What, and wherein it doth exist,

This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.

Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy, that ne'er was given Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, Life and life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,

Joy, Lady, is the spirit and the power

Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower— A new Earth and new Heaven

Undreamt of by the sensual and the proudJoy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud; We in ourselves rejoice!

And thence flows all that charms on earor sightAll melodies the echoes of that voice,

All colours a suffusion from that light.

There was a time when, though my path was rough,

This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

Whence Fancy made me dreams of happi

ness;

For Hope grew round me, like the twining vine, And fruits and foliage, not my own, seemed

mine.

But now afflictions bow me down to earth :
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But O, each visitation

Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of imagination:

For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient all I can,

And haply by abstruse research to steal

From my own nature all the natural manThis was my sole resource, my only plan; Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown a habit of my soul.

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, Reality's dark dream!

I turn from you and listen to the wind

Which long has raved unnoticed.

scream

Of agony by torture lengthened out

What a

That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st with

out !

Bare crag, or mountain-tarn, or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house long held the witches' home,

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee. Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, Of dark brown gardens and of peeping flowers, Mak'st Devil's Yule, with worse than wintry song The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among ; Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold !

What tell'st thou now about?

'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,

With groans of trampled men with smarting wounds

At once they groan with pain and shudder with the cold!

But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence;
And all that noise, as if a rushing crowd,
With groans and tremulous shudderings-all is over!
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and

loud;

A tale of less affright

And tempered with delight,

As Otway's self had framed the tender lay: 'Tis of a little child1

Upon a lonesome wild,

Not far from home; but she hath lost her way,
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her
mother hear.

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing;

And may this storm be but a mountain birth ! May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!

With light heart may she rise,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes;

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice !2 To her may all things live, from pole to pole, Their life the eddying of her living soul ! O simple spirit, guided from above, Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice! S. T. COLERIDGE

1 In allusion to Wordsworth's Lucy Gray.

2 Instead of this line, the original has the following six : "And sing his lofty song, and teach me to rejoice! O Edmund, friend of my devoutest choice,

O raised from anxious dread and busy care
By the immenseness of the good and fair
Which thou seest everywhere,

Joy lifts thy spirit, joy attunes thy voice."

173.-PROSPICE

FEAR death?-to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,

The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;

Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go :

For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall,

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all.

I was ever a fighter, so-one fight more,

The best and the last !

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and

forbore,

And bade me creep past.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old,

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold.

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end,

And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend,

Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,

Then a light, then thy breast,

O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!

R. BROWNING

174. SONNETS

IV

REUNION 1

(CVII)

NOT mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confinèd doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rime,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes ;
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

(CIX)

O never say that I was false of heart,

Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,

1 See p. 220.