"No! for the utmost that we could have done, Were to have rais'd, as Paul at Athens saw, Altars unto the dread and unknown One, Bending before, we knew not what, with awe; And even now instructed by a law Holier than that of Moses, what know we "It shall be this: permit me not to place My soul's affections on the things of earth; But, conscious of the treasures of thy grace, To let them, in my inmost heart, give birth To gratitude proportion'd to their worth: Teach me to feel that all which thou hast made Upon this mighty globe's gigantic girth, Though meant with filial love to be survey'd, Is nothing to thyself:-the shadow of a shade. "If thou hast given me, more than unto some, A feeling sense of nature's beauties fair, Which sometimes renders admiration dumb, From consciousness that words cannot declare The beauty thou hast scatter'd every where; O grant that this may lead me still, through all Thy works to thee! nor prove a treacherous snare Adapted those affections to enthral, Which should be thine alone, and waken at thy call. "I would not merely dream my life away To thee, who fram'd them all, and canst destroy, Grant me to gaze and love, and thus thy works to read. "But while from one extreme thy power may keep Of early bliss must sober, as it will, And should, when earthly things to heavenly yield. I would have feelings left, time cannot chill; That, while I yet can walk through grove or field, I may be conscious there of charms by thee reveal'd. "And when I shall, as, soon or late, I must, Thy glorious works: forbid me to repine; Before my mental eye, and let them shine VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF A CHILD OF SUPERIOR EN DOWMENTS AND EXTRAORDINARY PIETY. It is not length of years which lends The age we honor standeth not In locks of snow, or length of days; A heart, which heavenly wisdom sways. For wisdom, which is taught by truth, Its image e'en in infant minds. Thus was this child made early wise, What more could wisdom do for them, Hath led his spirit home to God! Well may his memory be dear, "The brightest star of morning's host," Its loss inspires a brief regret ; And thus the spirit which is gone, There are, who watch'd it to the last; PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. SPIRITS. FIRST FAUN. Canst thou imagine where those spirits live, Which make such delicate music in the woods? We haunt within the least frequented caves And closest coverts, and we know these wilds, Yet never meet them, though we hear them oft; Where may they hide themselves? SECOND FAUN. "T is hard to tell: FIRST FAUN. If such live thus, have others other lives, TO A SKYLARK. HAIL to thee blithe spirit! In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest; Like a cloud of fire, 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 brightning, 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 day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,— Keen as 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, Till the world is wrought 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 In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its acrial hue, Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view; Joyous, clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass : What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? Our sweetest songs are those that tell the saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. |