poem.id,poem.ts,poem.title,poem.date,poem.content,poem.author
201,"2018-03-01 03:57:33","A Pang is more conspicuous in Spring",5/5/2015,"A Pang is more conspicuous in SpringIn contrast with the things that singNot Birds entirely - but Minds - Minute Effulgencies and Winds - When what they sung for is undoneWho cares about a Blue Bird's Tune - Why, Resurrection had to waitTill they had moved a Stone -","Emily Dickinson"
202,"2018-03-01 03:57:38","If Ever The Lid Gets Off My Head",5/12/2015,"If ever the lid gets off my headAnd lets the brain awayThe fellow will go where he belonged - Without a hint from me,And the world - if the world be looking on - Will see how far from homeIt is possible for sense to liveThe soul there - all the time.","Emily Dickinson"
203,"2018-03-01 03:57:44","The Work Of Her That Went",5/13/2015,"The Work of Her that went,The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes,By Fires of the Sun.","Emily Dickinson"
204,"2018-03-01 03:57:51","And with what body do they come",5/21/2015,"'And with what body do they come?' - Then they do come - Rejoice!What Door - What Hour - Run - run - My Soul!Illuminate the House!'Body!' Then real - a Face and Eyes - To know that it is them!Paul knew the Man that knew the News - He passed through Bethlehem -","Emily Dickinson"
205,"2018-03-01 03:57:55","So much of Heaven has gone from Earth",5/29/2015,"So much of Heaven has gone from EarthThat there must be a HeavenIf only to enclose the SaintsTo Affidavit given.The Missionary to the MoleMust prove there is a SkyLocation doubtless he would pleadBut what excuse have I?Too much of Proof affronts BeliefThe Turtle will not tryUnless you leave him - then returnAnd he has hauled away.","Emily Dickinson"
206,"2018-03-01 03:58:02","His voice decrepit was with Joy",9/2/2015,"His voice decrepit was with Joy - Her words did totter soHow old the News of Love must beTo make Lips elderlyThat purled a moment since with Glee - Is it Delight or Woe - Or Terror - that do decorateThis livid interview -","Emily Dickinson"
207,"2018-03-01 03:58:05","Remembrance has a Rear and Front",12/29/2015,"Remembrance has a Rear and Front - 'Tis something like a House - It has a Garret alsoFor Refuse and the Mouse.Besides the deepest CellarThat ever Mason laid - Look to it by its FathomsOurselves be not pursued -","Emily Dickinson"
208,"2018-03-01 03:58:08","These Fevered Days - to take them to the Forest",2/11/2016,"These Fevered Days - to take them to the ForestWhere Waters cool around the mosses crawl - And shade is all that devastates the stillnessSeems it sometimes this would be all -","Emily Dickinson"
209,"2018-03-01 03:58:12","The Devil - had he fidelity",3/30/2016,"The Devil - had he fidelityWould be the best friend - Because he has ability - But Devils cannot mend - Perfidy is the virtueThat would but he resignThe Devil - without questionWere thoroughly divine","Emily Dickinson"
210,"2018-03-01 03:58:20","Of so divine a Loss",3/30/2016,"Of so divine a LossWe enter but the Gain,Indemnity for LonelinessThat such a Bliss has been.","Emily Dickinson"
211,"2018-03-01 03:58:26","The Beggar at the Door for Fame",4/8/2016,"The Beggar at the Door for FameWere easily suppliedBut Bread is that Diviner thingDisclosed to be denied","Emily Dickinson"
212,"2018-03-01 03:58:32","Praise it - 'tis dead -",6/7/2016,"Praise it - 'tis dead - It cannot glow - Warm this inclement EarWith the encomium it earnedSince it was gathered here - Invest this alabaster ZestIn the Delights of Dust - Remitted - since it flitted itIn recusance august.","Emily Dickinson"
213,"2018-03-01 03:58:37","'Tomorrow' - whose location",7/20/2016,"'Tomorrow' - whose locationThe Wise deceivesThough its hallucinationIs last that leaves - Tomorrow - thou RetrieverOf every tare - Of Alibi art thouOr ownest where?","Emily Dickinson"
214,"2018-03-01 03:58:40","As old as Woe",7/29/2016,"As old as Woe - How old is that?Some eighteen thousand years - As old as BlissHow old is thatThey are of equal yearsTogether chiefest they ard foundBut seldom side by sideFrom neither of them tho' he tryCan Human nature hide","Emily Dickinson"
215,"2018-03-01 03:58:44","Best Witchcraft is Geometry",8/4/2016,"Best Witchcraft is GeometryTo the magician's mind - His ordinary acts are featsTo thinking of mankind.","Emily Dickinson"
216,"2018-03-01 03:58:48","The Clover's simple Fame",4/8/2016,"The Clover's simple FameRemembered of the Cow - Is better than enameled RealmsOf notability.Renown perceives itselfAnd that degrades the Flower - The Daisy that has looked behindHas compromised its power -","Emily Dickinson"
217,"2018-03-01 03:58:52","Let me not mar that perfect Dream",3/11/2016,"Let me not mar that perfect DreamBy an Auroral stainBut so adjust my daily NightThat it will come again.Not when we know, the Power accosts - The Garment of SurpriseWas all our timid Mother woreAt Home - in Paradise.","Emily Dickinson"
218,"2018-03-01 03:58:57","Immured in Heaven!",3/21/2016,"Immured in Heaven!What a Cell!Let every Bondage be,Thou sweetest of the Universe,Like that which ravished thee!","Emily Dickinson"
219,"2018-03-01 03:59:00","Not Sickness stains the Brave,",2/26/2016,"Not Sickness stains the Brave,Nor any Dart,Nor Doubt of Scene to come,But an adjourning Heart -","Emily Dickinson"
220,"2018-03-01 03:59:03","Glory is that bright tragic thing",2/29/2016,"Glory is that bright tragic thingThat for an instantMeans Dominion - Warms some poor nameThat never felt the Sun,Gently replacingIn oblivion -","Emily Dickinson"
221,"2018-03-01 03:59:10","It stole along so stealthy",6/25/2015,"It stole along so stealthySuspicion it was doneWas dim as to the wealthyBeginning not to own -","Emily Dickinson"
222,"2018-03-01 03:59:13","Witchcraft Has Not A Pedigree",11/13/2015,"Witchcraft has not a pedigree,‘Tis early as our breath,And mourners meet it going outThe moment of our death.","Emily Dickinson"
223,"2018-03-01 03:59:17","If all the griefs I am to have",11/26/2015,"If all the griefs I am to haveWould only come today,I am so happy I believeThey'd laugh and run away.If all the joys I am to haveWould only come today,They could not be so big as thisThat happens to me now.","Emily Dickinson"
224,"2018-03-01 03:59:22","Whose Pink career may have a close",7/4/2015,"Whose Pink career may have a closePortentous as our own, who knows?To imitate these Neighbors fleetIn awe and innocence, were meet.","Emily Dickinson"
225,"2018-03-01 03:59:26","Image of Light, Adieu",7/21/2015,"Image of Light, Adieu - Thanks for the interview - So long - so short - Preceptor of the whole - Coeval Cardinal - Impart - Depart -","Emily Dickinson"
226,"2018-03-01 03:59:33","Warm in her Hand these accents lie",2/18/2016,"Warm in her Hand these accents lieWhile faithful and afarThe Grace so awkward for her sakeIts fond subjection wear -","Emily Dickinson"
227,"2018-03-01 03:59:38","On my volcano grows the Grass",12/10/2015,"On my volcano grows the GrassA meditative spot - An acre for a Bird to chooseWould be the General thought - How red the Fire rocks below - How insecure the sodDid I discloseWould populate with awe my solitude.","Emily Dickinson"
