As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute :No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell.
When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possest.
O, Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
Its passions will rock thee,
As the storms rock the ravens on high: Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home
Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.
WHEN the lamp is shattered, The light in the dust lies deadWhen the cloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.
THERE was a little lawny islet By anemone and violet,
Like mosaic, paven :
And its roof was flowers and leaves Which the summer's breath enweaves, Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze Pierce the pines and tallest trees,
Each a gem engraven.
Girt by many an azure wave
With which the clouds and mountains pave A lake's blue chasm.
THIRD SPEAKER (a youth).
Yet, father, 'tis a happy sight to see, Beautiful, innocent, and unforbidden
By God or man ;-'tis like the bright procession Of skiey visions in a solemn dream
From which men wake as from a paradise, And draw new strength to tread the thorns of life. If God be good, wherefore should this be evil? And if this be not evil, dost thou not draw Unseasonable poison from the flowers
Which bloom so rarely in this barren world?
Oh, kill these bitter thoughts which make the
And open-eyed conspiracy, lie sleeping As on Hell's threshold; and all gentle thoughts Waken to worship him who giveth joys With his own gift.
How young art thou in this old age of time! How green in this grey world! Canst thou not think Of change in that low scene, in which thou art Not a spectator but an actor?
The day that dawns in fire will die in storms, Even though the noon be calm. My travel's done; Before the whirlwind wakes I shall have found My inn of lasting rest, but thou must still Be journeying on in this inclement air.
Rather say the Pope.
London will be soon his Rome : he walks
As if he trod upon the heads of men.
He looks elate, drunken with blood and gold ;Beside him moves the Babylonian woman
Invisibly, and with her as with his shadow,
Mitred adulterer! he is joined in sin,
Which turns Heaven's milk of mercy to revenge.
Nobles, and sons of nobles, patentees, Monopolists, and stewards of this poor farm, On whose lean sheep sit the prophetic crows. Here is the pomp that strips the houseless orphan, Here is the pride that breaks the desolate heart. These are the lilies glorious as Solomon, Who toil not, neither do they spin,-unless It be the webs they catch poor rogues withal. Here is the surfeit which to them who earn The niggard wages of the earth, scarce leaves The tithe that will support them till they crawl Back to its cold hard bosom. Here is health Followed by grim disease, glory by shame, Waste by lame famine, wealth by squalid want, And England's sin by England's punishment. And, as the effect pursues the cause foregone, Lo, giving substance to my words, behold
Enter the KING, QUEEN, LAUD, WENTWORTH, and ARCHY.
Thanks, gentlemen. I heartily accept This token of your service: your gay masque Was performed gallantly.
And, gentlemen, Your quaint
Call your poor Queen your debtor.
pageant Rose on me like the figures of past years, Treading their still path back to infancy, More beautiful and mild as they draw nearer The quiet cradle. I could have almost wept To think I was in Paris, where these shows Are well devised-such as I was ere yet My young heart shared with [ ] the task, The careful weight of this great monarchy. There, gentlemen, between the sovereign's pleasure And that which it regards, no clamour lifts Its proud interposition.
I crave permission of your Majesty To order that this insolent fellow be Chastised he mocks the sacred character, Scoffs at the stake, and—
What, my Archy! He mocks and mimics all he sees and hears, Yet with a quaint and graceful licence-Prithee For this once do not as Prynne would, were he Primate of England.
He lives in his own world; and, like a parrot, Hung in his gilded prison from the window
Do thou persist: for, faint but in resolve, And it were better thou hadst still remained The slave of thine own slaves, who tear like curs The fugitive, and flee from the pursuer; And Opportunity, that empty wolf, Flies at his throat who falls. Subdue thy actions Even to the disposition of thy purpose, And be that tempered as the Ebro's steel; And banish weak-eyed Mercy to the weak, Whence she will greet thee with a gift of peace, And not betray thee with a traitor's kiss, As when she keeps the company of rebels, Who think that she is fear. This do, lest we Should fall as from a glorious pinnacle
In a bright dream, and wake as from a dream Out of our worshipped state.
And if this suffice not, Unleash the sword and fire, that in their thirst They may lick up that scum of schismatics. I laugh at those weak rebels who, desiring What we possess, still prate of christian peace, As if those dreadful messengers of wrath, Which play the part of God 'twixt right and wrong, Should be let loose against innocent sleep Of templed cities and the smiling fields, For some poor argument of policy Which touches our own profit or our pride, Where indeed it were christian charity
To turn the cheek even to the smiter's hand: And when our great Redeemer, when our God Is scorned in his immediate ministers, They talk of peace!
Such peace as Canaan found, let Scotland now.
Your brain is overwrought with these deep thoughts.
Come, I will sing to you; let us go try These airs from Italy, and you shall see A cradled miniature of yourself asleep, Stamped on the heart by never-erring love; Liker than any Vandyke ever made,
A pattern to the unborn age of thee, Over whose sweet beauty I have wept for joy A thousand times, and now should weep for sorrow, Did I not think that after we were dead Our fortunes would spring high in him, and that The cares we waste upon our heavy crown Would make it light and glorious as a wreath Of heaven's beams for his dear innocent brow.
This glorious clime, this firmament, whose lights Dart mitigated influence through the veil Of pale-blue atmosphere; whose tears keep green The pavement of this moist all-feeding earth; This vaporous horizon, whose dim round Is bastioned by the circumfluous sea, Repelling invasion from the sacred towers; Presses upon me like a dungeon's grate, A low dark roof, a damp and narrow vault: The mighty universe becomes a cell Too narrow for the soul that owns no master. While the loathliest spot
Of this wide prison, England, is a nest Of cradled peace built on the mountain tops, To which the eagle-spirits of the free, Which range through heaven and earth, and scorn
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