Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself

comes down ;

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its

own;

10 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice

appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,

Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, 15 All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.

Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd

scene,

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,

So midst the wither'd waste of life those tears would flow

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,

That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,
And the first moment that the sun may shine,

Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, 5
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm
In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past,
And recognized it, though an alter'd form,
Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
And buffeted at will by rain and storm.

10

I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,

LXI.

'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;
This neither is its courage nor its choice,
But its necessity in being old.

15

'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;
It cannot help itself in its decay ;

Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,'-
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.

To be a prodigal's favourite then, worse truth,
A miser's pensioner-behold our lot!

O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
W. Wordsworth.

20

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends so link'd together

I've seen around me fall

Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled

Whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed!

Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

T. Moore.

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LXIII.

CCLXX.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.

The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent might:
The breath of the moist earth is light
Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight—
The winds, the birds', the ocean-floods'--
The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

I see the deep's untrampled floor

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With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore

Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown :
I sit upon the sands alone;

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean

Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion-

15

How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content, surpassing wealth,

20

The sage in meditation found,

And walk'd with inward glory crown'd

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;
Others I see whom these surround-

25

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;

To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild

Even as the winds and waters are;

I could lie down like a tired child,

And weep away the life of care

Which I have borne, and yet must bear,-
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

P. B. Shelley.

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35

With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

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LXV.

My thoughts are with the Dead; with them

I live in long-past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

Partake their hopes and fears,

And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

THE MERMAID TAVERN.

R. Southey.

Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his Maid Marian,

Sup and bowse from horn and can.

CCLXXII.

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