« 上一頁繼續 »
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
My heart is at your festival, His gait, is one expression; every limb,
My head hath its coronal, His look and bending figure, all bespeak
The fulness of your bliss, I feel I feel it all. A man who does not move with pain, but moves
Oh evil day! if I were sullen With thought.-He is insensibly subdued
While the earth herself is adorning, To settled quiet: he is one by whom
This sweet May-morning; All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
And the children are pulling, Long patience hath such mild composure given,
On every side, That patience now doth seem a thing of which
In a thousand valleys far and wide, He hath no need. He is by nature led
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines war, To peace so perfect, that the young behold
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm :With envy, what the old man hardly feels.
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
-But there's a tree, of many one,
A single field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home :
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy ; The sunshine is a glorious birth;
The youth, who daily farther from the east But yet I know, where'er I go,
Must travel, still is nature's priest, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended ;
At length the man perceives it die away,
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; A timely utterance gave that thought relief, Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And I again am strong.
And, even with something of a mother's mind, The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely nurse doth all she can
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the child among his new-born blisses, Doth every beast keep holiday ;
A six years' darling of a pigmy size !
See, where mid work of his own hand he lies, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
(shepherd boy! With light upon him from his father's eyes! IV.
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life, Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; Ye to each other make; I see
A wedding or a festival, The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ;
Uphold us—cherish—and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Filling from time to time his “humorous stage"
Nor man nor boy, With all the persons, down to palsied age,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither;
Can in a moment travel thither,-
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound!
We, in thought, will join your throng, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Ye that pipe and ye that play, Thou, over whom thy immortality
Ye that through your hearts to-day Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
Feel the gladness of the May! A presence which is not to be put by;
What though the radiance which was once so bright Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Be now for ever taken from my sight, Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height, Though nothing can bring back the hour Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
We will grieve not, rather find Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Strength in what remains behind, Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
In the primal sympathy And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Which having been must ever be, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering,
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And oh ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; For that which is most worthy to be blest;
I only have relinquished one delight Delight and liberty, the simple creed
To live beneath your more habitual sway. Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
I love the brooks, which down their channels fret, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ;
Not for these I raise (breast:- The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Moving about in worlds not realized,
Thanks to the human heart by which we live; High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears; Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised!
To me the meanest flower that blows can give But for those first affections,
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. Those shadowy recollections,
Singing a love-song to his broodiog mate, Did Thracian shepherd by the grave
Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody, Though there the Spirit of the Sepulchre All his own power infuse, to swell
The incense that he loves.
Breaks the serene of heaven:
Beneath her steady ray
The desert-circle spreads,
How beautiful is night!
No station is in view,
The mother and her child,
They at this untimely hour
And oh! what odours the voluptuous vale
Scatters from jasmine bowers,
From yon rose wilderness, From cluster'd henna, and from orange groves, That with such perfumes fill the breeze,
As Peris to their Sister bear,
They from their pinions shake
And, as her enemies impure
Inhales ber fragrant food.
Went forth in Heaven, to roll
The everlasting gates of Paradise Back on their living hinges, that its gales Might visit all below; the general bliss
Thrill'd every bosom, and the family Of man, for once, partook one common joy.
Flow'd streams of liquid light;
Their living obelisks ;
O'er-arch'd delightful walks, (vine Where round their trunks the thousand-tendril'd Wound up and hung the boughs with greener
And clusters not their own. [wreaths, Wearied with endless beauty, did his eyes Return for rest? beside him teems the earth With tulips, like the ruddy evening streak’d; And here the lily hangs her head of snow;
And here amid her sable cup Shines the red eye-spot, like one brightest star,
The solitary twinkler of the night;
And here the rose expands
Her paradise of leaves.
Of harmony arose !
The waterfall remote;
The single nightingale
THE BOUNDARY OF THE WORLD.
He tarried not,-he past
And passions now put off,
There was a light within,
Through travelling rain and mist
Shines on the evening hills.
Or if the sun-beams, day by day,
In those portentous vaults; (none
Cast its dark outline there;
Spread over all its equal yellowness.
He felt no stirring as he past
Adown the long descent,
He heard not his own footsteps on the rock
The Bramin strikes the hour. That through the thick stagnation sent no sound. For leagues and leagues around, the brazen sound How sweet it were, he thought.
Rolls through the stillness of departing day,
Like thunder far away.
THE APPARITION OF YEDILLIAN.
Ye on the banks of that celestial water Is there no secret wile,
Your resting place and sanctuary have found. No lurking enemy?
What! hath not then their mortal taipt defil'd
The sacred solitary ground?
Vain thought! the Holy Valley smil'd
Receiving such a sire and child;
Ganges, who seem'd asleep to lie,
Beheld them with benignant eye,
And rippled round melodiously,
And rollid her little waves to meet
And welcome their beloved feet.
