THE LAST SONG. Think of me--still so young, Silent, tho' fond, who cast my life away, The passionate spirit that around me clung, Farewell again! and yet, Must it indeed be so, and on this shore Shall thou and I no more Together see the sun of summer set? For me, my days are done, No more shall I in vintage-time prepare As I was wont; oh! 'twas for you alone. But on my bier, I'll lay Me down in frozen beauty, pale and wan And like a broken flower, gently decay. 127 Barry Cornwall. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. O for a beaker full of the warm South, 129 That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few sad, last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 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 : Already with thee: tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, K 130 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, The coming musk rose, full of dewy wine, Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd 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, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 131 Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! She stood in tears amid the alien corn: The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music :-do I wake or sleep? Keats. |