage the sea. 
 
 Cunningham. 
 
NOTES AND COMMENT 
 
 (Heavy numerals refer to lines of the poems) 
 
 There are two ways of reading poetry, both profitable. One is to 
 read with the single purpose of discovering the author's meaning, 
 just what ideas and emotions he is trying to make his readers under- 
 stand and feel ; and the other is to read with the intention of discover- 
 ing also the interest and value in every allusion which he makes. For 
 poetry even more than prose is compact; it is full of ideas which gain 
 a great deal of their value because of their association with other ideas 
 which are alread>' in the mind of the writer and which he presumes to 
 he in the mind of the reader also. When Wordsworth, for example, 
 writes 
 
 "Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn," 
 
 he has in mind certain definite figures of Greek mjlhology, and if the 
 reader does not know whom the Greeks imagined Proteus and Triton 
 to be, he misses to some extent at least the effect of Wordsworth's 
 imagery. It is true, however, that in many cases the reader's imagina- 
 tion is stimulated by such names and allusions to delightful visions 
 of its own; and it is very easy to overestimate the value of investigat- 
 ing and discovering the exact significance of the poet's references. 
 Certainly nobody would deny that it is much more important to un- 
 derstand his message than it is to understand his allusions, and if 
 discussion of his allusions distracts the reader's attention from the 
 real meaning and delight of the poem as a whole, then such discussion 
 has been carried too far. 
 
 The most important thing, then, for the reader of these poems to 
 ask himself is, What idea has Wordsworth or Shelley or Scott tried to 
 make plain? What does he mean? Sometimes the emotion of the 
 poem is very simple, as in The Reverie of Poor Susan, where Words- 
 worth's attempt is only to tell the reader how this poor old woman in 
 
 195 
 
196 Notes and Comment 
 
 London, whenever she used to hear a caged thrush singing, was re- 
 minded of her home when she was a girl in the country, and how beau- 
 tiful and yet how sad were her recollections. Sometimes the emotion 
 is more complicated, as in Shelley's Ode to the West Wind, in which 
 the poet's apostrophe to the wind is bound up with his own feeling 
 that he and the wind are akin to each other, trying to accomplish the 
 same renewal of life in a dead world. Sometimes, as in Wordsworth's 
 Ode on Intimations of Immortality, the feeling is not to be called purely 
 emotional, but is the expression of wonder and speculation that is 
 almost a kind of philosophy. It is generally true, however, that in 
 poetry of a fine and high order, such as the selections in this book al- 
 most exclusively consist of, the idea or the emotion is simple and clear, 
 and with the assistance of a few suggestions a reader, even if he has 
 not been very much accustomed to the reading of poetry, ought not 
 to feel himself confused or doubtful about what each poem means. 
 Whether the meaning of the poem does Or does not particularly ap- 
 peal to him, depends of course on what his own moods and feelings 
 and training have been. The more he reads and the longer he lives 
 and continues to widen his experiences, of course the more open he will 
 be to different sorts of emotional interest. But the man or woman 
 never lived to whom some sorts of poetry did not appeal, and the 
 idea that one does not "like poetry" means simply that one has never 
 tried to read it, or else that one has read it as an exercise rather than 
 as a pleasure. 
 
 For it is absolutely necessary that in reading poetry we realize that 
 we are not reading prose. The ideas which are presented to us in 
 poetry are so presented because they are fitted to that kind of presen- 
 tation, and to understand them and enjoy them we must be able to 
 appreciate the way in which they are presented. Anybody who can 
 read, can read prose; but to read poetry some special training is 
 necessary. This training concerns itself chiefly of course with the 
 matter of rhythm. The chief beauty of poetry, so far as rhythm is 
 concerned, lies in the contrast between the steady onward movement 
 of the idea and the regular recurring beat of the verse. If, in reading, 
 the expression of the idea is sacrificed to the desire to emphasize the 
 regular beat of the verse, the reading becomes monotonous, mechan- 
 
Notes and Comment 197 
 
 ical, and dull. One might almost as well substitute la la la, la la la, 
 la la la, for the words of the poet. If on the other, hand the reader is 
 so much taken up with the expression of the poet's idea that he ignores 
 the beat of the poet's music, then he is really defeating the poet's own 
 intention. For he is reading the ideas as if they had been written in 
 prose. But the reader must pay attention also to the general form of 
 the poem, as well as to its arrangement of meter. We may start with 
 the assumption that the poets did nothing carelessly, that if they 
 used a particular form they did so because they thought that form 
 was especially suited to the ideas they had at that particular time to 
 express. In the Ode to the West Wind, as has been said, Shelley's 
 emotions are more or less complicated. So he adopts a verse-form 
 which gives him room fully to develop those emotions with due re- 
 gard to their dignity as well as to their beauty. Wordsworth, on the 
 other hand, in The Reverie of Poor Susan, with his extremely simple 
 idea, can use a simple form of verse. It is thus worth while to notice 
 the different forms which the various writers employ, and to ask one- 
 self why this form or that was used in this instance. The immense 
 variety of these forms is an interesting illustration of the fact that at 
 this particular period every poet was a law to himself. There was no 
 prescribed fashion in accordance with which he had to write. 
 
