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As of some hideous engine whose brazen teeth smash The thin winds and soft waves into thunder; the screams And hissings crawl fast o'er the smooth ocean streams, Each sound like a centipede. Near this commotion, A blue shark is hanging within the blue ocean, The fin-winged tomb of the victor. The other Is winning his way from the fate of his brother, To his own with the speed of despair. Lo! a boat Advances; twelve rowers with the impulse of thought Urge on the keen keel, the brine foams. At the stern, Three marksmen stand levelling. Hot bullets burn In the breast ot'tbetyger, which yet bears him on To his refuge and ruin. One fragment alone, "'Tis dwindling and sinking, 'tis now almost gone, Of the wreck of the vessel peers out of the sea. With her left hand she grasps it impetuously, . With her right she sustains her fair infant. Death, Fear, Love, Beauty, are mixed in the atmosphere; Which trembles and burns with the fervour of dread Around her wild eyes, her bright hand, and her head, Like a metor of light o'er the waters! her child Is yet smiling, and playing, and murmuring; so smiled The false deep ere the storm. Like a sister and brother The child and the ocean still smile on each other, Whilst


Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, .And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are brightning,

Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,

Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there,

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed,

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.


Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought
To sympa^y with hopes and fearsit heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower;

Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,

Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue

Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embowered

In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves:

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkliug grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,

All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass:

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard,
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so dwine.

Chorus IJymenffial,

Or triumphal chaunt,
Matched with thine would be all

But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy straiu?

What fields, or wave*, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain I

With thy dear keen joyance

Langour cannot be:
Shadow ofannoyance

Never came near thee:
Thou tovest; but ne'er love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream i

We look belbre and after,

And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thou ght.

Yet if we could scorn

Hate, and pride,.and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures

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