228,"2018-03-01 03:59:42","Hope is a strange invention",7/26/2016,"Hope is a strange invention - A Patent of the Heart - In unremitting actionYet never wearing out - Of this electric AdjunctNot anything is knownBut its unique momentumEmbellish all we own -","Emily Dickinson"
229,"2018-03-01 03:59:48","Speech is one symptom of Affection",7/11/2016,"Speech is one symptom of AffectionAnd Silence one - The perfectest communicationIs heard of none - Exists and its indorsementIs had within - Behold, said the Apostle,Yet had not seen!","Emily Dickinson"
230,"2018-03-01 03:59:53","Ended, ere it begun -",4/4/2016,"Ended, ere it begun - The Title was scarcely toldWhen the Preface perished from ConsciousnessThe Story, unrevealed - Had it been mine, to print!Had it been yours, to read!That it was not Our privilegeThe interdict of God -","Emily Dickinson"
231,"2018-03-01 04:00:00","It sounded as if the Streets were running",4/21/2015,"It sounded as if the Streets were runningAnd then - the Streets stood still - Eclipse - was all we could see at the WindowAnd Awe - was all we could feel.By and by - the boldest stole out of his CovertTo see if Time was there - Nature was in an Opal Apron,Mixing fresher Air.","Emily Dickinson"
232,"2018-03-01 04:00:03","The Spry Arms Of The Wind",5/11/2015,"The spry Arms of the WindIf I could crawl betweenI have an errand imminentTo an adjoining Zone - I should not care to stopMy Process is not longThe Wind could wait without the GateOr stroll the Town among.To ascertain the HouseAnd is the soul at HomeAnd hold the Wick of mine to itTo light, and then return -","Emily Dickinson"
233,"2018-03-01 04:00:06","Some Days retired from the rest",4/18/2015,"Some Days retired from the restIn soft distinction lieThe Day that a Companion cameOr was obliged to die","Emily Dickinson"
234,"2018-03-01 04:00:09","Whole Gulfs - of Red, and Fleets",4/17/2015,"Whole Gulfs - of Red, and Fleets - of Red - And Crews - of solid Blood - Did place upon the West - Tonight - As 'twere specific Ground - And They - appointed Creatures - In Authorized Arrays - Due - promptly - as a Drama - That bows - and disappears -","Emily Dickinson"
235,"2018-03-01 04:00:14","Down Time's quaint stream",7/12/2016,"Down Time's quaint streamWithout an oarWe are enforced to sailOur Port a secretOur Perchance a GaleWhat Skipper wouldIncur the RiskWhat Buccaneer would rideWithout a surety from the WindOr schedule of the Tide -","Emily Dickinson"
236,"2018-03-01 04:00:20","A train went through a burial gate",7/22/2016,"A train went through a burial gate,A bird broke forth and sang,And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throatTill all the churchyard rang;And then adjusted his little notes,And bowed and sang again.Doubtless, he thought it meet of himTo say good-by to men.","Emily Dickinson"
237,"2018-03-01 04:00:24","Shall I take thee, the Poet said",7/29/2015,"Shall I take thee, the Poet saidTo the propounded word?Be stationed with the CandidatesTill I have finer tried—The Poet searched PhilologyAnd when about to ringFor the suspended CandidateThere came unsummoned in—That portion of the VisionThe Word applied to fillNot unto nominationThe Cherubim reveal—","Emily Dickinson"
238,"2018-03-01 04:00:28","As from the earth the light Balloon",5/29/2015,"As from the earth the light BalloonAsks nothing but release - Ascension that for which it was,Its soaring Residence.The spirit looks upon the DustThat fastened it so longWith indignation,As a BirdDefrauded of its song.","Emily Dickinson"
239,"2018-03-01 04:00:34","He ate and drank the precious Words",9/4/2015,"He ate and drank the precious Words - His Spirit grew robust - He knew no more that he was poor,Nor that his frame was Dust - He danced along the dingy DaysAnd this Bequest of WingsWas but a Book - What LibertyA loosened spirit brings -","Emily Dickinson"
240,"2018-03-01 04:00:40","Of Yellow was the outer Sky",9/7/2015,"Nature rarer uses YellowThan another Hue.Saves she all of that for SunsetsProdigal of BlueSpending Scarlet, like a WomanYellow she affordsOnly scantly and selectlyLike a Lover's Words.","Emily Dickinson"
241,"2018-03-01 04:00:46",Ulalume,11/12/2015,"The skies they were ashen and sober;The leaves they were crisped and sere -The leaves they were withering and sere;It was night in the lonesome OctoberOf my most immemorial year;It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,In the misty mid region of Weir -It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.Here once, through an alley Titanic,Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul -Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.These were days when my heart was volcanicAs the scoriac rivers that roll -As the lavas that restlessly rollTheir sulphurous currents down YaanekIn the ultimate climes of the pole -That groan as they roll down Mount YaanekIn the realms of the boreal pole.Our talk had been serious and sober,But our thoughts they were palsied and sere -Our memories were treacherous and sere, -For we knew not the month was October,And we marked not the night of the year -(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)We noted not the dim lake of Auber -(Though once we had journey down here),Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.And now, as the night was senescent,And star-dials pointed to morn -As the star-dials hinted of morn -At the end of our path a liquescentAnd nebulous lustre was born,Out of which a miraculous crescentArose with a duplicate horn -Astarte's bediamonded crescentDistinct with its duplicate horn.And I said - ""She is warmer than Dian:She rolls through an ether of sighs -She revels in a region of sighs:She has seen that the tears are not dry onThese cheeks, where the worm never dies,And has come past the stars of the LionTo point us the path to the skies -To the Lethean peace of the skies -Come up, in despite of the Lion,To shine on us with her bright eyes -Come up through the lair of the Lion,With love in her luminous eyes.""But Psyche, uplifting her finger,Said - ""Sadly this star I mistrust -Her pallor I strangely mistrust: -Oh, hasten! - oh, let us not linger!Oh, fly! - let us fly! - for we must.""In terror she spoke, letting sink herWings until they trailed in the dust -In agony sobbed, letting sink herPlumes till they trailed in the dust -Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.I replied - ""This is nothing but dreaming:Let us on by this tremulous light!Let us bathe in this crystalline light!Its Sybilic splendor is beamingWith Hope and in Beauty to-night! -See! - it flickers up the sky through the night!Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,And be sure it will lead us aright -We safely may trust to a gleaming,That cannot but guide us aright,Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.""Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,And tempted her out of her gloom -And conquered her scruples and gloom;And we passed to the end of the vista,But were stopped by the door of a tomb -By the door of a legended tomb;And I said - ""What is written, sweet sister,On the door of this legended tomb?""She replied - ""Ulalume - Ulalume -‘Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!""Then my heart it grew ashen and soberAs the leaves that were crisped and sere -As the leaves that were withering and sere,And I cried - ""It was surely OctoberOn this very night of last yearThat I journeyed - I journeyed down here -That I brought a dread burden down here!On this night of all nights in the year,Ah, what demon has tempted me here?Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber -This misty mid region of Weir -Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, -This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.""","Edgar Allan Poe"
