He travels on, and in his face, his step,

My heart is at your festival, His gait, is one expression; every limb,

My head hath its coronal, His look and bending figure, all bespeak

The fulness of your bliss, I feel I feel it all. A man who does not move with pain, but moves

Oh evil day! if I were sullen With thought.-He is insensibly subdued

While the earth herself is adorning, To settled quiet: he is one by whom

This sweet May-morning; All effort seems forgotten; one to whom

And the children are pulling, Long patience hath such mild composure given,

On every side, That patience now doth seem a thing of which

In a thousand valleys far and wide, He hath no need. He is by nature led

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines war, To peace so perfect, that the young behold

And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm :With envy, what the old man hardly feels.

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!

-But there's a tree, of many one,

A single field which I have looked upon,
ODE.

Both of them speak of something that is gone:

The pansy at my feet
I.

Doth the same tale repeat:
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
The earth, and every common sight,

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
To me did scem

V.
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
It is not now as it hath been of yore;

The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Turn wheresoe'er I may,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,
By night or day,

And cometh from afar;
The things which I have seen I now can see no more!

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,
II.

But trailing clouds of glory do we come
The rainbow comes and goes,

From God, who is our home :
And lovely is the rose,

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
The moon doth with delight

Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Look round her when the heavens are bare ;

Upon the growing boy,
Waters on a starry night

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
Are beautiful and fair;

He sees it in his joy ; The sunshine is a glorious birth;

The youth, who daily farther from the east But yet I know, where'er I go,

Must travel, still is nature's priest, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended ;
IU.

At length the man perceives it die away,
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And fade into the light of common day.
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,

VI.
To me alone there came a thought of grief;

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; A timely utterance gave that thought relief, Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And I again am strong.

And, even with something of a mother's mind, The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,

And no unworthy aim,
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:

The homely nurse doth all she can
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, To make her foster-child, her inmate man,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,

Forget the glories he hath known,
And all the earth is gay;

And that imperial palace whence he came.
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,

VII.
And with the heart of May

Behold the child among his new-born blisses, Doth every beast keep holiday ;

A six years' darling of a pigmy size !
Thou child of joy

See, where mid work of his own hand he lies, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,

(shepherd boy! With light upon him from his father's eyes! IV.

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,

Some fragment from his dream of human life, Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call

Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; Ye to each other make; I see

A wedding or a festival, The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;

A mourning or a funeral;

And this hath now his heart,

Which, be they what they may,
And unto this be frames his song:

Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Then will he fit his tongue

Are yet a master light of all our seeing ;
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;

Uphold us—cherish—and have power to make
But it will not be long

Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Ere this be thrown aside,

Of the eternal silence: truths that wake,
And with new joy and pride

To perish never;
The little actor cons another part;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Filling from time to time his “humorous stage"

Nor man nor boy, With all the persons, down to palsied age,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
That life brings with her in her equipage;

Can utterly abolish or destroy!
As if his whole vocation

Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Were endless imitation.

Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
VIII.

Which brought us hither;
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Can in a moment travel thither,-
Thy soul's immensity;

And see the children sport upon the shore,
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,

X.
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,

Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
Mighty prophet! Seer blest!

And let the young lambs bound
On whom those truths do rest,

As to the tabor's sound!
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,

We, in thought, will join your throng, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;

Ye that pipe and ye that play, Thou, over whom thy immortality

Ye that through your hearts to-day Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,

Feel the gladness of the May! A presence which is not to be put by;

What though the radiance which was once so bright Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Be now for ever taken from my sight, Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height, Though nothing can bring back the hour Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; The years to bring the inevitable yoke,

We will grieve not, rather find Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?

Strength in what remains behind, Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,

In the primal sympathy And custom lie upon thee with a weight,

Which having been must ever be, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering,
IX.

