Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self. Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades. Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:- do I wake or sleep? T ON A GRECIAN URN. HOU still unravish'd bride of quietness! Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed. For ever piping songs for ever new; For ever panting and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Is emptied of its folk this pious morn? Why thou art desolate can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. O 66 ON INDOLENCE. They toil not, neither do they spin." I. NE morn before me were three figures seen And one behind the other stepp'd serene, Is shifted round, the first green shades return; And they were strange to me, as may betide With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore. II. How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not? To steal away, and leave without a task My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour; The blissful cloud of summer-indolence Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less; Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower : O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense Unhaunted quite of all but-nothingness? III. A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd Each one the face a moment whiles to, me; Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd And ached for wings, because I knew the three; The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name; The second was Ambition, pale of cheek, And ever watchful with fatigued eye; The last, whom I love more, the more of blame Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek,I knew to be my demon Poesy. IV. They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings: For Poesy!-no,- she has not a joy,- O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy, That I may never know how change the moons, Or hear the voice of busy common-sense! V. And once more came they by; alas! wherefore? The morn was clouded, but no shower fell, |