'My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? A famished pilgrim,-saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest, Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.' 'Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee' Jyards She hurried at his words, beset with fears, A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall! The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide :- The key turns, and the door upon its hir ges groans, And they are gone: ay, ages long ago That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 1. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 2. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 'That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 3. Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 4. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 5. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 6. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vainTo thy high requiem become a sod. 7. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 8. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adicu! thy plaintive anthem fades Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music-do I wake or sleep? ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. I. Thou still unravished bride of quietness! A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 2. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal-yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 3. Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! All breathing human passion far above, |