The gales of Swerga thither fled,
About, below, and overhead;
And Earth rejoicing in their tread,
Hath built them up a blooming bower,
Where every amaranthine flower
Its deathless blossom interweaves
With bright and undecaying leaves.
Three happy beings are there here,
The sire, the maid, the Glendoveer;
A fourth approaches,—who is this
That enters in the Bower of Bliss ? Prince of the Morning. On his brow
No form so fair might painter find A coronet of meteor flames,
Among the daughters of mankind; Flowing in points of light.
For death her beauties hath refin'd,
And unto her a form hath given
Framed of the elements of Heaven;
Pure dwelling-place for perfect mind. Chequer'd with sea and shore,
She stood and gaz'd on sire and child; The work of demon art.
Her tongue not yet hath power to speak, For where the sceptre in the Idol's hand
The tears were streaming down her cheek; Touch'd the Round Altar, in its answering realm,
And when those tears her sight beguilid, Earth felt the stroke, and ocean rose in storms,
And still her faultering accents fail'd,
The Spirit, mute and motionless,
Spread out her arms for the caress,
Made still and silent with excess
Of love and painful happiness.
The maid that lovely form survey'd;
Wistful she gaz'd, and knew her not;
But nature to her heart convey'd
A sudden thrill, a startling thought,
A feeling many a year forgot,
Now like a dream anew recurring,
As if again in every vein
Her mother's milk was stirring.
With straining neck and earnest eye
She stretch'd her hands imploringly, With shout and sling, on yonder clay-built height,
As if she fain would have her nigh, Hath borne the sultry ray.
Yet fear'd to meet the wish'd embrace, Hark! at the Golden Palaces,
At once with love and awe opprest.
Not so Ladurlad; he could trace,
Accordant to the melancholy waves.
Wondering, he stood awhile to gaze
Upon the works of elder days.
The brazen portals open stood,
Even as the fearful multitude
Had left them, when they fled
Before the rising flood.
High over-head, sublime,
The mighty gateway's storied roof was spread, They sin who tell us Love can die.
Dwarfing the puny piles of younger time.
With the deeds of days of yore
That ample roof was sculptur’d o'er,
And many a godlike form there met his eye,
And many an emblem dark of mystery. Earthly these passions of the earth,
Through these wide portals oft had Baly rode They perish where they have their birth;
Triumphant from his proud abode,
When, in his greatness, he bestrode
The Aullay, hugest of four-footed kind, From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;
The Aullay-horse, that in his force,
With elephantine trunk, could bind
And lift the elephant, and on the wind
Whirl him away, with sway and swing,
Even like a pebble from the practis'd sling.
By human footstep had been visited;
Those streets which never more
A human foot shall tread,
Ladurlad trod. In sun-light, and sea-green,
The thousand palaces were seen
Of that proud city, whose superb abodes
How silent and how beautiful they stand, THE SUBMARINE CITY.
Like things of Nature! the eternal rocks
Themselves not firmer. Neither hath the sand Such was the talk they held upon their way, Drifted within their gates, and choak'd their doors, Of him to whose old city they were bound; Nor slime defild their pavements and their floors. And now, upon their journey, many a day
Did then the ocean wage Had risen and clos’d, and many a week gone round,
His war for love and envy, not in rage, And many a realm and region had they past,
O thou fair city, that he spares thee thus? When now the ancient towers appear’d at last.
Art thou Varounin's capital and court, Their golden summits, in the noon-day light,
Where all the sea-gods for delight resort, Shone o'er the dark green deep that rollid between; A place too godlike to be held by us, For domes, and pinnacles, and spires were seen The poor degenerate children of the earth? Peering above the sea,-a mournful sight!
So thought Ladurlad, as he look'd around, Well might the sad beholder ween from thence
Weening to hear the sound What works of wonder the devouring wave
Of Mermaid's shell, and song Hlad swallowed there, when monuments so brave Of choral throng from some imperial hall, Bore record of their old magnificence.
Wherein the immortal powers, at festival, And on the sandy shore, beside the verge
Their high carousals keep. Of ocean, here and there, a rock-hewn fane
But all is silence dread, Resisted in its strength the surf and surge
Silence profound and dead,
The everlasting stillness of the deep.
Through many a solitary street,
And silent market-place, and lonely square, Now as the weary ages pass along,
Arm'd with the mighty curse, behold him fare. Hearing no voice save of the ocean flood,
And now his feet attain that royal fane Which roars for ever on the restless shores;
Where Baly held of old bis awful reign. Or, visiting their solitary caves,
What once had been the garden spread around, The lonely sound of winds, that moan around Fair garden, once which wore perpetual green,