M CCLXIX THE INNER VISION OST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path there be or none, While a fair region round the Traveller lies Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene The beauty coming and the beauty gone. - If Thought and Love desert us, from that day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse: With Thought and Love companions of our way Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, W. Wordsworth CCLXX THE REALM OF FANCY E VER let the Fancy roam! Pleasure never is at home: At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Then let winged Fancy wander Through the thought still spread beyond her : Open wide the mind's cage-door, She 'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. O sweet Fancy ! let her loose; When the soundless earth is muffled, To banish Even from her sky. - Sit thee there, and send abroad With a mind self-overawed Fancy, high-commission'd: -send her! And thou shalt quaff it; thou shalt hear Distant harvest-carols clear; Rustle of the reaped corn; Sweet birds antheming the morn: And in the same moment - hark! Sapphire queen of the mid-May; Quiet on her mossy nest; Then the hurry and alarm When the bee-hive casts its swarm; Acorns ripe down-pattering While the autumn breezes sing. O sweet Fancy ! let her loose; Everything is spoilt by use: Where's the cheek that doth not fade, One would hear so very oft? While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid. - Break the mesh Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she 'll bring: - Let the wingéd Fancy roam! Pleasure never is at home. 7. Keats CCLXXI HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF NATURE L IFE of Life! Thy lips enkindle With their love the breath between them; And thy smiles before they dwindle Make the cold air fire; then screen them In those locks, where whoso gazes Child of Light! Thy limbs are burning Through the veil which seems to hide them, As the radiant lines of morning Through thin clouds, ere they divide them; And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. Fair are others: none beholds Thee; But thy voice sounds low and tender Lamp of Earth! where'er thou movest, Walk upon the winds with lightness Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing! I CCLXXII P. B. Shelley WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING HEARD a thousand blended notes While in a grove I sat reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths; |