 The following notes, therefore, are planned first to explain the 
 meaning of any particular poem when that meaning seems in any 
 way obscure; second, to comment upon such allusions or such un- 
 usual words or phrases in the poem as seem to demand comment; 
 and third, to bring out in some cases the essential relation of the form 
 of the poem to the idea which it is intended to convey. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 The Reverie of Poor Susan (Page 3) 
 
 This is one of many poems in which Wordsworth exemplified his 
 theory that poetry should deal with simple subjects in simple lan- 
 guage. The poem arose, he said, from his "observation of the af- 
 fecting music of these birds (canaries) hanging in this way in the 
 
198 Notes and Comment 
 
 London streets during the freshness and stillness of the Spring morn- 
 ing." Lothbury and Cheapside (Hnes 7, 8) are streets in London. 
 
 Simon Lee, the Old Huntsman (Page 3) 
 
 Coleridge, writing in 181 7, declared that if Wordsworth had cut 
 out one hundred lines of his poetry, half the criticism directed against 
 him would have been avoided. Some such faulty lines are in this 
 poem — see for instance stanza ten. On the other hand, the final 
 stanza is Wordsworth on a high level. A careful reading of this poem, 
 and especially of the eighth and ninth stanzas, will enable one to 
 understand pretty well the lesson of the commonplace 'as Wordsworth 
 tried to teach it. 
 
 Lines Written in Early Spring (Page 7) 
 
 This is one of the poems in which Wordsworth's unusual view of 
 Nature comes out most clearly. Note the third and fifth stanzas 
 particularly. 
 
 The Two April Mornings (Page 8) 
 
 If you remember Wordsworth's definition of the proper material of 
 poetry you will see how exactly this poem fits his idea. 
 
 The Fountain (Page 10) 
 
 A companion-piece to The Two April Mornings. It illustrates well 
 the unevenness of Wordsworth's power. The first seven stanzas are 
 commonplace; what follows for five stanzas is beautiful; and the work 
 ends with commonplace verses again. 
 
 She Dwelt Among LTntrodden Ways (Page 12) 
 
 This and the three poems which follow it belong together. Lucy, 
 here addressed, may or may not have been a real person. If she really 
 lived, we do not know who she was. 
 
Notes and Comment 199 
 
 The Education of Nature (Page 13) 
 
 One of the group to Lucy. Taken in connection with Lines Written 
 in Early Spring, it shows how very strong was Wordsworth's behef 
 that only by a study of Nature can we understand God; that only by 
 Hving as Nature bids us can we become beautiful in character — even 
 beautiful in face and form. One of Wordsworth's critics, Lord Mor- 
 ley, thinks that Wordsworth did not really beheve these things, but 
 expressed only a poetic imagination here. Another critic, Walter 
 Raleigh, argues that Wordsworth believed exactly what he says. 
 
 Lucy Gray (Page 15) 
 
 This was founded on fact, Wordsworth says. A little girl in York- 
 shire was lost as the story is given here. 
 
 Ruth (Page iS) 
 
 This story, too, has its basis in fact — a girl whose reason left her 
 when she was abandoned by her lover and who wandered about the 
 Cumberland hills as the poet describes. The picture of Indian life in 
 America which Wordsworth here gives he undoubtedly beheved to 
 be in the main a true one. At that time (1800) Englishmen knew 
 less about America than most Americans know to-day about (let us 
 say) Manchuria. The Indian was regarded as a kind of happy child 
 of nature, undefiled by contact with civihzation. 
 
 England and S\\^TZERLAND, 1802 (Page 26) 
 
 Napoleon conquered Switzerland in 1800. The "two voices" are 
 those of Switzerland (The Mountains) and England (The Sea). 
 These facts v/ill explain the sonnet. This and the four sonnets which 
 follow are all on phases of the one subject — Liberty. Note that the 
 French had conquered Venice also, some years earlier. 
 
