Hath typified by reach of daring art Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest, 1822. William Wordsworth. NIGHT MYSTERIOUS Night! when our first parent knew Who could have guessed such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O Sun? or who divined, When bud and flower and insect lay revealed, Thou to such countless worlds had'st made us blind? Why should we then shun Death with anxious strife? If Light conceals so much, wherefore not life? 1828. Joseph Blanco White. SONNET ON CHILLON ETERNAL spirit of the chainless mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart,The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consigned,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 't was trod Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard!-May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God. Lord Byron. 1816. OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT I MET a traveller from an antique land stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, The hand that mock'd 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, The lone and level sands stretch far away. 1819. Percy Bysshe Shelley. I ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAP MAN'S HOMER MUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold, Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: -Then felt I like some watcher of the skies Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 1817. ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET THE poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the Grasshopper's-he takes the lead In summer luxury,-he has never done With his delights; for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever. And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 1817. 3. ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES My spirit is too weak-mortality Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky. Yet 't is a gentle luxury to weep That I have not the cloudy winds to keep, Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. Such dim-conceived glories of the brain Wasting of old Time-with billowy, main- 4 ON THE SEA Ir keeps eternal whisperings around |