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BLANCO WHITE

(1775-1841)

NIGHT AND DEATH1

MYSTERIOUS Night! when the first Man but knew
Thee by report, unseen, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue ?
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,

And lo, Creation widened on his view.
Who could have thought what darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun or who could find,
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed
That to such endless orbs thou mad'st us blind?
Weak man! why to shun Death this anxious strife?
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?

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1 There are two versions of this greatly admired sonnet. This, though the earlier and less known, certainly seems the better of the two.

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER

(1787-1874)

A STILL PLACE

UNDER what beechen shade or silent oak
Lies the mute sylvan now, mysterious Pan?"
Once (when rich Peneus and Ilissus ran
Clear from their fountains) as the morning broke,
"Tis said the Satyr with Apollo spoke,

And to harmonious strife with his wild reed Challenged the God, whose music was indeed Divine, and fit for heaven. Each played, and woke Beautiful sounds to life, deep melodies;

One blew his pastoral pipe with such nice care That flocks and birds all answered him; and one Shook his immortal showers upon the air.

That music has ascended to the sun;

But where the other? Speak, ye dells and trees.

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON

(1788-1824)

ON CHILLON

ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind!
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art;
For there thy habitation is the heart,

The heart which love of thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned,

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod,
Until his very steps have left a trace,

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,

J

By Bonnivard.1 May none those marks efface!
For they appeal from tyranny to God.

1A Genevese patriot of the seventeenth century, imprisoned by the Duke of Savoy in the Castle of Chillon.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

(1792-1822)

TO WORDSWORTH

POET of Nature! Thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return:
Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first
glow,

Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn. These common woes I feel. One loss is mine

Which thou too feel'st; yet I alone deplore. Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar : Thou hadst like to a rock-built refuge stood

Above the blind and battling multitude.
In honoured poverty thy voice did weave

Songs consecrate to truth and liberty

:

Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve,

Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

OZY MANDIAS

I MET a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the san d Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose fro wn And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on those lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear :

'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

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