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Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it
from the view :
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
Till the scent it gives
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth sur pass.
What sweet thoughts are thine :
Praise of love or wine
Or triumphal chaunt,
But an empty vaunt A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain ?
What shapes of sky or plain ?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Never came near thee :
Thou of death must deem
Than we mortals dream, Di how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ?
And pine for what is not :
With some pain is fraught; (thought. Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest
Hate, and pride, and fear;
Not to shed a tear,
Of delightful sound,
That in books are found,
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
From my lips would flow,
I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden,
Thou needest not fear mine ;
Ever to burthen thine
I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion :
Thou needest not fear mine :
With which I worship thine.
ODE TO LIBERTY.
Yet freedom, yet, thy banner torn but flying,
A GLORIOUS people vibrated again
The lightning of the nations : Liberty, From heart to heart, from tower to tower, o'er
Clothed itself sublime and strong;
Till from its station in the heaven of fame The Spirit's whirlwind rapt it, and the ray
Of the remotest sphere of living flame Which paves the void, was from behind it flung, As foam from a ship’s swiftness; when there
came A voice out of the deep; I will record the same.
The Sun and the serenest Moon sprang forth;
The burning stars of the abyss were hurled Into the depths of heaven. The dædal earth,
That island in the ocean of the world, Hung in its cloud of all-sustaining air;
But this divinest universe
Was yet a chaos and a curse,
And of the birds, and of the watery forms, And there was war among them and despair
Within them, raging without truce or terms. The bosom of their violated nurse Groaned, for beasts warred on beasts, and
worms on worms, And men on men; each heart was as a hell of storms.
His generations under the pavilion
lion Were as to mountain wolves their ragged caves.
This human living multitude
Was savage, cunning, blind, and rude, For thou wert not; but o'er the populous solitude
Like one fierce cloud over a waste of waves,