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In the long-deserted hall,
In dead beauty's withered bower,
Closer cling we unto those
Who must leave us or be left;
Henry Glassford Bell.
every village marked with little spire, Embowered in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name, Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame; They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Awed by the power of this relentless dame, And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent,
For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely shent.
And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,
Which Learning near her little dome did stow,
And work the simple vassals mickle woe;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
So have I seen (who has not, may conceive)
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast;
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!
Ne superstition clog his dance of joy,
Near to this dome is found a patch so green
The noises intermixed, which thence resound,
Do Learning's little tenement betray;
Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined,
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
Y heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delvéd earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain, To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.