Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind, -00 THE CLOUD. I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rock'd to rest, on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, I sift the snow on the mountains below, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. In a cavern under, is fettered the thunder, Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings; And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, And the crimson pall of eve may fall With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind- built tent, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcano's are dim, and the stars reel and swim. Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch, through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above, its soft colours wove, I am the daughter of the earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; For after the rain when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, -00 TO A SKYLARK. Hail to thee, blithe spirit! In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher, still and higher, From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever, singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded no* · Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soul in secret hour, With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower; Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aërial hue [view: Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the Like a rose embower'd In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower'd, Till the scent it gives [thieves. Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass: Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine; I have never heard, Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymenæal, Or triumphal chaunt, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: With some pain is fraught: Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought |