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iv. Glory, glory, glory, To those who have greatly suffered and done !
Never name in story Was greater than that which ye shall have won. Conquerors have conquered their foes alone, Whose revenge, pride, and power, they have overthrown : Ride ye, more victorious, over your own.
Bind, bind every brow
Hide the blood-stains now
ODE TO HEAVEN.
Which art now, and which wert then!
Of the eternal where and when,
Thy deep chasms and wildernesses;
And swift stars with flashing tresses; And icy moons most cold and bright; And mighty suns beyond the night, Atoms of intensest light.
Even thy name is as a god,
Wherein man his nature sees.
Worship thee with bended knees.
Lighted up by stalactites;
Where a world of new delights
Who its brief expanse inherit ?
With the instinct of that Spirit Of which ye are but a part? Drops which Nature's mighty heart Drives through thinnest veins. Depart! What is heaven? A globe of dew, Filling in the morning new Some eyed flower whose young leaves waken
On an unimagined world :-
Orbits measureless, are furled
ODE TO THE WEST WIND.
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill; Wild Spirit which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!
II. Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Beside a pumice isle in Baia's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
So sweet the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean know
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision,-I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud !
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own? The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth; And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
Poets' food is love and fame. -
Poets could but find the same
Would they ever change their hue
As the light chameleons do,
Twenty times a-day?
As chameleons might be
In a cave beneath the sea.
Where love is not, poets do.
Fame is love disguised : if few
That poets range.
A poet's free and heavenly mind.
Any food but beams and wind,
As their brother lizards are.
Children of a sunnier star,
Oh! refuse the boon!
THE INDIAN SERENADE.
In the first sweet sleep of night,