Lady Clara Vere de Vere, when thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, she spake some certain truths of you. Indeed, I heard one bitter word that scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, there stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: you changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, to make him trust his modest worth. And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, and slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, from yon blue heavens above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'tis only noble to be good; Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: you pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, but sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, you needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, if time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, oh! teach the Orphan-girl to sew, Pray heaven for a human heart, and let the foolish yeoman go. (By permission of Messrs. Moxon and Co.) TO A SKYLARK. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. [Percy Bysshe Shelley was the eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, Bart., of Field Place, Sussex, where he was born August 4th, 1792. He was sent to Eton, but, violating the rules of that school, was removed to Oxford at an earlier age than is usual. Shelley was twice married. His second wife was Miss Godwin, daughter of the author, and herself famous as the author of "Frankenstein." With his new wife he went to Italy, renewed his acquaintance with Byron, and joined Leigh Hunt in the "Liberal." Shortly after this he met with his untimely death, by the wreck of his boat in a violent storm, on his return to his house on the Gulf of Lerici, July 8th, 1822. His body was washed ashore fifteen days afterwards. His principal poetical works are "Prometheus Unbound," "Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude," "Queen Mab," "The Revolt of Islam," and "The Cenci," a tragedy. Many of his minor poems are simple and very beautiful.] HAIL to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still, and higher, From the earth thou springest 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 bright'ning, 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 daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen 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 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, To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. Like a high-born maiden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view. Like a rose embower'd Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers 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 divine. Chorus hymeneal, 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 strain ? What fields, or waves, or mountains ? What shapes of sky or plain ? What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee; Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: With some pain is fraught: Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought, Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; I know not how thy joy we ever could come near. Better than all measures Of delight and sound, That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, The world should listen then as I am listening now. THE CATARACT OF LODORE. How does the water come down at Lodore? So I told them in rhyme, for of rhymes I had store. And 'twas in my vocation that thus I should sing, Because I was laureate to them and the King. From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell, From its fountain in the mountain, Through moss and through brak And through the wood shelter, How does the water come down at Lodore? It hastens along, conflicting, and strong, As if a war waging, Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and flinging, Showering and springing, Eddying and whisking, With endless rebound; Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound. |