In the faith that looks through death,
O joy! that in our embers

In years that bring the philosophic mind.
Is something that doth live,

XI.
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!

And oh ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
The thought of our past years in me doth breed Think not of any severing of our loves!
Perpetual benedictions: not indeed

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; For that which is most worthy to be blest;

I only have relinquished one delight Delight and liberty, the simple creed

To live beneath your more habitual sway. Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,

I love the brooks, which down their channels fret, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ;

Not for these I raise (breast:- The innocent brightness of a new-born day
The song of thanks and praise;

Is lovely yet;
But for those obstinate questionings

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Of sense and outward things,

Do take a sober colouring from an eye
Fallings from us, vanishings;

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Blank misgivings of a creature

Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Moving about in worlds not realized,

Thanks to the human heart by which we live; High instincts, before which our mortal nature

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears; Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised!

To me the meanest flower that blows can give But for those first affections,

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. Those shadowy recollections,

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ROBERT SOUTHEY.

He heard not his own footsteps on the rock

The Bramin strikes the hour. That through the thick stagnation sent no sound. For leagues and leagues around, the brazen sound How sweet it were, he thought.

Rolls through the stillness of departing day,
To feel the flowing wind!

Like thunder far away.
With what a thirst of joy
He should breathe in the open gales of Heaven !

THE APPARITION OF YEDILLIAN.
Downward, and downward still, and still the way, O happy sire, and happy daughter!
The long, long, way is safe.

Ye on the banks of that celestial water Is there no secret wile,

Your resting place and sanctuary have found. No lurking enemy?

What! hath not then their mortal taipt defil'd
His watchful eye is on the wall of rock,

The sacred solitary ground?
And warily he marks the roof,

Vain thought! the Holy Valley smil'd
And warily survey'd

Receiving such a sire and child;
The path that lay before.

Ganges, who seem'd asleep to lie,
Downward, and downward still, and still the way,

Beheld them with benignant eye,
The long, long, way is safe;

And rippled round melodiously,
Rock only, the same light,

And rollid her little waves to meet
The same dead atmosphere,

And welcome their beloved feet.
And solitude, and silence like the grave.

The gales of Swerga thither fled,
And heavenly odours there were sbed

About, below, and overhead;
AN IDOL.

And Earth rejoicing in their tread,

Hath built them up a blooming bower,
It was a living Image, by the art
Of magic hands, of flesh and bones compos’d,

Where every amaranthine flower

Its deathless blossom interweaves
And human blood, through veins and arteries
'That flow'd with vital action. In the shape

With bright and undecaying leaves.
Of Eblis it was made;
Its stature such, and such its strength,

Three happy beings are there here,

The sire, the maid, the Glendoveer;
As when among the Sons of God
Pre-eminent, he rais'd his radiant head,

A fourth approaches,—who is this

That enters in the Bower of Bliss ? Prince of the Morning. On his brow

No form so fair might painter find A coronet of meteor flames,

Among the daughters of mankind; Flowing in points of light.

For death her beauties hath refin'd,
Self-pois'd in air before him,

And unto her a form hath given
Hung the Round Altar, rolling like the world

Framed of the elements of Heaven;
On its diurnal axis; like the world

Pure dwelling-place for perfect mind. Chequer'd with sea and shore,

She stood and gaz'd on sire and child; The work of demon art.

Her tongue not yet hath power to speak, For where the sceptre in the Idol's hand

The tears were streaming down her cheek; Touch'd the Round Altar, in its answering realm,

And when those tears her sight beguilid, Earth felt the stroke, and ocean rose in storms,

And still her faultering accents fail'd,
And ruining cities, shaken from their seat,

The Spirit, mute and motionless,
Crush'd all their inhabitants.

Spread out her arms for the caress,
His other arm was rais'd, and its spread palm

Made still and silent with excess
Up-bore the ocean-weight,

Of love and painful happiness.
Whose naked waters arch'd the sanctuary.

The maid that lovely form survey'd;

Wistful she gaz'd, and knew her not;
AN EASTERN EVENING.

But nature to her heart convey'd
Evening comes on: arising from the stream,

A sudden thrill, a startling thought,
Homeward the tall flamingo wings his flight;

A feeling many a year forgot,
And wbere he sails athwart the setting beam,

Now like a dream anew recurring,
His scarlet plumage glows with deeper light.

