And sometimes, like a gleaner, thou dost keep Or by a cyder press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourne; KEATS. ADONIS SLEEPING. IN midst of all there lay a sleeping youth, Hard by Stood serene cupids, watching silently, One, kneeling to a lyre, touched the strings, KEATS. THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 'Twas in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran, and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool. Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouched by sin, To a level mead they came, and there Over the town of Lynn. Like sportive deer they coursed about, Turning to mirth all things of earth, As only boyhood can: But the Usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man! His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease: So he leaned his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees! Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside, For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide : Much study had made him very lean, At last he shut the ponderous tome, Then leaping on his feet upright, And past a shady nook, And lo! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book. "My gentle lad, what is't you read Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable?" The young boy gave an upward glance,"It is the 'Death of Abel.'" The usher took six hasty strides, And down he sat beside the lad, And, long since then, of bloody men, Of lonely folk cut off unseen, Of horrid stabs, in graves forlorn, And how the sprites of injured men And unknown facts of guilty acts He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain, With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames before their brain: For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain! "And well," quoth he, "I know for truth, Their pangs must be extreme, Woe, woe, unutterable woe, Who spill life's sacred stream! For why? Methought, last night, I wrought A murder, in a dream! "One that had never done me wrong, A feeble man and old; I led him to a lonely field, The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die, "Two sudden blows with a rugged stick, One hurried gash with a hasty knife,-- "Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, And yet I feared him all the more, There was a manhood in his look That murder could not kill! "And lo! the universal air Seemed lit with ghastly flame ;Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame: I took the dead man by his hand, And called upon his name! |