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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear.each other

groan ; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and

dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs ; Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to

morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards :
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ;

But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes

blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding

mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ;

And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen ; and for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death, Calld him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstacy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in

vain-
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird !

No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for

home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ;

The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the

very
word is like a bell

a To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:-do I wake or sleep ?

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.

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? [loath ? What men or gods are these? what maidens 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 ;
More happy love ! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm, and still to be enjoy'd,

For ever panting and for ever young ;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high sorrowful and

cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching

tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice ?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands

drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? Ah! little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

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

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