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CLXVII

ODE ON THE POETS

B

ARDS of Passion and of Mirth

Ye have left your souls on earth ! Have ye souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new ? — Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon ; With the noise of fountains wonderous And the parle of voices thunderous ; With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, in soft ease Seated on Elysian lawns Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not ; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, trancéd thing, But divine melodious truth; Philosophic numbers smooth ; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again ;
And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you
Where your other souls are joying,
Never slumber'd, never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week;

Of their sorrows and delights ;
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim :-
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.

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Bards of Passion and of Mirth
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Ye have souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new !

7. Keats

CLXVIII

LOVE

A

LL thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay

Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve !

She lean'd against the arméd man,
The statue of the arméd knight;
She stood and listen'd to my lay,

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve !
She loves me best, whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve.

I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story -
An old rude song, that suited well

That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen’d with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not choose

But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand ;
And that for ten long years he woo'd

The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined : and ah !
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love

Interpreted my own.

She listen’d with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ;
And she forgave me, that I gazed

Too fondly on her face.

But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,

Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once

In green and sunny glade,

There came and look'd him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a Fiend,

This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did,
He leap'd amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death

The Lady of the Land ;

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
And how she tended him in vain;
And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain;

And that she nursed him in a cave,
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves

A dying man he lay ;

His dying words but when I reach'd That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp

Disturb'd her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrill’d my guileless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,

The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,

Subdued and cherish'd long

She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved she stepp'd aside,
As conscious of my look she stept
Then suddenly, with timorous eye

She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, look'd up,

And gazed upon my face.

’T was partly love, and partly fear, And partly ’t was a bashful art That I might rather feel, than see

The swelling of her heart.

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride ;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.

S. T. Coleridge

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