242,"2018-03-01 04:00:50","To Isadore",1/19/2012,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
243,"2018-03-01 04:00:52","The City Of Sin",8/10/2015,"LO! Death hath rear'd himself a throneIn a strange city, all alone,Far down within the dim west —Where the good, and the bad, and the worst, and the best,Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines, and palaces, and towersAre — not like any thing of ours —Oh no! — O no! — ours never loomTo heaven with that ungodly gloom!Time-eaten towers that tremble not!Resemble nothing that is ours.Around, by lifting winds forgot,Resignedly beneath the skyThe melancholy waters lie. No holy rays from heaven come downOn the long night-time of that town,But light from out the lurid seaStreams up the turrets silently —Up thrones — up long-forgotten bowersOf scultur'd ivy and stone flowers —Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —Up many a melancholy shrineWhose entablatures intertwineThe mask — the viol — and the vine. There open temples — open gravesAre on a level with the waves —But not the riches there that lieIn each idol's diamond eye,Not the gaily-jewell'd deadTempt the waters from their bed:For no ripples curl, alas!Along that wilderness of glass —No swellings hint that winds may beUpon a far-off happier sea:So blend the turrets and shadows thereThat all seem pendulous in air,While from the high towers of the townDeath looks gigantically down. But lo! a stir is in the air!The wave — there is a ripple there!As if the towers had thrown aside,In slightly sinking, the dull tide —As if the turret-tops had givenA vacuum in the filmy heaven.The waves have now a redder glow —The very hours are breathing low —And when, amid no earthly moans,Down, down, that town shall settle hence,All Hades, from a thousand thrones,Shall do it reverence,And Death to some more happy climeShall give his undivided time.","Edgar Allan Poe"
244,"2018-03-01 04:00:58","To Marie Louise (Shew)",3/26/2010,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
245,"2018-03-01 04:01:05","The Village Street",1/19/2012,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
246,"2018-03-01 04:01:08","Impromptu - To Kate Carol",3/25/2010,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
247,"2018-03-01 04:01:13","The Bells - A Collaboration",3/26/2010,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
248,"2018-03-01 04:01:18","The Divine Right Of Kings",3/26/2010,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
249,"2018-03-01 04:01:21","To M--",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
250,"2018-03-01 04:01:25","To -- --",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
251,"2018-03-01 04:01:30",Stanzas,12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
252,"2018-03-01 04:01:35","To --",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
253,"2018-03-01 04:01:38","To M.L.S.",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
254,"2018-03-01 04:01:41","To F--S S. O--D",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
255,"2018-03-01 04:01:45","To F--",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
256,"2018-03-01 04:01:49","Sonnet- To Zante",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
257,"2018-03-01 04:01:56","Hymn To Aristogeiton And Harmodius",1/3/2003,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
258,"2018-03-01 04:01:59",Israfel,12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
259,"2018-03-01 04:02:04","Sancta Maria",1/3/2003,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
260,"2018-03-01 04:02:08","In Youth I Have Known One",1/1/2004,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
261,"2018-03-01 04:02:11","The Forest Reverie",1/1/2004,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
262,"2018-03-01 04:02:16","To Helen - 1848",1/1/2004,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
263,"2018-03-01 04:02:22","Sonnet- To Science",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
264,"2018-03-01 04:02:28",Song,12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
265,"2018-03-01 04:02:33","To One Departed",1/3/2003,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
266,"2018-03-01 04:02:38",Tamerlane,12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
267,"2018-03-01 04:02:41","Epigram For Wall Street",3/25/2010,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
268,"2018-03-01 04:02:44","To -- -- --. Ulalume: A Ballad",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
269,"2018-03-01 04:02:46","To One In Paradise",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
270,"2018-03-01 04:02:53","In The Greenest Of Our Valleys",1/1/2004,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
271,"2018-03-01 04:02:56",Enigma,3/25/2010,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
272,"2018-03-01 04:03:01","To The River --",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
273,"2018-03-01 04:03:05",Hymn,12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
274,"2018-03-01 04:03:12",Serenade,12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
275,"2018-03-01 04:03:15","The Valley Of Unrest",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
276,"2018-03-01 04:03:20","An Acrostic",3/25/2010,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
277,"2018-03-01 04:03:27","Sonnet- Silence",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
278,"2018-03-01 04:03:31","The Lake",12/31/2002,,"Edgar Allan Poe"
279,"2018-03-01 04:03:34","The Coliseum",12/31/2002,"Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length- at length- after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! I feel ye now- I feel ye in your strength- O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones! But stay! these walls- these ivy-clad arcades- These moldering plinths- these sad and blackened shafts- These vague entablatures- this crumbling frieze- These shattered cornices- this wreck- this ruin- These stones- alas! these grey stones- are they all- All of the famed, and the colossal left By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me? 'Not all'- the Echoes answer me- 'not all! Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, As melody from Memnon to the Sun. We rule the hearts of mightiest men- we rule With a despotic sway all giant minds. We are not impotent- we pallid stones. Not all our power is gone- not all our fame- Not all the magic of our high renown- Not all the wonder that encircles us- Not all the mysteries that in us lie- Not all the memories that hang upon And cling around about us as a garment, Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.'","Edgar Allan Poe"
