Hymn to Intellectual Beauty

By Percy Bysshe Shelley

The awful shadow of some unseen Power
         Floats though unseen among us; visiting
         This various world with as inconstant wing
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower;
Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower,
                It visits with inconstant glance
                Each human heart and countenance;
Like hues and harmonies of evening,
                Like clouds in starlight widely spread,
                Like memory of music fled,
                Like aught that for its grace may be
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.

Spirit of BEAUTY, that dost consecrate

         With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon
         Of human thought or form, where art thou gone?
Why dost thou pass away and leave our state,
This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate?
                Ask why the sunlight not for ever
                Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain-river,
Why aught should fail and fade that once is shown,
                Why fear and dream and death and birth
                Cast on the daylight of this earth
                Such gloom, why man has such a scope
For love and hate, despondency and hope?

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever

         To sage or poet these responses given:
         Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Heaven,
Remain the records of their vain endeavour:
Frail spells whose utter'd charm might not avail to sever,
                From all we hear and all we see,
                Doubt, chance and mutability.
Thy light alone like mist o'er mountains driven,
                Or music by the night-wind sent
                Through strings of some still instrument,
                Or moonlight on a midnight stream,
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream.

Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds depart

         And come, for some uncertain moments lent.
         Man were immortal and omnipotent,
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art,
Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his heart.
                Thou messenger of sympathies,
                That wax and wane in lovers' eyes;
Thou, that to human thought art nourishment,
                Like darkness to a dying flame!
                Depart not as thy shadow came,
                Depart not—lest the grave should be,
Like life and fear, a dark reality.

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped

         Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,
         And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.
I call'd on poisonous names with which our youth is fed;
                I was not heard; I saw them not;
                When musing deeply on the lot
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing
                All vital things that wake to bring
                News of birds and blossoming,
                Sudden, thy shadow fell on me;
   I shriek'd, and clasp'd my hands in ecstasy!

I vow'd that I would dedicate my powers

         To thee and thine: have I not kept the vow?
         With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours
Each from his voiceless grave: they have in vision'd bowers
                Of studious zeal or love's delight
                Outwatch'd with me the envious night:
They know that never joy illum'd my brow
                Unlink'd with hope that thou wouldst free
                This world from its dark slavery,
                That thou, O awful LOVELINESS,
Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot express.

The day becomes more solemn and serene

         When noon is past; there is a harmony
         In autumn, and a lustre in its sky,
Which through the summer is not heard or seen,
As if it could not be, as if it had not been!
                Thus let thy power, which like the truth
                Of nature on my passive youth
Descended, to my onward life supply
                Its calm, to one who worships thee,
                And every form containing thee,
                Whom, SPIRIT fair, thy spells did bind
To fear himself, and love all human kind.

Ode to the West Wind

By Percy Bysshe Shelley
I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;

Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!

II
Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread

On the blue surface of thine aëry surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge

Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear!

III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,

And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below

The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,

And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear!

IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free

Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,

As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem'd a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.

Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd

One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe

Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat

Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes
By Thomas Gray
’Twas on a lofty vase’s side,
Where China’s gayest art had dyed
   The azure flowers that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
   Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared;

The fair round face, the snowy beard,
   The velvet of her paws,
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
   She saw; and purred applause.

Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide

Two angel forms were seen to glide,
   The genii of the stream;
Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
   Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw;

A whisker first and then a claw,
   With many an ardent wish,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
   What cat’s averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent

Again she stretch’d, again she bent,
   Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
   She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood
She mewed to every watery god,
   Some speedy aid to send.
No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard;
   A Favourite has no friend!

From hence, ye beauties, undeceived,

Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved,
   And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
   Nor all that glisters, gold.

453. Elegy written in a Country Churchyard

  
 
THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
 
  The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
 
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
 
  And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
 
        
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,  5
 
  And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
 
  And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
 
 
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
  10
  The moping owl does to the moon complain
  
Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
 
  Molest her ancient solitary reign.
 
 
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
 
  Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
  15
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
 
  The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
 
 
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
 
  The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
  20
  No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
 
 
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
 
  Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
 
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
 
  Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
 
  25
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
 
  Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
 
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
 
  How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
 
 
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
  30
  Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
 
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
 
  The short and simple annals of the poor.
 
 
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
 
  And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
  35
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:
 
  The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
 
 
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
 
  If Memory o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
 
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
  40
  The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
 
 
Can storied urn or animated bust
 
  Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
 
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
 
  Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?
 
  45
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
 
  Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
 
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
  
  Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
 
 
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
  50
  Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
 
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
 
  And froze the genial current of the soul.
 
 
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
 
  The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
  55
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
 
  And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
 
 
Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast
 
  The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
  60
  Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
 
 
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
 
  The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
 
  And read their history in a nation's eyes,
 
  65
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
 
  Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined;
 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
 
  And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
 
 
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
  70
  To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
 
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
 
  With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
 
 
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
 
  Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
  75
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
 
  They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
 
 
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
 
  Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
  80
  Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
 
 
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
 
  The place of fame and elegy supply:
 
And many a holy text around she strews,
 
  That teach the rustic moralist to die.
 
  85
For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
 
  This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
 
  Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
 
 
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
  90
  Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
 
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
 
  Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.
 
 
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
 
  Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
  95
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
 
  Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
 
 
Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,
 
  'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
 100
  To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
 
 
'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
 
  That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
 
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
 
  And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
 
 105
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
 
  Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
 
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
 
  Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
 
 
'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
 110
  Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
 
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
 
  Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
 
 
'The next with dirges due in sad array
 
  Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.
 115
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
 
  Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:'
 
 
THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

 
  A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
  
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
 120
  And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
 
 
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
 
  Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
 
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
 
  He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
 
 125
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
 
  Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
  The bosom of his Father and his God.