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Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest
While the meek blest sit smiling; if
Whence thou didst come, and whither thou must go,
And Hate, the rapid bloodhounds with which Terror
And all that never yet was known Hunts through the world the homeless would know-
steps of Error,
Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye
Are the true secrets of the commonweal
With such swift feet life's green and
And not the sophisms of revenge and
Seeking, alike from happiness and woe,
Hope to inherit in the grave below?
Bloodier than is revenge
To preach the burning wrath which is to
In words like flakes of sulphur, such as thaw
Until his mind's eye paint thereon--
Seen through the caverns of the shadowy grave,
Hurling the damned into the murky This cannot be, it ought not, evil still
Suffering makes suffering, ill must follow
Rough words beget sad thoughts, and, beside,
Men take a sullen and a stupid pride In being all they hate in others' shame,
By a perverse antipathy of fame. "Tis not worth while to prove, as I could, how
From the sweet fountains of our Nature flow
These bitter waters; I will only say, If any friend would take Southey some day, And tell him, in alone, Softening harsh words with friendship's gentle tone,
a country walk
How incorrect his public conduct is, And what men think of it, 'twere not amiss.
Far better than to make innocent ink
GOOD night? ah! no; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still,
Then it will be good night.
How can I call the lone night good, Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?
Be it not said, thought, understood—
To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good night.
Refuses stern her heaven-born embrace. On one side of this jagged and shapeless hill
Upon the startled sense. Chorus. Does he still sing? Methought he rashly cast away his harp There is a cave, from which there eddies When he had lost Eurydice. up
Awhile he paused.
A pale mist, like aërial gossamer,
stag A moment shudders on the fearful brink The rock-then, scattered by the wind, Of a swift stream-the cruel hounds
Along the stream, or lingers on the With deafening yell, the arrows glance and wound,
Killing the sleepy worms, if aught bide | He plunges in: so Orpheus, seized and there.
As, with a graceful spire and stirring
Pierce the pure heaven of your native
Disturbs, fearing to spoil their solemn
Sigh as the wind buffets them, and they
Beneath its blasts a weatherbeaten crew!
Upon the beetling edge of that dark By the sharp fangs of an insatiate grief, rock Mænad-like waved his lyre in the bright air,
There stands a group of cypresses; not such
And wildly shrieked "Where she is, it is dark!"
And then he struck from forth the strings a sound
Ah no! As a poor hunted
The waning sound, scattering it like dew
A many-sided mirror for the sun,
Ceaseless and pauseless, ever clear and
Chorus. What wondrous sound is that, mournful and faint, But more melodious than the murmuring wind
So flowed his song, reflecting the deep joy
Which through the columns of a temple And tender love that fed those sweetest notes,
A. It is the wandering voice of The heavenly offspring of ambrosial food. Orpheus' lyre, But that is past. Returning from drear Borne by the winds, who sigh that their Hell, rude king
Hurries them fast from these air-feeding
He chose a lonely seat of unhewn
But in their speed they bear along with
Then from the deep and overflowing
Of deep and fearful melody.
gently sang of high and heavenly themes.
As in a brook, fretted with little waves, By the light airs of spring-each riplet makes
There rose to Heaven a sound of angry Or I must borrow from her perfect song.
'Tis as a mighty cataract that parts
And casts itself with horrid roar and din
With loud and fierce, but most harmoni-
And as it falls casts up a vaporous spray Which the sun clothes in hues of Iris light.
And sea-green olives with their grateful fruit,
And elms dragging along the twisted vines,
Which drop their berries as they follow fast
Thus the tempestuous torrent of his grief And blackthorn bushes with their infant Is clothed in sweetest sounds and varying words Of poesy. Unlike all human works, It never slackens, and through every change Wisdom and beauty and the power divine Of mighty poesy together dwell, Mingling in sweet accord. As I have
A fierce south blast tear through the darkened sky,
Driving along a rack of winged clouds,
As their wild shepherd wills them, while
Of serene Heaven, starred with fiery
Shuts in the shaken earth; or the still
Swiftly, yet gracefully, begins her walk,
I talk of moon, and wind, and stars,
To picture forth his perfect attributes.
song, Nature must lend me words ne'er used before,
Of blushing rose blooms; beeches, to lovers dear,
And weeping willow trees; all swift or slow,
As their huge boughs or lighter dress permit,
Have circled in his throne, and Earth herself
Has sent from her maternal breast a growth
Of starlike flowers and herbs of odour
To pave the temple that his poesy
And kids, fearless from love, creep near
Even the blind worms seem to feel the sound.
The birds are silent, hanging down their heads,
Perched on the lowest branches of the
Not even the nightingale intrudes a note
Of song; but would I echo his high THE season was the childhood of sweet
Whose sunny hours from morning until
Went creeping through the day with Fiordispina said, and threw the flowers silent feet, Which she had from the breathing
Each with its load of pleasure, slow yet
Like the long years of blest Eternity
-A table near of polished porphyry.
That looked on them-a fragrance from
checked their life;
a light such
Of this unfathomable flood of hours, Sparkling beneath the heaven which As sleepers wear, lulled by the voice embowerswhich did reprove They were two cousins, almost like to The childish pity that she felt for them, twins, And a remorse that from their
Except that from the catalogue of sins Nature had rased their love-which could not be
But by dissevering their nativity.
Upon one stem, which the same beams and showers
She had divided such fair shapes
A feeling in the
which was a shade Of gentle beauty on the flowers: there lay All gems that make the earth's dark bosom gay.
Lull or awaken in their purple prime,
Shake with decay. This fair day smiles The livery of unremembered snow-
rods of myrtle-buds and lemonblooms,
Fiordispina and her nurse are now
The ardours of a vision which obscure
He faints, dissolved into a sea of love;
Had not brought forth this morn-your wedding-day.
Lie there; sleep awhile in your own
step by step and stair by stair, That withered woman, gray and white and brown
Of his subjected spirit: such emotion
More like a trunk by lichens overgrown Than anything which once could have been human.
"How slow and painfully you seem to
Poor Media! you tire yourself with