 Upon Westminster Bridge (Page 29) 
 
 See how Wordsworth finds for poetical material in the city, not 
 the humanity which crowds it, but rather the beauty of that one spe- 
 
200 Notes and Comment 
 
 cial moment of the day when humanity is quiet and Nature rules, as 
 she rules always in solitary places. 
 
 By the Sea (Page 29) 
 This sonnet is addressed to the poet's sister Dorothy. 
 
 To THE Daisy (Page 30) 
 
 A subject which Wordsworth took, remembering that Burns had 
 also written upon it. A comparison of the two poems is interesting. 
 
 The Rainbow (Page 31) 
 
 Of all Wordsworth's poems wholly simple in form, this is perhaps 
 the most successful. 
 
 Neidpath Castle (Page 32) 
 
 Neidpath Castle was in the West Riding in Yorkshire. It was the 
 seat of the Marquis of Queensberry, whose family name was Douglas. 
 Wordsworth's passion for beautiful natural objects led him to detesta- 
 tion of the man who would ruin a beautiful view to make a little 
 money. This poem, and the three on Scotch subjects that follow, 
 were written while Wordsworth and his sister were on a walking tour 
 in Scotland in 1803. 
 
 To The Highland Girl of Inversneyde (Page 32) 
 
 "When beginning to descend the hill toward Loch Lomond we 
 overtook two girls, who told us we could not cross the ferry until 
 evening, for the boat was gone with a number of people to church. 
 One of the girls was exceedingly beautiful: and the figures of both of 
 them in gray plaids falHng to their feet, their faces only being un- 
 covered, excited our attention before we spoke to them. I think I 
 never heard the English language sound more sweetly than from the 
 mouth of the elder of these girls, as she stood at the gate answering 
 our inquiries, her face flushed with the rain." — Dorothy Words- 
 worth's Journal. 
 
Notes and Comment 201 
 
 The Solitary Reai^er (Page ^s) 
 
 Of all Wordsworth's short poems, this has perhaps most admirers. 
 Every line has a strange haunting melody; every emotion it arouses 
 is at once mysterious and sincere. Had the poet written this only, he 
 must have taken rank at least with Gray, and the poem must have 
 been remembered as the famous Elegy is remembered. 
 
 Gien-Almaix, the Narrow Glen (Page 36) 
 Ossian was a legendary hero-poet of Scotland. 
 
 The Green Linnet (Page 37) 
 
 Observe, in the fourth stanza here, an example of the close observa- 
 tion which so differentiated the poets of this time from the poets of 
 the time of Pope. Compare this, too, with similar keen-sightedness 
 on the part of Tennyson, as in the first stanza of Mariana. 
 
 She was a Phantoji of Delight (Page :^S) 
 
 Written of the poet's wife, Mary Hutchinson Wordsworth. The 
 first four lines are reminiscent of the poem to the Highland Girl of 
 Tnversneyde. 
 
 A Lesson (Page 39) 
 
 What is the "lesson" here? Does Wordsworth mean that to grow 
 old is to suffer and be sad? 
 
 The Affliction of Margaret (Page 40) 
 
 Margaret, the mother, is supposed to be speaking. Which stanzas 
 might really be her own words, and which are "poetic" in the highest 
 sense? 
 
 To the Cuckoo (Page 43) 
 
 This and the poem The Dafodils v/hich follows, are fine e.xamples of 
 the best type of poetry which Wordsworth produced — simple, beau- 
 
202 Notes and Comment 
 
 tiful lyrics upon subjects which came to him as he walked about the 
 countryside, and the memory of which he carried home to brood upon. 
 
 The Daffodils (Paj);e 44) 
 Two of the best lines here — 
 
 "They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude" — 
 
 were composed by the poet's wife. 
 
 Ode to Duty (Page 45) 
 
 It is not a coincidence, but part of the invincible difference between 
 the older and the younger poet, that Wordsworth's great ode should 
 be addressed to Duty and Keats's to Beauty. They had contradictory 
 views of what a poet's message ought to be. Compare the note on 
 p. 212, to Keats's Ode on a Grecian Urn. 
 
 To THE Skylark (Page 47) 
 
 Only to be compared with Shelley's longer poem on the same sub- 
 ject. Shelley is carried away by the ecstasy and passion of the bird's 
 song; Wordsworth finds in the lark an illustration of the wise fine 
 spirit which from its own hearthstone can understand and serve the 
 world. 
 
 Nature and the Poet (Page 47) 
 
 The references in the ninth, tenth, and eleventh stanzas are to the 
 poet's brother, Capt. John Wordsworth, drowned in the wreck of a 
 ship of which he was in charge. 
 
