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The silver sounding instruments did meet
TO AN INFANT SLEEPING.
Oh, drinking deep of slumber's holy wine,
Whence may the smile that lights thy countenance be ? We seek in vain the mystery divine;
For in thy dim unconscious infancy
To stir in waking hours such thoughts of glee,
Thou feelest that an atmosphere of love
Thou wakest, and kind faces from above
Bend o'er thee-when thou sleepest, for thy sake
All sounds are hush’d, and each doth gently move :
Or it may be, thoughts deeper than we deem
Visit an infant's slumbers—God is near, Angels are talking to them in their dream,
Angelic voices whispering sweet and clear; And round them lies that region's holy gleam,
But newly left, and light which is not here: And thus has come that smile upon thy fare, At tidings brought thee froin thy native place.
But whatsoe'er the causes which beguiled
That dimple on thy countenance, it is gone; Fair is the lake disturb'd by ripple mild,
But not less fair when ripple it has none:
What smoothness thy unruffled cheek has won !
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.
A truly classical composition by Keats. Thou still unravish'd bride of Quietness!
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time! Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath ? What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal-yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
For ever panting and for ever young;
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ?
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ?
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed ;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, “ Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
A DISINHERITED SON. O father, father! must I have no father! To think how I shall please; to pray for him, To spread his virtues out before my thought, And set my soul in order after them ? To dream, and talk of in my dreaming sleep? If I have children, and they question me Of him who was to me as I to them ; Who taught me love, and sports, and childish lore; Placed smiles where tears had been ; who bent his talk, That it might enter my low apprehension, And laugh'd when words were lost.
And pleased with favours given ;
This is the very top,
The life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain (Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house) Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Foretel the ending of mortality.
I have seen