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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.

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Bind, bind every brow
With crownals of violet, ivy, and pine :

Hide the blood-stains now
With hues which sweet Nature has made divine
Green strength, azure hope, and eternity.
But let not the pansy among them be;
Ye were injured, and that means memory.


First Spirit.
PALACE-ROOF of cloudless nights !
Paradise of golden lights !
Deep, immeasurable, vast,

Which art now, and which wert then!
Of the present and the past,

Of the eternal where and when,
Presence-chamber, temple, home !
Ever-canopying dome
Of acts and ages yet to come!
Glorious shapes have life in thee :-
Earth, and all earth's company;
Living globes which ever throng

Thy deep chasms and wildernesses;
And green worlds that glide along ;

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,
Heaven ! for thou art the abode
Of that Power which is the glass

Wherein man his nature sees.
Generations as they pass

Worship thee with bended knees.
Their unremaining gods and they
Like a river roll away ;
Thou remainest such alway.

Second Spirit.
Thou art but the mind's first chamber,
Round which its young fancies clamber,
Like weak insects in a cave

Lighted up by stalactites;
But the portal of the grave,-

Where a world of new delights
Will make thy best glories seem
But a dim and noonday gleam
From the shadow of a dream !

Peace! the abyss is wreathed with scorn
At your presumption, atom-born!
What is heaven? and what are ye

Who its brief expanse inherit ?
What are suns and spheres which flee

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 :-
Constellated suns unshaken,

Orbits measureless, are furled
In that frail and fading sphere,
With ten millions gathered there,
To tremble, gleam, and disappear.


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,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

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
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Mänad, even from the dim verge

Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,

Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear!

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

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
Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear!

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If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable ! if even

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
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind ?

CHAMELEONS feed on light and air ;

Poets' food is love and fame. -
If in this wide world of care

Poets could but find the same
With as little toil as they,

Would they ever change their hue

As the light chameleons do,
Suiting it to every ray

Twenty times a-day?
Poets are on this cold earth

As chameleons might be
Hidden from their early birth

In a cave beneath the sea.
Where light is, chameleons change';

Where love is not, poets do.

Fame is love disguised : if few
Find either, never think it strange

That poets range.
Yet dare not stain with wealth or power

A poet's free and heavenly mind.
If bright chameleons should devour

Any food but beams and wind,
They would grow as earthly soon

As their brother lizards are.

Children of a sunnier star,
Spirits from beyond the moon,

Oh! refuse the boon!

I ARISE from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,


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