BLANCO WHITE (1775-1841) NIGHT AND DEATH1 MYSTERIOUS Night! when the first Man but knew Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame And lo, Creation widened on his view. 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 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! The heart which love of thee alone can bind; 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, Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, J By Bonnivard.1 May none those marks efface! 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 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. 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 |