 The World is Too Much With Us (Page 51) 
 
 Probably the most famous of Wordsworth's sonnets, this is one 
 nevertheless sometimes misunderstood. What the poet declares is 
 that, rather than be sunk in commercial ideas, "getting and spending," • 
 he v/ould be a pagan; then at least he might have glimpses of some- 
 thing higher than himself. He does not, however, say that paganism 
 
Notes and Comment 203 
 
 is preferable to belief in God, or that it is necessary to be a pagan to 
 love Nature. 
 
 Ode on Intimations of Immortality (Page 51) 
 
 This, the "famous Ode" as it has been called, can easily be over- 
 studied. It is not really philosophy; it is poetry. Its beauty is its 
 excuse for being. It may be read as a series of splendid passages with 
 almost as much enjoyment as when it is read as a whole. Neverthe- 
 less, that its general meaning may be understood, a brief analysis is 
 given. 
 
 Stanzas I-IV declare that, for all the poet's delight in the beauty 
 of nature, he misses something that he once found in that beauty- 
 he misses the "visionary gleam," "the glory and the dream." 
 
 Stanza V states the reason of this loss he feels, and stanzas VI and 
 VII elaborate this reason. 
 
 Stanza VIII, beginning "Thou, whose exterior semblance doth 
 belie Thy soul's immensity" — is a long apostrophe to the child— 
 "thou, Httle child" — warning him of the saddening effect of years. 
 
 Stanzas IX and X are a glad confession that, in spite of years, 
 however, "something still doth hve" of the old joy; and in stanza XI, 
 the last, the poet almost admits that for all life takes away of gayety 
 and clear knowledge of God, it giv^es back recompense in "the philo- 
 sophic mind." 
 
 The theory of the poem, i. e., that youth better than age under- 
 stands God and delights in purity and peace, has often been attacked, 
 and from the point of view of science and practical fact cannot indeed 
 be successfully defended. But Wordsworth is not arguing; he is 
 giving us his own emotions in words so melodious, in ligures so beau- 
 tiful, that the poem stands now as it has stood for a hundred years, 
 among the very highest examples of English poetry. 
 
 Yarrow Unvisited (Page 58) 
 
 The Yarrow is a little river hardly more than a creek, in Selkirk- 
 shire, Scotland. It was dear to Dorothy Wordsworth through its 
 associations with an old ballad — The Braes of Yarrow — from which 
 
204 Notes and Comment 
 
 many quotations are taken and used in Wordsworth's poem; for ex- 
 ample, "winsome marrow," "fair hangs the apple frae the rock," 
 "bonnie holms," etc. 
 
 Desideria (Page 65) 
 
 The poem is in recollection of Wordsworth's daughter Catherine, 
 who had died as a little girl years before it was written. 
 
 Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge (Page 63) 
 
 The royal saint (line i) is Henry VI, King of England, 1422-1461, 
 who began the chapel but left it incomplete. In the elaborate, grace- 
 ful ornamentation of its interior it is one of the most striking buildings 
 in England. 
 
 The Trosachs (Page 64) 
 
 A pass in Scotland between Lake Katrine and Lake Achray, in 
 Perthshire. 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 
 
 Kubla Khan (Page 69) 
 
 The story of the composition of Kubla Khan has been told in the 
 introductory sketch of Coleridge. The poem is a dream — a fantasy — 
 and should be so read. It does not tell a story; still less has it any 
 lesson to teach. It is almost pure music. Kipling thinks the three 
 lines beginning "A savage place!" are among the five or six most 
 melodious and imaginative lines in English poetry. 
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Marineb (Page 71) 
 
 The history of this poem has also been told in the introductory 
 sketch. The "gloss," or prose explanation in the margin, was not a 
 part of the original composition, but was added by Coleridge in 181 7. 
 It, like the verse, is partly in imitation of older English. No detailed 
 study of The Ancient Mariner is necessary here; the story is simple 
 
Notes and Comment 205 
 
 and clear, and the music of the verse is easy to follow. Certain 
 points should be noted, however. 
 
 (i) Coleridge's purpose was primarily to tell a story. This story was 
 supernatural — that is to say, it dealt with incidents and characters 
 outside the world of science and understanding — with incidents and 
 characters in which we can believe, as we believe a fairy story, only 
 by laying aside temporarily our ordinary preconceived ideas of what 
 is and is not. A story of the supernatural is not "good if true"; it is 
 good, if it makes us cease to care, while we read, whether it is or is not 
 true. Coleridge helped so to rouse the imagination of his readers 
 that for the time being they were carried away by his words. 
 
