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He travels on, and in his face, his step,
A man who does not move with pain, but moves
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel-I feel it all.
This sweet May-morning;
And the children are pulling,
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
A single field which I have looked upon,
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
The youth, who daily farther from the east
Is on his way attended;
At length the man perceives it die away,
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
The homely nurse doth all she can
Forget the glories he hath known,
Behold the child among his new-born blisses,
And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part;
As if his whole vocation
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
On whom those truths do rest,
Ojoy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
For that which is most worthy to be blest;
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised!
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
Uphold us-cherish-and have power to make
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Can in a moment travel thither,-
Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
As to the tabor's sound!
We, in thought, will join your throng,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
Which having been must ever be,
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And oh ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Think not of any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks, which down their channels fret,
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
How beautiful is night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air,
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,
In full-orb'd glory yonder Moon divine
The desert-circle spreads,
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.
Who at this untimely hour
No station is in view,
Nor palm-grove islanded amid the waste.
The widowed mother and the fatherless boy,
Singing a love-song to his brooding mate, Did Thracian shepherd by the grave Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody, Though there the Spirit of the Sepulchre All his own power infuse, to swell The incense that he loves.
And oh! what odours the voluptuous vale
From yon rose wilderness,
From cluster'd henna, and from orange groves,
Such odours flow'd upon the world,
Thrill'd every bosom, and the family
THE BOUNDARY OF THE WORLD.
The threshold, over which was no return.
He cast no backward glance
There was a light within,
A yellow light, as when the autumnal Sun, Through travelling rain and mist Shines on the evening hills. Whether from central fires effus'd, Or if the sun-beams, day by day, From earliest generations, there absorb'd, Were gathering for the wrath-flame. Shade was In those portentous vaults;
Crag overhanging, nor columnal rock
Cast its dark outline there; For, with the hot and heavy atmosphere, The light incorporate, permeating all, Spread over all its equal yellowness. There was no motion in the lifeless air, He felt no stirring as he past Adown the long descent,
It was a living Image, by the art
Its stature such, and such its strength,
Hung the Round Altar, rolling like the world
The work of demon art.
For where the sceptre in the Idol's hand Touch'd the Round Altar, in its answering realm, Earth felt the stroke, and ocean rose in storms, And ruining cities, shaken from their seat, Crush'd all their inhabitants.
His other arm was rais'd, and its spread palm Up-bore the ocean-weight,
Whose naked waters arch'd the sanctuary.
AN EASTERN EVENING. Evening comes on: arising from the stream, Homeward the tall flamingo wings his flight; And where he sails athwart the setting beam, His scarlet plumage glows with deeper light. The watchman, at the wish'd approach of night, Gladly forsakes the field, where he all day, To scare the winged plunderers from their prey, With shout and sling, on yonder clay-built height, Hath borne the sultry ray. Hark! at the Golden Palaces,
The Bramin strikes the hour.
For leagues and leagues around, the brazen sound Rolls through the stillness of departing day, Like thunder far away.
THE APPARITION OF YEDILLIAN.
Vain thought! the Holy Valley smil'd
About, below, and overhead;
Three happy beings are there here,
The Spirit, mute and motionless,
The maid that lovely form survey'd; Wistful she gaz'd, and knew her not; But nature to her heart convey'd A sudden thrill, a startling thought, A feeling many a year forgot, Now like a dream anew recurring, As if again in every vein Her mother's milk was stirring. With straining neck and earnest eye She stretch'd her hands imploringly, As if she fain would have her nigh, Yet fear'd to meet the wish'd embrace, At once with love and awe opprest.
Not so Ladurlad; he could trace, Though brighten'd with angelic grace,
His own Yedillian's earthly face; He ran and held her to his breast! Oh joy above all joys of Heaven, By death alone to others given, This moment hath to him restor'd The early-lost, the long-deplor'd.
They sin who tell us Love can die.
All others are but vanity.
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
The babe she lost in infancy,
An over-payment of delight!
THE SUBMARINE CITY. Such was the talk they held upon their Of him to whose old city they were bound; And now, upon their journey, many a day Had risen and clos'd, and many a week gone round, And many a realm and region had they past, When now the ancient towers appear'd at last. Their golden summits, in the noon-day light, Shone o'er the dark green deep that roll'd between; For domes, and pinnacles, and spires were seen Peering above the sea,-a mournful sight! Well might the sad beholder ween from thence What works of wonder the devouring wave Had swallowed there, when monuments so brave Bore record of their old magnificence. And on the sandy shore, beside the verge Of ocean, here and there, a rock-hewn fane Resisted in its strength the surf and surge That on their deep foundations beat in vain. In solitude the ancient temples stood, Once resonant with instrument and song, And solemn dance of festive multitude; Now as the weary ages pass along, Hearing no voice save of the ocean flood, Which roars for ever on the restless shores; Or, visiting their solitary caves, The lonely sound of winds, that moan around
Accordant to the melancholy waves.
Upon the works of elder days.
The mighty gateway's storied roof was spread,
That ample roof was sculptur'd o'er, And many a godlike form there met his eye, And many an emblem dark of mystery. Through these wide portals oft had Baly rode Triumphant from his proud abode, When, in his greatness, he bestrode The Aullay, hugest of four-footed kind, The Aullay-horse, that in his force, With elephantine trunk, could bind And lift the elephant, and on the wind Whirl him away, with sway and swing, Even like a pebble from the practis'd sling.
Those streets which never, since the days of yore,
His war for love and envy, not in rage,
Of Mermaid's shell, and song
But all is silence dread,
Through many a solitary street, And silent market-place, and lonely square, Arm'd with the mighty curse, behold him fare. And now his feet attain that royal fane Where Baly held of old his awful reign. What once had been the garden spread around, Fair garden, once which wore perpetual green,