If thine or theirs were treasures to be bought
By blood or tears, have not the wise and free
Wept tears, and blood like tears?"-The solemn
harmony

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Paused, and the spirit of that mighty singing
To its abyss was suddenly withdrawn ;
Then as a wild swan, when sublimely winging
Its path athwart the thunder-smoke of dawn,
Sinks headlong through the aërial golden light
On the heavy-sounding plain,

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When the bolt has pierced its brain; As summer clouds dissolve, unburdened of their rain; As a far taper fades with fading night;

As a brief insect dies with dying day, My song, its pinions disarrayed of might,

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Drooped; o'er it closed the echoes far away Of the great voice which did its flight sustain, As waves which lately paved his watery way Hiss round a drowner's head in their tempestuous

play.

1820.

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THE SENSITIVE PLANT

PART I

A SENSITIVE PLANT in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light,
And closed them beneath the kisses of night.

And the Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;

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And each flower and herb on earth's dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness,

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From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.

Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall,
And narcissi, the fairest among them all,
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess
Till they die of their own dear loveliness,

And the Naiad-like lily of the vale,

Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale,
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen
Through their pavilions of tender green;

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And the hyacinth, purple, and white, and blue, 25 Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew

Of music so delicate, soft, and intense,

It was felt like an odour within the sense;

And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, 29 Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air

The soul of her beauty and love lay bare;

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up,
As a Mænad, its moonlight-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, which is its eye,

Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky;

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose-
The sweetest flower for scent that blows—
And all rare blossoms from every clime,
Grew in that garden in perfect prime.

And on the stream whose inconstant bosom

Was prankt, under boughs of embowering blossom, With golden and green light, slanting through Their heaven of many a tangled hue,

Broad water-lilies lay tremulously,
And starry river-buds glimmered by,

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And around them the soft stream did glide and dance

With a motion of sweet sound and radiance.

And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss,
Which led through the garden along and across,
Some open at once to the sun and the breeze,
Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees,

Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells,
As fair as the famous asphodels,

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And flow'rets which, drooping as day drooped too, 55 Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue,

To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew.

And from this undefiled Paradise

The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes

?

Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet

Can first lull, and at last must awaken it),

When Heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem,
Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one
Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun;

For each one was interpenetrated

With the light and the odour its neighbour shed,
Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear
Wrapt and filled by their mutual atmosphere.

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But the Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit

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Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root,
Received more than all, it loved more than ever,
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver;

For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower:
Radiance and odour are not its dower;

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It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full;
It desires what it has not, the Beautiful!

The light winds, which from unsustaining wings
Shed the music of many murmurings;

The beams which dart from many a star
Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar;

The pluméd insects swift and free,
Like golden boats on a sunny sea,

Laden with light and odour, which pass
Over the gleam of the living grass;

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The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie
Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides high,
Then wander like spirits among the spheres,
Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears;

The quivering vapours of dim noontide,
Which like a sea o'er the warm earth glide,
In which every sound, and odour, and beam,
Move, as reeds in a single stream;-

Each and all like ministering angels were
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear,
Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by
Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky.

And when evening descended from Heaven above, And the Earth was all rest, and the air was all love, And delight, though less bright, was far more deep, And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep,

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And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were drowned

In an ocean of dreams without a sound,

Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress The light sand which paves it, consciousness;

(Only overhead the sweet nightingale

Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail,
And snatches of its Elysian chant

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Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant.)

The Sensitive Plant was the earliest
Upgathered into the bosom of rest:
A sweet child weary of its delight,

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