 (2) A secondary object has been too much emphasized. There is a 
 "moral" in the poem — "Be cruel and you will suffer; repent, be kind, 
 and you will be forgiven." But Coleridge did not write the poem to 
 enforce this moral. He thought late in life that far too much stress 
 had been laid upon this moral by critics. 
 
 (3) The poem, then, was written to be enjoyed. Some of the de- 
 scriptions are marvelously close to fact. "The Sun's rim dips; the 
 stars rush out; At one stride comes the dark " — is scientifically ac- 
 curate in its portrayal of a tropical sunset. "I bit my arm, I sucked 
 the blood. And cried A Sail! a sail!" is a detail as true to hfe as any- 
 thing in the most "realistic" novel. On the other hand, some equally 
 beautiful passages have no possible likeness to fact. "All in a hot 
 and copper sky The bloody sun at noon Right up above the mast 
 did stand No bigger than the moon" is untrue to fact. The moon 
 does not glimmer through fog. Sea water does not burn "green and 
 blue and white." What of it? The untruth to fact is no more impor- 
 tant than the truth to fact of the other passages. "A willing sus- 
 pension of disbelief while reading, was all the poet asked. Read in 
 the spirit he wrote it, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner defies criti- 
 cism; looked at as a traveler's account of a voyage in the tropics, or 
 a sermon on kindness to dumb animals, and the charm dies away 
 from it. 
 
 Lines 5-8. Note how the wedding feast contrasts with the 
 mariner's terrible story, and so makes it the more vivid. Keats 
 
2o6 Notes and Comment 
 
 uses contrast in the same skillful fashion in The Eve of St. Agnes 
 (p. 141) by showing us first the poor, cold, old beadsman, lonely 
 and sad, then telling the brilliant love-story of Madeline and 
 Porphyro, and at the end introducing once more the beadsman 
 dying forlorn. 
 
 12. Eftsoons: very soon. 
 
 23-24. Compare the order of church, hill and lighthouse with 
 that in lines 466, 467. Is this accidental? 
 
 25. If the sun came up on their left and went down on their 
 right, in which direction were they traveling? 
 
 62. Swound: swoon. 
 
 76. "For vespers nine" means that for nine days the bird came 
 each evening to rest upon the ship. 
 
 79-80. Compare the method of description in this stanza with 
 that in stanzas 128 and 129 in Part VII. 
 
 194. In the first edition, Coleridge had the following stanza at 
 this point: — 
 
 His bones were black with many a crack 
 All bare and black, I ween; 
 Jet black and bare, save where with rust 
 Of mouldy damp and charnel crust 
 They 're patched with purple and green. 
 From all subsequent editions this stanza was wisely omitted. 
 
 199. If any lines in the poem are to be chosen as particularly 
 effective in their descriptive force, those which make up the next 
 two stanzas may well be selected. 
 
 297. Silly means useless — " the buckets that had so long re- 
 mained empty." 
 
 314. Sheen: bright. 
 
 385. The movement of the line, with its extra syllable, sug- 
 gests the motion of the ship. 
 
 485. What are these " crimson shadows" ? See next stanza. 
 
 516. Rears: lifts, in prayer and song. 
 
 535- Ivy-tod: an ivy bush. 
 
 574. Shrieve: absolve me from my sins. 
 
 623. Forlorn: bereft, deprived of. 
 
Notes and Comment 207 
 
 Love (Page 97) 
 
 This poem will help one to understand The Ancient Mariner. Here 
 is another supernatural story, made more credible, easier to believe, 
 because the story itself is used as a kind of background for the real 
 human figures of the lover and the girl he loves; just as the story of 
 the wonderful voyage is a background for the figures of the Wedding- 
 guest and the Mariner. 
 
 Youth and Age (Page 100) 
 
 This subject is of course a favorite one with poets. Byron, for in- 
 stance, has some beautiful verses on the same subject. But Byron 
 wrote his while still a young man; this poem of Coleridge's is the work 
 of a man old and sad, who looks back on years of failure. Compare its 
 mournful beauty with the gay confidence of Love — and read the his- 
 tory of Coleridge ! 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 OzYMANDiAS OF Egypt (Page 105) 
 
 Shelley wrote few sonnets. This is his best, perhaps, although as 
 you read on in his poetry you will find it is not like most of his work; 
 it is clean-cut, practical, decisive rather than exalted in spirit, as The 
 Cloud is, for example, or the Ode to the West Wind. 
 
 Stanzas Written in Dejection (Page 105) 
 
 Written in 1818, after Shelley's separation from his first wife, and 
 not long after the death of one of his children. He was further down- 
 cast by his fear of consumption. But the dejection was not to endure; 
 in the next two years Shelley did his best work. Note the last two 
 Unes and their strange foreshadowing of his death. 
 
