20 In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 25 Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 30 769 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace-tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour 40 With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aëreal hue 45 Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view! Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives 50 Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves: Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was 55 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 60 That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus Hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt, 65 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? 70 What love of thine own kind? what igno rance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: 75 Thou lovest - but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 80 TO NIGHT SWIFTLY Walk o'er the western wave, Out of the misty eastern cave, Where, all the long and lone daylight, Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee; 5 10 15 When light rode high, and the dew was gone, I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried, Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Shall I nestle near thy side? 20 25 Wouldst thou me? And I replied, No, not thee! TIME LONG PAST · as I am 105 1820 10 15 Most musical of mourners, weep again! Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, 30 Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, Trampled and mocked with many a loathèd rite Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 40 |