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Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is :
(WRITTEN, OCTOBER, 1819, BEFORE THE SPANIARDS HAD RECOVERED
ARISE, arise, arise!
Be your wounds like eyes
Awaken, awaken, awaken!
Be the cold chains shaken
Wave, Wave high the banner!
Though the slaves that fan her
Glory, glory, glory,
Never name in story
Bind, bind every brow
Hide the blood-stains now
Gather, O gather,
Waves sleep together
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day dreams.
The sweet buds every one,
As she dances about the sun.
And whiten the green plains under, 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 all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Lightning my pilot sits,
It struggles and howls at fits;
This pilot is guiding me,
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the lakes and the plains,
The Spirit he loves remains;
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead, As on the jag of a mountain crag,
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 ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove.
Whom mortals call the moon,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
Like a swarm of golden bees,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanos are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Over a torrent sea,
The mountains its columns be.
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
Is the million-coloured bow;
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;
I charge, but I cannot die.
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
TO A SKYLARK.
HAIL to thee, blithe spirit !
Bird thou never wert,
Pourest thy full heart
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
The blue deep thou wingest,
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
Thou dost float and run ;
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
In the broad day-light
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
In the white dawn clear,