IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she play'd, Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drank the milk of Paradise.
ON a Poet's lips I slept
Dreaming like a love-adept
In the sound his breathing kept;
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,
But feeds on the aërial kisses
Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses, He will watch from dawn to gloom
The lake-reflected sun illume
The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,
Nor heed nor see what things they be
But from these create he can Forms more real than living Man, Nurslings of Immortality! P. B. Shelley.
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.
I have heard that on a day Mine host's sign-board flew away Nobody knew whither, till An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story, Said he saw you in your glory, Underneath a new-old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? J. Keats.
ARIEL to Miranda:-Take
This slave of music, for the sake Of him, who is the slave of thee; And teach it all the harmony In which thou canst, and only thou, Make the delighted spirit glow, Till joy denies itself again
And, too intense, is turn'd to pain. For by permission and command Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, Poor Ariel sends this silent token Of more than ever can be spoken; Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who From life to life must still pursue Your happiness, for thus alone Can Ariel ever find his own. From Prospero's enchanted cell, As the mighty verses tell, To the throne of Naples he Lit you o'er the trackless sea, Flitting on, your prow before, Like a living meteor.
When you die, the silent Moon In her interlunar swoon
Is not sadder in her cell Than deserted Ariel:-
When you live again on earth, Like an unseen Star of birth Ariel guides you o'er the sea Of life from your nativity:— Many changes have been run Since Ferdinand and you begun
Your course of love, and Ariel still
Has track'd your steps and served your will.
Now in humbler, happier lot, This is all remember'd not; And now, alas! the poor Sprite is Imprison'd for some fault of his In a body like a grave— From you he only dares to crave, For his service and his sorrow A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.
The artist who this idol wrought To echo all harmonious thought, Fell'd a tree, while on the steep The woods were in their winter sleep, Rock'd in that repose divine On the wind-swept Apennine; And dreaming, some of Autumn past, And some of Spring approaching fast, And some of April buds and showers, And some of songs in July bowers, And all of love: And so this tree,- Oh that such our death may be!— Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again:
From which, beneath heaven's fairest star, The artist wrought this loved Guitar; And taught it justly to reply To all who questioned skilfully In language gentle as thine own; Whispering in enamour'd tone Sweet oracles of woods and dells, And summer winds in sylvan cells: -For it had learnt all harmonies Of the plains and of the skies, Of the forests and the mountains, And the many-voicéd fountains; The clearest echoes of the hills,
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