For oft, when on my couch I lie 1804. 1807. 24 William Wordsworth. THE TIGER TIGER, tiger, burning bright In what distant deeps or skies And what shoulder and what art What the hammer? What the chain? When the stars threw down their spears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 1794. 20 24 William Blake. TO NIGHT SWIFTLY walk over the western wave, Out of the misty eastern cave Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander oe'r city, and sea, and land, Come, long sought! 14 When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest Lingering like an unloved guest, I sigh'd for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Shall I nestle near thy side? Would'st thou me?-And I replied Death will come when thou art dead, Sleep will come when thou art fled; 1821. 1824. 21 28 35 Percy Bysshe Shelley. HYMN OF PAN FROM the forests and highlands Where loud waves are dumb Listening to my sweet pipings The wind in the reeds and the rushes, The cicale above in the lime, Liquid Peneus was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay Speeded by my sweet pipings. The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, 12 And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings. I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the dædal Earth, And of Heaven-and the giant wars, 24 And then I changed my pipings,Singing how down the vale of Menalus I pursued a maiden and clasp'd a reed: Gods and men, we are all deluded thus! It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed: All wept, as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood, At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. 36 Percy Bysshe Shelley. 4820. 1824 HYMN TO THE NIGHT I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light I felt her presence, by its spell of might, The calm, majestic presence of the Night, I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, From the cool cisterns of the midnight air The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,- O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before! Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 8 12 16 20 |