 Written Among the Euganean Hills (Page 107) 
 
 Shelley was living at Este, near Venice, at a villa belonging to 
 Byron, when this poem was written. The geographical position of 
 the hills may be gathered from the poem. 
 
2o8 Notes and Comment 
 
 Ode to the West Wind (Page 112) 
 
 Next to The Skylark, this is the most generally popular of Shelley's 
 poems. Note the rime-scheme. It is called "terza rima," or triple 
 rime, and was made famous by Dante in the Divine Comedy. 
 
 Note that the first three stanzas are in form an apostrophe to the 
 Wind; really a long description of the wind-spirit. The two last 
 stanzas compare the poet's heart, with its wild longings, to the great 
 Wind; the poem ending with the triumphant overcoming of the poet's 
 sadness by the thought of what the Wind's coming prophesies. 
 
 The Indian Serenade (Page 115) 
 
 A pure lyric — a song of love. The title is merely fanciful. The 
 "champak" is an Indian tree, with yellow fragrant blossoms. 
 Compare the "mood" of this with the Stanzas Written in De- 
 jection. 
 
 Love's Philosophy (Page 116) 
 
 Note the many changes from regular rhythm. In a short song 
 these changes are permissible; in a long poem they would grow tire- 
 
 A Dream of the Unknown (Page 116) 
 
 This title is the one given by Palgrave in The Golden Treasury. 
 Shelley himself called the poem The Question. In itself a beautiful 
 poem, it is further interesting in the light it throws on the author's 
 own mind and heart. He dreamed all his life of some wonderful trans- 
 forming force of love, which should change and glorify him and the 
 whole world; but that love he never found; to the end the ''question" 
 of the last two words remained unanswered. The poem, as a de- 
 scription of flowers, ma}' be compared with passages from Milton's 
 Lycidas (lines 139-151) and from Shakespeare's Winter's Tale (Act IV, 
 Scene iv). Certain stanzas In Shelley's own Sensitive Plant curiously 
 repeat this description. 
 
Notes and Comment 209 
 
 The Cloud (Page 118) 
 
 The cloud speaks throughout. In few poems has any author taken 
 so many successful liberties with the regularity of rhythm. What is 
 the basic meter? Four beats and three, alternately. The two hnes 
 which perhaps come nearest to regularity in this poem are in stanza 
 four — "And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, which only the 
 angels hear." Tliey seem to mark the meter as a free minghng of ana- 
 pests (0 LI -) and iambs (u -). But other feet are constantly em- 
 ployed, as in the line "Lightning my pilot sits," which begins with a 
 trochee (- u), and in the line "Over the rills and the crags and the 
 hills," which is made up of dactyls (- u u). Further, the second Hne 
 of the poem can be properly read as consisting of two feet only, both 
 jerky anapests (u u - u u -) ; and the fourth hne has also two feet only, 
 an anapest (u u -) and an iamb (u -). So irregularity would appear 
 to triumph. Yet, read aloud, the even and splendid swing of the lines 
 is seen to proceed unchecked. Tlie whole poem is a fine illustration of 
 what a poet who thoroughly understands his technique can do in the 
 way of variation without loss of harmon}'; it may be compared in this 
 respect to passages in Wagner's music. 
 
 To A .Skylark (Page 120) 
 
 Note the scheme of the stanzas — four lines ^\•hich rise steadily in 
 strength, as the lark rises, and a fifth Hne, long, equable, and sustained, 
 as the lark sustains itself while singing. Note the melody — "Sound 
 of vernal showers On the twinkhng grass. Rain-awakened flowers" — 
 in these w's and e's and r's may be found the basic notes of the lark's 
 music. The construction is simple — six stanzas describe the lark, six 
 more hken it to what the poet fancies, six more contrast the lark's 
 joy with man's sorrow, and the final three are a burst of passionate 
 delight from the poet over the lark's song. But one thinks of the 
 structure hardly more than he thinks of the "moral" in The Ancient 
 Mariner. The poem is, in form and melody, a perfect lyric, as The 
 Ancient Mariner is a perfect ballad. 
 
210 Notes and Comment 
 
 A Song (Page 124) 
 
 This and the four following poems were written by Shelley all at 
 about the same time. They are, in a sense, fragments of a greater 
 whole. He was engaged in composing larger works — dramas, the 
 great elegy on Keats, and other long poems — and these songs and 
 bits of verse he wrote in odd hours and in passing moods, as those of 
 us less gifted drum with our fingers while trying to think. 
 
