Leading the infantine moon,

And that one star, which to her
Almost seems to minister

Half the crimson light she brings
From the sunset's radiant springs:
And the soft dreams of the morn
(Which like wingéd winds had borne,
To that silent isle, which lies

'Mid remembered agonies,

The frail bark of this lone being),
Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
And its ancient pilot, Pain,

Sits beside the helm again.

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Other flowering isles must be
In the sea of life and agony :
Other spirits float and flee
O'er that gulf: even now, perhaps,
On some rock the wild wave wraps,
With folded wings they waiting sit
For my bark, to pilot it

To some calm and blooming cove,
Where for me, and those I love,
May a windless bower be built,
Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
In a dell 'mid lawny hills,
Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
And soft sunshine, and the sound
Of old forests echoing round,

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And the light and smell divine

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Of all flowers that breathe and shine.

We may live so happy there

That the spirits of the air,
Envying us, may even entice

To our healing paradise
The polluting multitude:

But their rage would be subdued

By that clime divine and calm,

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And the winds whose wings rain balm.

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On the uplifted soul, and leaves

Under which the bright sea heaves;

While each breathless interval

In their whisperings musical

They, not it, would change; and soon

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Every sprite beneath the moon

Would repent its envy vain,
And the earth grow young again.
October, 1818.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES

THE sun is warm, the sky is clear,

The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent might;
The breath of the moist earth is light,
Around its unexpanded buds;

Like many a voice of one delight,
The winds, the birds, the ocean-floods,
The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

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I see the Deep's untrampled floor

With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore,

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown; ..I sit upon the sands alone,

The lightning of the noontide ocean

Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, heart now share in

How sweet! did any

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,

Nor that content surpassing wealth

The sage in meditation found,

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my

emotion.

And walked with inward glory crowned,Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.

Others I see whom these surround;

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Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild,

Even as the winds and waters are;

I could lie down like a tired child,

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And weep away the life of care

Which I have borne, and yet must bear,

Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea

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Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

Some might lament that I were cold,

As I when this sweet day is gone,

Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,

Insults with this untimely moan;

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They might lament - for I am one Whom men love not- and yet regret,

Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set,

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Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. December, 1818.

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR

I ARISE from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

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O! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.

1819.

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY

THE fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle:
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,

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And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What are all these kissings worth,

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If thou kiss not me?

1819.

SONG- TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND

MEN of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?

Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save,
From the cradle to the grave,

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