122 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. O joy! that in our embers That Nature yet remembers The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest, Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: -Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us-cherish-and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither; Can in a moment travel thither INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. And see the children sport upon the shore, Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! As to the tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng, Ye that through your hearts to-day What though the radiance which was once so bright Though nothing can bring back the hour Which having been must ever be, In the faith that looks through death, And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquish'd one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway; I love the brooks which down their channels fret The clouds that gather round the setting sun 123 124 THE POET'S INVOCATION. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, THE POET'S INVOCATION. EARTH, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood! Your love, and recompense the boon with mine; Mother of this unfathomable world, THE POET'S INVOCATION. Keeps record of the trophies won from thee; Of what we are. In lone and silent hours, 125 When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness, And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought, Of some mysterious and deserted fane) I wait thy breath, Great Parent; that my strain And motions of the forests and the sea, P. B. Shelley. 126 HYMN TO THE EARTH. HYMN TO THE EARTH. HEXAMETERS. EARTH! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the mother, Hail! O Goddess, thrice hail! Blest be thou! and, blessing, I hymn thee! Forth, ye sweet sounds! from my harp, and my voice shall float on your surges Soar thou aloft, O my soul! and bear up my song on thy pinions. Travelling the vale with mine eyes-green meadows and lake with green island, Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream flowing in brightness Thrilled with thy beauty and love in the wooded slope of the mountain, Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head on thy bosom! Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through thy tresses, Green-haired goddess! refresh me; and hark! as they hurry or linger, Fill the pause of my harp, or sustain it with musical murmurs, Into my being thou murmurest joy, and tenderest sadness Shedd'st thou, like dew, on my heart, till the joy and the heavenly sadness Pour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and the hymn of thanksgiving. |