 The Invitation (Page 128) 
 
 This "invitation" was dedicated to a Mrs. Williams, a friend and 
 neighbor of the Shelleys in the spring before he was drowned. The 
 two poems that immediately follow were also written to her. 
 
 A Dirge (Page 136) 
 
 All the sadness of Shelley's heart is concentrated in these eight 
 lines. Read them aloud; then read the first sonnet of Keats in this 
 collection, and note the difference in spirit. The comparison will tell 
 you as much of the difference between Shelley and Keats, in tempera- 
 ment, as an hour's talking could. 
 
 JOHN KEATS 
 
 To One Who Has Been Long in City Pent (Page 139) 
 
 This is one of Keats's early sonnets, written when he was little more 
 than a boy. It represents, in its slightly sentimental delight in agree- 
 able things, the weaker side of the poet's nature. 
 
 10. Philomel: the nightingale. Philomela, daughter of King 
 Pandion of Athens, was changed into a nightingale after an un- 
 happy life. 
 
 On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer (Page 139) 
 
 Chapman translated the Iliad into Enghsh verse in the time of 
 Shakespeare. Keats, who could not read Greek, first made Homer's 
 acquaintance through this translation. 
 
Notes and Comment 211 
 
 It was of course Balboa, not Cortez, who discovered the Pacific. 
 But Keats wrote the sonnet late one night, upon impulse, and his 
 memory was treacherous. Later, when he discovered his mistake, he 
 saw no reason to change the names. Poetry which is true to emotion 
 need not be true to fact. 
 
 Happy Insensibility (Page 140) 
 
 15. Petting means "complaining." The word is used in the 
 same sense in the phrase " don't get into a pet." 
 
 The Eve of St. Agnes (Page 141) 
 
 St. Agnes Day is January 21. St. Agnes was a Roman maiden, 
 martyred about 300 a. d. Formerly two lambs were sacrificed upon 
 her altar once a year, upon her Day; and their wool was spun and 
 woven by nuns (see lines 115-117). 
 
 Of Keats's longer poems this is undoubtedly the world's favorite. 
 Like The Ancient Manner, it is enough in itself to determine the poet's 
 standing. It is one of the few poems which maintain themselves at a 
 constantly high level of beauty. The story is not of great interest; 
 the poem is rather a series of pictures, in which words go as far as 
 words can go toward actually reproducing color and music. "The 
 carved angels, ever eager-e\^ed, Stared . . . with hair blown back and 
 wings put crosswise on their breasts"; "the silver, snarling trumpets"; 
 "While legioned fairies paced the coverlet;" "Rose-bloom fell on her 
 hands . . . and on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a 
 glory" — such passages as these are as near perfect in their achieve- 
 ment of the poet's intentions as anything in the language. Simple 
 adjectives, too, here acquire unusual distinction — "pallid moon- 
 shine," "her warmed jewels," "An azure-lidded sleep," "a throbbing 
 star," "rough ashes." The form of the verse is technically called 
 "Spenserian" — because it was first used by Edmund Spenser in his 
 poem called the Fcerie Qucene, in 1590. Study out the scheme of the 
 rimes and observe the number of feet in each line. 
 
 218. Gules means " red," in heraldic phrasing. The moon- 
 
212 Notes and Comment 
 
 light, falling on the coat of arms in the window, threw its color 
 upon Madeline. 
 
 241. A missal where swart Paynims pray. A missal is a prayer- 
 book. Paynims were the Saracens, against whom the Crusades 
 were directed. The meaning is — shut away unopened like a 
 prayer-book in a land of infidels. 
 
 266. Soother: softer, smoother. 
 
 The Mermaid Tavern (Page 154) 
 
 The "Mermaid" was an inn of London which was much used by 
 poets and play-writers about 1600. Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Francis 
 Beaumont, and many others frequented it as a kind of club. Beau- 
 mont, writing of it, declares — 
 
 "What things have we seen 
 Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been 
 » So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
 As if that everyone from whence they came 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
 And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
 Of his dull Hfe." 
 
 The Realm of Fancy (Page 155) 
 
 "Fancy" was Keats's own special realm. By reading this poem 
 closely one may form a very clear idea of what the poet enjoyed. Con- 
 trast it with Wordsworth's ideals — with the Ode to Duty for instance! 
 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn (Page 159) 
 
 The group of short "odes" of which this is one, represent, along 
 with The Eve of St. Agnes, the best of Keats's poetry. The "urn" 
 was some decorated Greek vase which Keats had seen in the British 
 Museum, — or more probably, it was a composite recollection of half- 
 a-dozen such vases, for no vase with the particular scenes he pictures 
 here has ever been identified. Keats's poetical motto, if such it may 
 be called, is written plain in the last two lines — "Beauty is truth, 
 truth beauty" — that is to say, anything really beautiful is right; 
 ugliness shows badness somewhere; and if the world lov^es beauty 
 
Notes and Comment 213 
 
 sincerely, all will come well in the end. It is a poet's creed, not a 
 moralist's. 
 
