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IO.

'I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

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"And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing."

SONNETS.

I.

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On first looking into Chapman's Homer.

MUCH have I travell'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

at deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies CA

When a new planet swims into his ken; for like stout Cortéz/when with eagle eyes e

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He star'd at the Pacific- and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

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II.

DEDICATION.

To Leigh Hunt, Esq.

GLORY and loveliness have passed away;
For if we wander out in early morn,

No wreathed incense do we see upborne
Into the east to meet the smiling day:

No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and young, and gay, 5
In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,
Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn
The shrine of Flora in her early May.
But there are left delights as high as these,
And I shall ever bless my destiny,

That in a time, when under pleasant trees
Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free,

A leafy luxury, seeing I could please
With these poor offerings, a man like thee.

III.

Written on the day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison.

WHAT though, for showing truth to flatter'd state,
Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,

In his immortal spirit, been as free

As the sky-searching lark, and as elate.

Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?
Think you he naught but prison walls did see,
Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key?
Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate!
In Spenser's halls he stray'd, and bowers fair,
Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew
With daring Milton through the fields of air:
To regions of his own his genius true
Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair
When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?

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ΙΟ

IV.

How many bards gild the lapses of time!

A few of them have ever been the food
Of my delighted fancy, I could brood
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime :
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,

These will in throngs before my mind intrude :
But no confusion, no disturbance rude

Do they occasion; 't is a pleasing chime.
So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store;
The songs of birds -the whisp'ring of the leaves —
- -the great bell that heaves
With solemn sound, and thousand others more,

The voice of waters

That distance of recognizance bereaves, Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.

V.

KEEN, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.

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IO

Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,

Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair :
For I am brimful of the friendliness

That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.

VI.

To G. A. W.

NYMPH of the downward smile and sidelong glance,
In what diviner moments of the day
Art thou most lovely? When gone far astray
Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance,
Or when serenely wand'ring in a trance

Of sober thought? Or when starting away
With careless robe to meet the morning ray
Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance?
Happy 't is when thy ruby lips part sweetly,

And so remain because thou listenest:
But thou to please wert nurtured so completely

That I can never tell what mood is best.

I shall as soon pronounce which grace more neatly
Trips it before Apollo than the rest.

VII.

Solitude.

O SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap

ΙΟ

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ΙΟ

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Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep, —
Nature's observatory- whence the dell,
Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,

May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep

'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.

But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd,
Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

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IO

VIII.

Addressed to Haydon. - painter

Words.

GREAT spirits now on earth are sojourning;
He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,
Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake,
Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing:
He of the rose, the violet, the spring,

The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake:

And lo! whose steadfastness would never take

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A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering.
And other spirits there are standing apart

Upon the forehead of the age to come;
These, these will give the world another heart,
And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings? -

Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.

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ΙΟ

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