40 DEATH'S HARVEST-TIME. Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Mrs. Hemans, LOVE LEFT SORROWING. 'TIS said, that some have died for love: And here and there a church-yard grave is found Because the wretched man himself had slain, And there is one whom I five years have known; Upon Helvellyn's side: He loved—the pretty Barbara died; And thus he makes his moan: Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid "Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky! The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart: I look-the sky is empty space; I know not what I trace; But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, That murmur once so dear, when will it cease? Your sound my heart of rest bereaves, It robs my heart of peace. 42 LOVE LEFT SORROWING. Thou Thrush, that singest loud—and loud and free, Upon that alder sit; Or sing another song, or choose another tree. Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-bounds, For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustained; If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough Oh let it then be dumb! Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now. Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers, For thus to see thee nodding in the air, To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, Thus rise and thus descend,— Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear." The Man who makes this feverish complaint W. Wordsworth. STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. THE sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright; Like many a voice of one delight, I see the deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown; Like light dissolved, in star-showers thrown. The lightning of the noontide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion! Alas! I have nor hope nor health, 44 STANZAS. And walked with inward glory crowned; Others I see whom these surround- Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; Which I have borne and yet must bear,- Some might lament that I were cold, They might lament—for I am one Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. P. B. Shelley. |