I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy. _T. Hood_ CCLXIX _THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS_ Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends so link'd together I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. _T. Moore_ CCLXX _STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES_ The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent might: The breath of the moist earth is light Around its unexpanded buds; Like many a voice of one delight-- The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'-- The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. I see the deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown: I sit upon the sands alone; The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion-- How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that content, surpassing wealth, The sage in meditation found, And walk'd with inward glory crown'd-- Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure; Others I see whom these surround-- Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear,-- Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. _P. B. Shelley_ CCLXXI _THE SCHOLAR_