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. ON INDOLENCE. "They toil not, neither do they spin." O 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? beams: The morn was clouded, but no shower fell, Tho' in her lids hung the sweet tears of May; The open casement press'd a new-leaved vine, Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay; O Shadows! 'twas a time to bid farewell! Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine. VI. So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn; Farewell! I yet have visions for the night, And for the day faint visions there is store; Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle spright, Into the clouds, and never more return! THE EVE OF SAINT MARK. (UNFINISHED.) PON a Sabbath-day it fell; Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell, Of unmatured green, vallies cold, Of the green thorny bloomless hedge, Perplex'd her with a thousand things,- Azure saints and silver rays, Moses' breastplate, and the seven Bertha was a maiden fair, |