280,"2018-03-01 04:03:38","The Sleeper",12/31/2002,"At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And, softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley. The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; Wrapping the fog about its breast, The ruin molders into rest; Looking like Lethe, see! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not, for the world, awake. All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies Irene, with her Destinies! O, lady bright! can it be right- This window open to the night? The wanton airs, from the tree-top, Laughingly through the lattice drop- The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully- so fearfully- Above the closed and fringed lid 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, That, o'er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? Why and what art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art come O'er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees! Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress, Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all solemn silentness! The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, Which is enduring, so be deep! Heaven have her in its sacred keep! This chamber changed for one more holy, This bed for one more melancholy, I pray to God that she may lie For ever with unopened eye, While the pale sheeted ghosts go by! My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep As it is lasting, so be deep! Soft may the worms about her creep! Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold- Some vault that oft has flung its black And winged panels fluttering back, Triumphant, o'er the crested palls, Of her grand family funerals- Some sepulchre, remote, alone, Against whose portal she hath thrown, In childhood, many an idle stone- Some tomb from out whose sounding door She ne'er shall force an echo more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! It was the dead who groaned within.","Edgar Allan Poe"
281,"2018-03-01 04:03:42","Descriptive Sketches Taken During A Pedestrian Tour Among The Alps",7/27/2015,"WERE there, below, a spot of holy ground Where from distress a refuge might be found, And solitude prepare the soul for heaven; Sure, nature's God that spot to man had given Where falls the purple morning far and wide In flakes of light upon the mountain side; Where with loud voice the power of water shakes The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes. Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam, Who at the call of summer quits his home, And plods through some wide realm o'er vale and height, Though seeking only holiday delight; At least, not owning to himself an aim To which the sage would give a prouder name. No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy, Though every passing zephyr whispers joy; Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease, Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn; And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn! Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, And dear the velvet green-sward to his tread: Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye? Upward he looks- 'and calls it luxury:' Kind Nature's charities his steps attend; In every babbling brook he finds a friend; While chastening thoughts of sweetest use, bestowed By wisdom, moralise his pensive road. Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower, To his spare meal he calls the passing poor; He views the sun uplift his golden fire, Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon's lyre; Blesses the moon that comes with kindly ray, To light him shaken by his rugged way. Back from his sight no bashful children steal; He sits a brother at the cottage-meal; His humble looks no shy restraint impart; Around him plays at will the virgin heart. While unsuspended wheels the village dance, The maidens eye him with enquiring glance, Much wondering by what fit of crazing care, Or desperate love, bewildered, he came there. A hope, that prudence could not then approve, That clung to Nature with a truant's love, O'er Gallia's wastes of corn my footsteps led; Her files of road-elms, high above my head In long-drawn vista, rustling in the breeze; Or where her pathways straggle as they please By lonely farms and secret villages. But lo! the Alps ascending white in air, Toy with the sun and glitter from afar. And now, emerging from the forest's gloom, I greet thee, Chartreuse, while I mourn thy doom. Whither is fled that Power whose frown severe Awed sober Reason till she crouched in fear? 'That' Silence, once in deathlike fetters bound, Chains that were loosened only by the sound Of holy rites chanted in measured round? - The voice of blasphemy the fane alarms, The cloister startles at the gleam of arms. The thundering tube the aged angler hears, Bent o'er the groaning flood that sweeps away his tears. Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their troubled heads, Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night o'erspreads; Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs, And start the astonished shades at female eyes. From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted jay, And slow the insulted eagle wheels away. A viewless flight of laughing Demons mock The Cross, by angels planted on the aerial rock. The 'parting Genius' sighs with hollow breath Along the mystic streams of Life and Death. Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds Portentous through her old woods' trackless bounds, Vallombre, 'mid her falling fanes, deplores, For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers. More pleased, my foot the hidden margin roves Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves. No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. - To towns, whose shades of no rude noise complain, From ringing team apart and grating wain- To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's bound, Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling, And o'er the whitened wave their shadows fling- The pathway leads, as round the steeps it twines; And Silence loves its purple roof of vines. The loitering traveller hence, at evening, sees From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees; Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark-eyed maids Tend the small harvest of their garden glades; Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view Stretch o'er the pictured mirror broad and blue, And track the yellow lights from steep to steep, As up the opposing hills they slowly creep. Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed In golden light; half hides itself in shade: While, from amid the darkened roofs, the spire, Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like fire: There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw Rich golden verdure on the lake below. Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore, And steals into the shade the lazy oar; Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs, And amorous music on the water dies. How blest, delicious scene! the eye that greets Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats; Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales Thy cliffs; the endless waters of thy vales; Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore, Each with its household boat beside the door; Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky; Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows' nests, on high; That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, descried Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side, Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted woods Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods; Thy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue or grey, 'Mid smoking woods gleams hid from morning's ray Slow-travelling down the western hills, to enfold Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold; Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin bell Calls forth the woodman from his desert cell, And quickens the blithe sound of oars that pass Along the steaming lake, to early mass. But now farewell to each and all- adieu To every charm, and last and chief to you, Ye lovely maidens that in noontide shade Rest near your little plots of wheaten glade; To all that binds the soul in powerless trance, Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance; Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume The sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom. - Alas! the very murmur of the streams Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams, While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell, Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's marge, And lures from bay to bay the vocal barge. Yet are thy softer arts with power indued To soothe and cheer the poor man's solitude. By silent cottage-doors, the peasant's home Left vacant for the day, I loved to roam. But once I pierced the mazes of a wood In which a cabin undeserted stood; There an old man an olden measure scanned On a rude viol touched with withered hand. As lambs or fawns in April clustering lie Under a hoary oak's thin canopy, Stretched at his feet, with stedfast upward eye, His children's children listened to the sound; - A Hermit with his family around! But let us hence; for fair Locarno smiles Embowered in walnut slopes and citron isles: Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa's stream, Where, 'mid dim towers and woods, her waters gleam. From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retire The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, aspire To where afar rich orange lustres glow Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, and snow: Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine The indignant waters of the infant Rhine, Hang o'er the abyss, whose else impervious gloom His burning eyes with fearful light illume. The mind condemned, without reprieve, to go O'er life's long deserts with its charge of woe, With sad congratulation joins the train Where beasts and men together o'er the plain Move on- a mighty caravan of pain: Hope, strength, and courage, social suffering brings, Freshening the wilderness with shades and springs. - There be whose lot far otherwise is cast: Sole human tenant of the piny waste, By choice or doom a gipsy wanders here, A nursling babe her only comforter; Lo, where she sits beneath yon shaggy rock, A cowering shape half hid in curling smoke! When lightning among clouds and mountain-snows Predominates, and darkness comes and goes, And the fierce torrent, at the flashes broad Starts, like a horse, beside the glaring road- She seeks a covert from the battering shower In the roofed bridge; a the bridge, ill that dread hour, Itself all trembling at the torrent's power. Nor is she more at ease on some 'still' night, When not a star supplies the comfort of its light; Only the waning moon hangs dull and red Above a melancholy mountain's head, Then sets. In total gloom the Vagrant sighs, Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes; Or on her fingers counts the distant clock, Or, to the drowsy crow of midnight cock, Listens, or quakes while from the forest's gulf Howls near and nearer yet the famished wolf. From the green vale of Urseren smooth and wide Descend we now, the maddened Reuss our guide; By rocks that, shutting out the blessed day, Cling tremblingly to rocks as loose as they; By cells upon whose image, while he prays, The kneeling peasant scarcely dares to gaze; By many a votive death-cross planted near, And watered duly with the pious tear, That faded silent from the upward eye Unmoved with each rude form of peril nigh; Fixed on the anchor left by Him who saves Alike in whelming snows, and roaring waves. But soon a peopled region on the sight Opens- a little world of calm delight; Where mists, suspended on the expiring gale, Spread rooflike o'er the deep secluded vale, And beams of evening slipping in between, Gently illuminate a sober scene:- Here, on the brown wood-cottages they sleep, There, over rock or sloping pasture creep. On as we journey, in clear view displayed, The still vale lengthens underneath its shade Of low-hung vapour: on the freshened mead The green light sparkles; - the dim bowers recede. While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull, And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, In solemn shapes before the admiring eye Dilated hang the misty pines on high, Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers, And antique castles seen through gleamy showers. From such romantic dreams, my soul, awake! To sterner pleasure, where, by Uri's lake In Nature's pristine majesty outspread, Winds neither road nor path for foot to tread: The rocks rise naked as a wall, or stretch Far o'er the water, hung with groves of beech; Aerial pines from loftier steeps ascend, Nor stop but where creation seems to end. Yet here and there, if mid the savage scene Appears a scanty plot of smiling green, Up from the lake a zigzag path will creep To reach a small wood-hut hung boldly on the steep, - Before those thresholds (never can they know The face of traveller passing to and fro,) No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell For whom at morning tolled the funeral bell; Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark foregoes, Touched by the beggar's moan of human woes; The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat To pilgrims overcome by summer's heat. Yet thither the world's business finds its way At times, and tales unsought beguile the day, And 'there' are those fond thoughts which Solitude, However stern, is powerless to exclude. There doth the maiden watch her lover's sail Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale; At midnight listens till his parting oar, And its last echo, can be heard no more. And what if ospreys, cormorants, herons, cry Amid tempestuous vapours driving by, Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rear That common growth of earth, the foodful ear; Where the green apple shrivels on the spray, And pines the unripened pear in summer's kindliest ray; Contentment shares the desolate domain With Independence, child of high Disdain. Exulting 'mid the winter of the skies, Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, And grasps by fits her sword, and often eyes; And sometimes, as from rock to rock she bounds The Patriot nymph starts at imagined sounds, And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, Whether some old Swiss air hath checked her haste Or thrill of Spartan fife is caught between the blast. Swoln with incessant rains from hour to hour, All day the floods a deepening murmur pour: The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight: Dark is the region as with coming night; But what a sudden burst of overpowering light! Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, Glances the wheeling eagle's glorious form! Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake recline; Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams unfold, At once to pillars turned that flame with gold: Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shun The 'west', that burns like one dilated sun, A crucible of mighty compass, felt By mountains, glowing till they seem to melt. But, lo! the boatman, overawed, before The pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar; Confused the Marathonian tale appears, While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears. And who, that walks where men of ancient days Have wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise, Feels not the spirit of the place control, Or rouse and agitate his labouring soul? Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, On Zutphen's plain; or on that highland dell, Through which rough Garry cleaves his way, can tell What high resolves exalt the tenderest thought Of him whom passion rivets to the spot, Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh, And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye; Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired, And glad Dundee in 'faint huzzas' expired? But now with other mind I stand alone Upon the summit of this naked cone, And watch the fearless chamois-hunter chase His prey, through tracts abrupt of desolate space, Through vacant worlds where Nature never gave A brook to murmur or a bough to wave, Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep; Thro' worlds where Life, and Voice, and Motion sleep; Where silent Hours their deathlike sway extend, Save when the avalanche breaks loose, to rend Its way with uproar, till the ruin, drowned In some dense wood or gulf of snow profound, Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound. - 'Tis his, while wandering on from height to height, To see a planet's pomp and steady light In the least star of scarce-appearing night; While the pale moon moves near him, on the bound Of ether, shining with diminished round, And far and wide the icy summits blaze, Rejoicing in the glory of her rays: To him the day-star glitters small and bright, Shorn of its beams, insufferably white, And he can look beyond the sun, and view Those fast-receding depths of sable blue Flying till vision can no more pursue! - At once bewildering mists around him close, And cold and hunger are his least of woes; The Demon of the snow, with angry roar Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. Soon with despair's whole weight his spirits sink; Bread has he none, the snow must be his drink; And, ere his eyes can close upon the day, The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey. Now couch thyself where, heard with fear afar, Thunders through echoing pines the headlong Aar; Or rather stay to taste the mild delights Of pensive Underwalden's pastoral heights. - Is there who 'mid these awful wilds has seen The native Genii walk the mountain green? Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, Soft music o'er the aerial summit steal? While o'er the desert, answering every close, Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes. - And sure there is a secret Power that reigns Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, Nought but the 'chalets', flat and bare, on high Suspended 'mid the quiet of the sky; Or distant herds that pasturing upward creep, And, not untended, climb the dangerous steep. How still! no irreligious sound or sight Rouses the soul from her severe delight. An idle voice the sabbath region fills Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, And with that voice accords the soothing sound Of drowsy bells, for ever tinkling round; Faint wail of eagle melting into blue Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods' steady 'sugh'; The solitary heifer's deepened low; Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow. All motions, sounds, and voices, far and nigh, Blend in a music of tranquillity; Save when, a stranger seen below, the boy Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. When, from the sunny breast of open seas, And bays with myrtle fringed, the southern breeze Comes on to gladden April with the sight Of green isles widening on each snow-clad height; When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill, And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, The pastoral Swiss begin the cliffs to scale, Leaving to silence the deserted vale; And like the Patriarchs in their simple age Move, as the verdure leads, from stage to stage: High and more high in summer's heat they go, And hear the rattling thunder far below; Or steal beneath the mountains, half-deterred, Where huge rocks tremble to the bellowing herd. One I behold who, 'cross the foaming flood, Leaps with a bound of graceful hardihood; Another, high on that green ledge; - he gained The tempting spot with every sinew strained; And downward thence a knot of grass he throws, Food for his beasts in time of winter snows. - Far different life from what Tradition hoar Transmits of happier lot in times of yore! Then Summer lingered long; and honey flowed From out the rocks, the wild bees' safe abode: Continual waters welling cheered the waste, And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste: Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled, Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled: Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures bare, To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty fare. Then the milk-thistle flourished through the land, And forced the full-swoln udder to demand, Thrice every day, the pail and welcome hand. Thus does the father to his children tell Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too well. Alas! that human guilt provoked the rod Of angry Nature to avenge her God. Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts. 'Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills, A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, A solemn sea! whose billows wide around Stand motionless, to awful silence bound: Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops uprear, That like to leaning masts of stranded ships appear. A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue, Gapes in the centre of the sea- and, through That dark mysterious gulf ascending, sound Innumerable streams with roar profound. Mount through the nearer vapours notes of birds, And merry flageolet; the low of herds, The bark of dogs, the heifer's tinkling bell, Talk, laughter, and perchance a churchtower knell: Think not, the peasant from aloft has gazed And heard with heart unmoved, with soul unraised: Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less Alive to independent happiness, Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at eventide Upon the fragrant mountain's purple side: For as the pleasures of his simple day Beyond his native valley seldom stray, Nought round its darling precincts can he find But brings some past enjoyment to his mind; While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure's urn, Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return. Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild, Was blest as free- for he was Nature's child. He, all superior but his God disdained, Walked none restraining, and by none restrained Confessed no law but what his reason taught, Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought. As man in his primeval dower arrayed The image of his glorious Sire displayed, Even so, by faithful Nature guarded, here The traces of primeval Man appear; The simple dignity no forms debase; The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace: The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword; Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared With this 'the blessings he enjoys to guard.' And, as his native hills encircle ground For many a marvellous victory renowned, The work of Freedom daring to oppose, With few in arms, innumerable foes, When to those famous fields his steps are led, An unknown power connects him with the dead: For images of other worlds are there; Awful the light, and holy is the air. Fitfully, and in flashes, through his soul, Like sun-lit tempests, troubled transports roll; His bosom heaves, his Spirit towers amain, Beyond the senses and their little reign. And oft, when that dread vision hath past by, He holds with God himself communion high, There where the peal of swelling torrents fills The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills; Or when, upon the mountain's silent brow Reclined, he sees, above him and below, Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow; While needle peaks of granite shooting bare Tremble in ever-varying tints of air. And when a gathering weight of shadows brown Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down; And Pikes, of darkness named and fear and storms, Uplift in quiet their illumined forms, In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red- Awe in his breast with holiest love unites, And the near heavens impart their own delights. When downward to his winter hut he goes, Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows; That hut which on the hills so oft employs His thoughts, the central point of all his joys. And as a swallow, at the hour of rest, Peeps often ere she darts into her nest, So to the homestead, where the grandsire tends A little prattling child, he oft descends, To glance a look upon the well-matched pair; Till storm and driving ice blockade him there. There, safely guarded by the woods behind, He hears the chiding of the baffled wind, Hears Winter calling all his terrors round, And, blest within himself, he shrinks not from the sound. Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide, Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride; The bound of all his vanity, to deck, With one bright bell, a favourite heifer's neck; Well pleased upon some simple annual feast, Remembered half the year and hoped the rest, If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard, Of thrice ten summers dignify the board. - Alas! in every clime a flying ray Is all we have to cheer our wintry way; And here the unwilling mind may more than trace The general sorrows of the human race; The churlish gales of penury, that blow Cold as the north-wind o'er a waste of snow, To them the gentle groups of bliss deny That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. Yet more; - compelled by Powers which only deign That 'solitary' man disturb their reign, Powers that support an unremitting strife With all the tender charities of life, Full oft the father, when his sons have grown To manhood, seems their title to disown; And from his nest amid the storms of heaven Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven; With stern composure watches to the plain- And never, eagle-like, beholds again! When long-familiar joys are all resigned, Why does their sad remembrance haunt the mind? Lo! where through flat Batavia's willowy groves, Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves; O'er the curled waters Alpine measures swell, And search the affections to their inmost cell; Sweet poison spreads along the listener's veins, Turning past pleasures into mortal pains; Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave, Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave. Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume! Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the hills illume! Fresh gales and dews of life's delicious morn, And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return! Alas! the little joy to man allowed Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud; Or like the beauty in a flower installed, Whose season was, and cannot be recalled. Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or care, And taught that pain is pleasure's natural heir, We still confide in more than we can know; Death would be else the favourite friend of woe. 'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine, Between interminable tracts of pine, Within a temple stands an awful shrine, By an uncertain light revealed, that falls On the mute Image and the troubled walls. Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain That views, undimmed, Einsiedlen's wretched fane. While ghastly faces through the gloom appear, Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear; While prayer contends with silenced agony, Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. If the sad grave of human ignorance bear One flower of hope- oh, pass and leave it there! The tall sun, pausing on an Alpine spire, Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire: Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day Close on the remnant of their weary way; While they are drawing toward the sacred floor Where, so they fondly think, the worm shall gnaw no more. How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste The fountains reared for them amid the waste! Their thirst they slake:- they wash their toil-worn feet And some with tears of joy each other greet. Yes, I must see you when ye first behold Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold, In that glad moment will for you a sigh Be heaved, of charitable sympathy; In that glad moment when your hands are prest In mute devotion on the thankful breast! Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shields With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile fields: Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend; - A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains; Here all the seasons revel hand in hand: 'Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fanned, They sport beneath that mountain's matchless height That holds no commerce with the summer night. From age to age, throughout his lonely bounds The crash of ruin fitfully resounds; Appalling havoc! but serene his brow, Where daylight lingers on perpetual snow; Glitter the stars above, and all is black below. What marvel then if many a Wanderer sigh, While roars the sullen Arve in anger by, That not for thy reward, unrivalled Vale! Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale; That thou, the slaves of slaves, art doomed to pine And droop, while no Italian arts are thine, To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. Hail Freedom! whether it was mine to stray, With shrill winds whistling round my lonely way, On the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad moors, Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores; To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails, That virtue languishes and pleasure fails, While the remotest hamlets blessings share In thy loved presence known, and only there; 'Heart'-blessings- outward treasures too which the eye Of the sun peeping through the clouds can spy, And every passing breeze will testify. There, to the porch, belike with jasmine bound Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is wound; The housewife there a brighter garden sees, Where hum on busier wing her happy bees; On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow; And grey-haired men look up with livelier brow,- To greet the traveller needing food and rest; Housed for the night, or but a half-hour's guest. And oh, fair France! though now the traveller sees Thy three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze; Though martial songs have banished songs of love, And nightingales desert the village grove, Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms, And the short thunder, and the flash of arms; That cease not till night falls, when far and nigh, Sole sound, the Sourd prolongs his mournful cry! - Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her power Beyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage-door: All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide Through rustling aspens heard from side to side, When from October clouds a milder light Fell where the blue flood rippled into white; Methought from every cot the watchful bird Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard; Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams, Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful dreams; Chasing those pleasant dreams, the falling leaf Awoke a fainter sense of moral grief; The measured echo of the distant flail Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale; With more majestic course the water rolled, And ripening foliage shone with richer gold. - But foes are gathering- Liberty must raise Red on the hills her beacon's far-seen blaze; Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to tower! - Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour! Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's perverted ire Rouse hell's own aid, and wrap thy fields in fire: Lo, from the flames a great and glorious birth; As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth! - All cannot be: the promise is too fair For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air: Yet not for this will sober reason frown Upon that promise, nor the hope disown; She knows that only from high aims ensue Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due. Great God! by whom the strifes of men are weighed In an impartial balance, give thine aid To the just cause; and, oh! do thou preside Over the mighty stream now spreading wide: So shall its waters, from the heavens supplied In copious showers, from earth by wholesome springs, Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nile-like wings! And grant that every sceptred child of clay Who cries presumptuous, 'Here the flood shall stay,' May in its progress see thy guiding hand, And cease the acknowledged purpose to withstand; Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore, Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more! To-night, my Friend, within this humble cot Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot In timely sleep; and when, at break of day, On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play, With a light heart our course we may renew, The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. 1791 & 1792.","William Wordsworth"
282,"2018-03-01 04:03:49","To Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart From The South-West Coast Or Cumberland 1811",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
283,"2018-03-01 04:03:53","To The Supreme Being From The Italian Of Michael Angelo",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
284,"2018-03-01 04:03:57","The Oak Of Guernica Supposed Address To The Same",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
285,"2018-03-01 04:04:04","Translation Of Part Of The First Book Of The Aeneid",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
286,"2018-03-01 04:04:11","To The Memory Of Raisley Calvert",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
287,"2018-03-01 04:04:17","To Thomas Clarkson",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
288,"2018-03-01 04:04:22","The Morning Of The Day Appointed For A General Thanksgiving. January 18, 1816",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
289,"2018-03-01 04:04:28","The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, in the Refectory of the Convent of Maria della Grazia—Milan",9/28/2015,"Tho' searching damps and many an envious flawHave marred this Work, the calm ethereal grace,The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face,The mercy, goodness, have not failed to aweThe Elements; as they do melt and thawThe heart of the Beholder- and erase(At least for one rapt moment) every traceOf disobedience to the primal law.The annunciation of the dreadful truthMade to the Twelve, survives: lips, forehead, cheek,And hand reposing on the board in ruthOf what it utters, while the unguilty seekUnquestionable meanings, still bespeakA labour worthy of eternal youth!","William Wordsworth"
290,"2018-03-01 04:04:30","The Prioress’s Tale [from Chaucer]",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
291,"2018-03-01 04:04:33","To The Same (John Dyer)",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
292,"2018-03-01 04:04:38","Tribute To The Memory Of The Same Dog",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
293,"2018-03-01 04:04:43","The Waggoner - Canto Fourth",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
294,"2018-03-01 04:04:48","The Waggoner - Canto Second",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
295,"2018-03-01 04:04:54","The Recluse - Book First",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
296,"2018-03-01 04:05:00","To---- On Her First Ascent To The Summit Of Helvellyn",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
297,"2018-03-01 04:05:02","The Martial Courage Of A Day Is Vain",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
298,"2018-03-01 04:05:08","To The Poet, John Dyer",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
299,"2018-03-01 04:05:15","To The Spade Of A Friend (An Agriculturist)",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"
300,"2018-03-01 04:05:21","To Mary",4/5/2010,,"William Wordsworth"