 Ode To A Nightingale (Page 161) 
 
 This poem was written in one morning, on various scraps of paper, 
 while Keats sat under a tree on a friend's lawn. By this time in his 
 Hfe Keats had begun to suspect that he was a victim of consumption; 
 and the melancholy of his later days may easily be seen in this poem. 
 KipHng calls the lines "Charm'd magic casements, opening on the 
 foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn" among the five most 
 beautiful in English poetry. See the note on Kiibla Khan. 
 
 La Belle Dame Sans Merci (Page 165) 
 
 See The Eve of St. Agnes, stanza 33. The "ancient ditty" of Pro- 
 vence was an old French poem of eighty verses, of which the title 
 captured Keats's fancy. This poem is a fantasy, a bit of imagination 
 only: it has no resemblance in any way to the original French work, 
 which indeed Keats never read. 
 
 Bright Star! Would I were Steadfast (Page 166) 
 
 Written at sea, on Keats's last voyage. It was his final poem; he 
 did no more work between the time of this sonnet and his death. 
 
 THE LESSER POETS 
 
 Gathering Song of Donald the Black (Page 171) 
 
 This, Hke many of Scott's verses, is really a song — supposed to be 
 set to music, and sung by some character in one of his novels or 
 long poems. Scott's poetry needs no comment or explanation; it is 
 easy to read, easy to understand, easy to enjoy. 
 
 Coronach (Page 173) 
 
 A "coronach" is a lament for the dead. The ''correi" is a hunt- 
 ing expedition. 
 
214 Notes and Comment 
 
 Datur Hora Quieti (Page 175) 
 
 Compare this with Scott's Serenade as an example of what the poet 
 can do twice with exactly the same theme. 
 
 The Rover (Page 176) 
 
 One of the most beautiful songs in our language. "A doublet of 
 the Lincoln green," in line 7, takes us back to the time when Robin 
 Hood and his men had their headquarters in Lincolnshire; they wore 
 the "Lincoln green" suits which have since associated the color with 
 outlaws and wanderers generally. 
 
 Song to the Evening Star (Page 177) 
 
 Compare this with a treatment of the same idea from Byron's 
 Don Juan: 
 
 "Oh Hesperus! thou bringest all good things — 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer. 
 To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
 The welcome stall to the o'er-labored steer; 
 Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
 Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 
 Are gathered round us by thy look of rest. 
 Thou bringst the child, too, to the mother's breast." 
 
 Hohenlinden (Page 180) 
 
 "This battle was fought Dec. 2, 1800, between the Austrians under 
 Archduke John and the French under Moreau, in a forest near Mu- 
 nich. Hohen Linden means High Limetrees." (Palgrave's Note.) 
 
 Ye Mariners of England (Page 181) 
 A sea-song a hundred years old, but as popular now as ever. 
 
 Hester (Page 183) 
 
 "Hester" was a real person, Hester Savory, a young girl whom 
 Lamb knew, though not well. * 
 
Notes and Comment 215 
 
 On an Infant Dying as Soon as Born (Page 184) 
 
 Lamb was particularly fond of the poetry of the early seventeenth 
 century — the time just before and after the death of Shakespeare. He 
 edited a volume of selections from the dramatists of that period, and 
 did all in his power to induce the readers of his generation to cultivate 
 the seventeenth century writers. This poem is not exactly an imita- 
 tion of seventeenth century verse, but is so entirely in the spirit of it 
 that no one but a very keen critic could tell that it had not been writ- 
 ten by some Elizabethan author. 
 
 The Old Familiar Faces (Page 186) 
 
 The best-known of Lamb's few poems. The "friend" here is 
 Coleridge. Their quarrel was not of long duration. Indeed, it was 
 the death of Coleridge that hastened the death of Lamb. 
 
 Past and Present (Page 187) 
 
 The first two lines of this poem are perhaps as well known as any 
 in Enghsh poetry. 
 
 The Burial of Sir John Moore (Page 188) 
 
 The introductory sketch of Charles Wolfe gives a short account of 
 the corn-position of this poem. 
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea (Page 192) 
 
 This, like Ye Mariners of England, is still a popular song everywhere 
 in England. The ''hollow oak " is of course a ship — a figure of speech 
 at least as old as Homer. 
 
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