The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue.' To be a Prodigal's Favourite-then, worse truth, O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth M CVII. THE LITTLE BLACK BOY. Y mother bore me in the southern wild, But I am black, as if bereaved of light. My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, pointing to the East, began to say: 'Look on the rising sun : there God does live, 'And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 'For when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."" Thus did my mother say, and kisséd me, When I from black, and he from white cloud free, I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me. W. Blake. M CVIII. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. Y heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 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 grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despair ; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 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: And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muséd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music :-do I wake or sleep? 7. Keats. CIX. THE ILLUMINATED CITY. HE hills all glowed with a festive light, For the royal city rejoiced by night : There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree, Banners were lifted and streaming free; Every tall pillar was wreathed with fire, I passed through the streets; there were throngs on throngs Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs; Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain? Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread, And bowing the beauty of woman's head: Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender moan, For the many brave to their slumbers gone? I saw not the face of a weeper there— Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's glare!— I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd The music of victory was all too loud! Mighty it rolled on the winds afar, Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car; Through torches and streamers its flood swept by- Turn then away from life's pageants, turn, |