Wherefore hast thou left me now How shall ever one like me As a lizard with the shade Thou with sorrow art dismay'd; Reproach thee, that thou art not near, Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure;— Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure ;— Pity then will cut away Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. I love all that thou lovest, Spirit of Delight! The fresh Earth in new leaves drest And the starry night; Autumn evening, and the morn When the golden mists are born. I love snow and all the forms I love waves, and winds, and storms, Which is Nature's, and may be Untainted by man's misery. I love tranquil solitude, And such society As is quiet, wise, and good; PLIO What diff'rence? but thou dost possess I love Love-though he has wings, But above all other things, Thou art love and life! O come! Make once more my heart thy home! P. B. Shelley CCXXVII STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR The sun is warm, the sky is clear, Like many a voice of one delight The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'- I see the Deep's untrampled floor Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown : The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, And walk'd with inward glory crown'd Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure; 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 ; My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea CCXXVIII THE SCHOLAR My days among the Dead are past; Where'er these casual eyes are cast, My never failing friends are they, With them I take delight in weal And while I understand and feel My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the Dead; with them Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. My hopes are with the Dead; anon Yet leaving here a name, I trust, R. Southey CCXXIX THE MERMAID TAVERN Souls of Poets dead and gone I have heard that on a day To a sheepskin gave the story— And pledging with contented smack Souls of Poets dead and gone Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? J. Keats CCXXX THE PRIDE OF YOUTH Proud Maisie is in the wood, Sweet Robin sits on the bush Tell me, thou bonny bird, 'Who makes the bridal bed, -The gray-headed sexton 'The glowworm o'er grave and stone Sir W. Scott CCXXXI THE BRIDGE OF SIGIIS One more Unfortunate Rashly importunate, Take her up tenderly, Look at her garments |