Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. 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 divin Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, 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 Languor cannot be : Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; hut 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? N 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. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever could come near. Better than all measures Of delight and sound, That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. SHELLEY.. REFLECTION. 48. The State of Kings and Peasants contrasted. Upon the king! let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, Our children and our sins lay on the king! Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath But his own wringing! What infinite heart's-ease And what art thou, thou idol ceremony? O ceremony, show me but thy worth! Art thou aught else but place, degree and form, Wherein thou art less happy being fear'd Than they in fearing. What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness, Think'st thou the fiery fever will go out With titles blown from adulation? Will it give place to flexure and low bending? Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee, I am a king that find thee, and I know Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread; Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. The slave, a member of the country's peace, Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace, Whose hours the peasant best advantages.-Henry V. iv. 1. 49. A Shepherd's Life compared to a King' Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind; To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, When this is known, then to divide the times: So many hours must I tend my flock; Ah! what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely! Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade To kings that fear their subjects' treachery? Is far beyond a prince's delicates, His body couched in a curious bed, When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him. 3 Henry VI. ii. 5. 50. Night. Night is the time for rest; How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams; The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems, Blend in fantastic strife; Ah! visions less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are! Night is the time for toil; To plough the classic field, Its wealthy furrows yield; Night is the time to weep; To wet with unseen tears |