Beauty is like remembrance cast SONNET. YE hasten to the dead! What seek ye there, Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wea Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest gues A refuge in the cavern of grey death? O heart, and mind, and thoughts! What thing Hope to inherit in the grave below? LINES TO A REVIEWER. ALAS! good friend, what profit can you see FRAGMENT ON KEATS, WHO DESIRED THAT ON HIS TOMB SHOULD BE INSCRIBED "HERE lieth One whose name was writ on water." But, ere the breath that could erase it blew, Death, in remorse for that fell slaughter, Death, the immortalizing winter, flew [grew Athwart the stream,—and time's printless torrent A scroll of crystal, blazoning the name Of Adonais, ADONAIS. I. I WEEP for Adonais- he is dead! O, weep for Adonais! though our tears Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be II. Where wert thou mighty Mother, when he lay, When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies. In darkness? where was lorn Urania When Adonais died? With veilèd eyes, 'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath, With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death. Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep! For he is gone, where all things wise and fair Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. IV. Most musical of mourners, weep again! Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light. V. Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Not all to that bright station dared to climb; And happier they their happiness who knew, Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time In which suns perished; others more sublime, Struck by the envious wrath of man or God, Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime; And some yet live, treading the thorny road, Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode. VI. But now, thy youngest, dearest one has perished, Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, VII. To that high Capital, where kingly Death He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day |