Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 112

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken mult.i.tudes! O thou Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill;

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!

II

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!

III

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seem'd a vision--I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.

O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd One too like thee--tameless, and swift, and proud.

V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own?

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley. 1792-1822

611. The Indian Serenade

I ARISE from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are s.h.i.+ning bright.

I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Hath led me--who knows how?

To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream-- And the champak's odours [pine]

Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must on thine, O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the gra.s.s!

I die! I faint! I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heart beats loud and fast: O press it to thine own again, Where it will break at last!

Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley. 1792-1822

612. Night

SWIFTLY walk o'er the western wave, Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave,-- Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear Which make thee terrible and dear,-- Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, Star-inwrought!

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; Kiss her until she be wearied out.

Then wander o'er city and sea and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand-- Come, long-sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sigh'd for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 'Wouldst thou me?'

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmur'd like a noontide bee, 'Shall I nestle near thy side?

Wouldst thou me?'--And I replied, 'No, not thee!'

Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon-- Sleep will come when thou art fled.

Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night-- Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon!