HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1785-1806.

THOUGHTS OF DEATH.

As thus oppressed with many a heavy care,
(Though young yet sorrowful,) I turn my feet
To the dark woodland, longing much to greet
The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there ;
Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair,
Fills my sad breast, and tired with this vain coil,
I shrink dismayed before life's upland toil.
And as amid the leaves the evening air
Whispers still melody,-I think ere long,

When I no more can hear, these woods will speak;

And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek,

And mournful phantasies upon me throng,

And I do ponder with most strange delight

On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.

K

JOHN WILSON.

1785-1854.

THE EVENING CLOUD.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on,
('er the still radiance of the Lake below;

Tranquil its spirit seemed and floated slow;
Even in its very motion there was rest;

While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,

Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;

And by the breath of mercy made to roll

Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven;

Where to the eye of Faith it peaceful lies,

And tells to man his glorious destinies.

ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON.

LORD BYRON.

ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind!

1788-1824. Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art—

For there thy habitation is the heart—

The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned,
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
Their country conquers with their martyrdom
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod,

Until his very steps have left a trace

Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,

By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!

For they appeal from tyranny to God.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

1792-1822.

POLITICAL GREATNESS.

NOR happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,

Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,

Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame :—
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts;

History is but the shadow of their shame;

Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts,

As to oblivion their blind millions fleet

Staining that heaven with obscene imagery

Of their own likeness.

What are numbers knit

By force or custom? Man who man would be

Must rule the empire of himself; in it

Must be supreme, establishing his throne.
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

1792-1822.

OZYMANDIAS.

I MET a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half-sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear :
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.