Obrazy na stronie

I bore it to my chamber, and I planted

It in a vase full of the lightest mould ;
The winter beams which out of Heaven slanted

Fell through the window panes, disrobed of cold, Upon its leaves and flowers; the star which panted

In evening for the Day, whose car has rolled Over the horizon's wave, with looks of light Smiled on it from the threshold of the night. The mitigated influences of air

And light revived the plant, and from it grew Strong leaves and tendrils, and its flowers fair,

Full as a cup with the vine's burning dew, O’erflowed with golden colours; an atmosphere

Of vital warmth, infolded it anew, And every impulse sent to every part The unbeheld pulsations of its heart.

Well might the plant grow beautiful and strong,

Even if the sun and air had smiled not on it;
For one wept o'er it all the winter long
Tears pure as Heaven's rain, which fell


it Hour after hour; for sounds of softest song

Mixed with the stringed melodies that won it
To leave the gentle lips on which it slept,
Had loosed the heart of him who sat and wept.

Had loosed his heart, and shook the leaves and flowers On which he wept, the while the savage

storm Waked by the darkest of December's hours

Was raving round the chamber hushed and warm; The birds were shivering in their leafless bowers,

The fish were frozen in the pools, the form Of every summer plant was dead [ ] Whilst this



ARIEL to Miranda : -Take
This slave of music, for the sake
Of him, who is the slave of thee;
And teach it all the harmony
In which thou canst, and only thou,
Make the delighted spirit glow,
Till joy denies itself again,
And, too intense, is turned to pain.
For by permission and command
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken ;
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
From life to life must still pursue
Your happiness, for thus alone
Can Ariel ever find his own;
From Prospero's enchanted cell,
As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples he

o'er the trackless sea,
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor.


die, the silent Moon,
In her interlunar swoon,
Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel;

you live again on earth, Like an unseen Star of birth,

Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity:
Many changes have been run
Since Ferdinand and you begun
Your course of love, and Ariel still
Has tracked your steps and served your

Now in humbler, happier lot,
This is all remembered not;
And now, alas ! the poor sprite is
Imprisoned for some fault of his
In a body like a grave-
From you, he only dares to crave,
For his service and his sorrow,
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.

The artist who this idol wrought,
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine ;
And dreaming, some of autumn past,
And some of spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love, and so this tree,-
O that such our death


be !Died in sleep, and felt no pain, To live in happier form again : From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star, The artist wrought this loved Guitar, And taught it justly to reply, To all who question skilfully, In language gentle as thine own; Whispering in enamoured tone

Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells ;
For it had learnt all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains ;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,
The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound,
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way-
All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The spirit that inhabits it;
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions ; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before,
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For our beloved friend alone.


SLEEP, sleep on! forget thy pain;

My hand is on thy brow,
My spirit on thy brain ;
My pity on thy heart, poor friend;

And from my fingers flow

of life, and like a sign, Seal thee from thine hour of woe ; And brood on thee, but may not blend

With thine.

Sleep, sleep on! I love thee not;

But when I think that he Who made and makes


lot As full of flowers, as thine of weeds,

Might have been lost like thee; And that a hand which was not mine

Might then have chased his agony As I another’s—my heart bleeds

For thine.

"Sleep, sleep, and with the slumber of

The dead and the unborn
Forget thy life and love;
Forget that thou must wake for ever;

Forget the world's dull scorn;
Forget lost health, and the divine

Feelings which died in youth's brief morn; And forget me, for I can never

Be thine.

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