As if again in every vein
The watchman, at the wish'd approach of night,

Her mother's milk was stirring.
Gladly forsakes the field, where he all day,

With straining neck and earnest eye
To scare the winged plunderers from their prey,

She stretch'd her hands imploringly, With shout and sling, on yonder clay-built height,

As if she fain would have her nigh, Hath borne the sultry ray.

Yet fear'd to meet the wish'd embrace, Hark! at the Golden Palaces,

At once with love and awe opprest.

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Not so Ladurlad; he could trace,

Accordant to the melancholy waves.
Though brighten'd with angelic grace,

Wondering, he stood awhile to gaze
His own Yedillian's earthly face;

Upon the works of elder days.
He ran and held her to his breast!

The brazen portals open stood,
Oh joy above all joys of Heaven,

Even as the fearful multitude
By death alone to others given,

Had left them, when they fled
This moment hath to him restor'd

Before the rising flood.
The early-lost, the long-deplor’d.

High over-head, sublime,

The mighty gateway's storied roof was spread, They sin who tell us Love can die.

Dwarfing the puny piles of younger time.
With life all other passions fly,

With the deeds of days of yore
All others are but vanity.

That ample roof was sculptur’d o'er,
In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell,

And many a godlike form there met his eye,
Nor Avarice in the vaults of hell;

And many an emblem dark of mystery. Earthly these passions of the earth,

Through these wide portals oft had Baly rode They perish where they have their birth;

Triumphant from his proud abode,
But Love is indestructible.

When, in his greatness, he bestrode
Its holy flame for ever burneth,

The Aullay, hugest of four-footed kind, From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;

The Aullay-horse, that in his force,
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,

With elephantine trunk, could bind
At times deceiv'd, at times opprest,

And lift the elephant, and on the wind
It here is tried and purified,

Whirl him away, with sway and swing,
Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest;

Even like a pebble from the practis'd sling.
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of Love is there. Those streets which never, since the days of yore,
Oh! when a mother meets on high

By human footstep had been visited;
The babe she lost in infancy,

Those streets which never more
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,

A human foot shall tread,
The day of woe, the watchful night,

Ladurlad trod. In sun-light, and sea-green,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,

The thousand palaces were seen
An over-payment of delight!

Of that proud city, whose superb abodes
Seem'd rear’d by giants for the immortal gods.

How silent and how beautiful they stand, THE SUBMARINE CITY.

Like things of Nature! the eternal rocks

Themselves not firmer. Neither hath the sand Such was the talk they held upon their way, Drifted within their gates, and choak'd their doors, Of him to whose old city they were bound; Nor slime defild their pavements and their floors. And now, upon their journey, many a day

Did then the ocean wage Had risen and clos’d, and many a week gone round,

His war for love and envy, not in rage, And many a realm and region had they past,

O thou fair city, that he spares thee thus? When now the ancient towers appear’d at last.

Art thou Varounin's capital and court, Their golden summits, in the noon-day light,

Where all the sea-gods for delight resort, Shone o'er the dark green deep that rollid between; A place too godlike to be held by us, For domes, and pinnacles, and spires were seen The poor degenerate children of the earth? Peering above the sea,-a mournful sight!

So thought Ladurlad, as he look'd around, Well might the sad beholder ween from thence

Weening to hear the sound What works of wonder the devouring wave

Of Mermaid's shell, and song Hlad swallowed there, when monuments so brave Of choral throng from some imperial hall, Bore record of their old magnificence.

Wherein the immortal powers, at festival, And on the sandy shore, beside the verge

Their high carousals keep. Of ocean, here and there, a rock-hewn fane

But all is silence dread, Resisted in its strength the surf and surge

Silence profound and dead,
That on their deep foundations beat in vain.

The everlasting stillness of the deep.
In solitude the ancient temples stood,
Once resonant with instrument and song,

Through many a solitary street,
And solemn dance of festive multitude;

And silent market-place, and lonely square, Now as the weary ages pass along,

Arm'd with the mighty curse, behold him fare. Hearing no voice save of the ocean flood,

And now his feet attain that royal fane Which roars for ever on the restless shores;

Where Baly held of old bis awful reign. Or, visiting their solitary caves,

What once had been the garden spread around, The lonely sound of winds, that moan around Fair garden, once which wore perpetual green,

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