The clouds that gather round the setting A sight so touching in its majesty: This city now doth, like a garment, wear Open unto the fields, and to the sky,— Never did sun more beautifully steep TO SLEEP A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees, seas, It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake, me here, If thou appear untouch'd by solemn Thy nature is not therefore less divine: year, And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, Earth has not anything to show more Dull would he be of soul who could pass by Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melo dies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night 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! LONDON, 1802 Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower 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 like a star, and dwelt apart; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 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! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be A pagan suckled in a creed outworn,So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 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? 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; 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! THE INNER VISION Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 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 Let us break off all commerce with the muse: With thought and love companions of our way Have sight of Proteus rising from the Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,— GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824) SONNET ON CHILLON Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty!thou art: For there thy habitation is the heartThe heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consigned To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar-for 't was trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard!-May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwellingplace. |