IV. 1.

Illusions vain! Can sacred Peace reside,
Where sordid gold the breast alarms,
Where cruelty inflames the eye of Pride,
And Grandeur wantons in soft Pleasure's arms!
Ambition! these are thine:
These from the soul erase the form divine;
These quench the animating fire,
That warms the bosom with sublime desire,
Thence the relentless heart forgets to feel,
Hate rides tremendous on th' o'erwhelming brow,
And midnight-Rancour grasps the cruel steel,
Blaze the funereal flames, and found the shricks of Woe.

III. 1.

Ambition, outside fair! within more foul
Than fellest fiend from Tartarus sprung,
In caverns hatch'd, where the fierce torrents roll
Of Phlegethon, the burning banks along,
Yon naked waste survey:
Where late was heard the flute's mellifluous lay;
Where late the rosy-bosom'd Hours
In loose array danced lightly o'er the flowers;
Where late the shepherd told his tender tale;
And wak'd by the soft-murmuring breeze of morn
The voice of chearful Labour fill'd the dale;

II. 1.

The bloody banner streaming in the air
Seen on yon sky-mix'd mountain's brow,
The mingling multitudes, the madding car
Pouring impetuous on the plain below,
War's dreadful Lord proclaim.
Bursts out by frequent fits th' expansive flame,
Whirl'd in tempestuous eddies flies
The surging smoke o'er all the darken'd skies.
The chearful face of heaven no more is seen,
Fades the Morn's vivid blush to deadly pale,
The bat flits transient o'er the dusky green,
Night's shrieking birds along the sullen twilight sail.

I. 1.

Peace , heaven-descended maid! whose powerful voice
From antient darkness call'd the morn,
Of jarring elements compos'd the noise;
When Chaos from his old dominion torn,
With all his bellowing throng,
Far, far was hurl'd the void abyss along;
And all the bright Angelic Choir
To loftiest raptures tuned the heavenly lyre,
Pour'd in loud symphony th' impetuous strain;
And every fiery orb and planet sung,
And wide through Night's dark desolate domain
Rebounding long and deep the lays triumphant rung.

I. 2.

And God, open my lips

And God, open my lips.
Who sent me to speak and sing,
Strangle the frozen silence.
And my soul live organ
Just then Mr. sugalmas fingers
If all keys are white.
Seven colors of the sky on fire
And every life-life color and shade
Zeng flames flickering each other:
But rainbow sevenfold grace
Become one wants gyozelmesedni
And being a rich white.

Suggesting the soul, open my lips:
Elrobbanasig rich behind
The pent-up hot, clean it.
I want to say, for all,

Hints and hyssop and be clean, wash me, and I'll
be white than snow Hobbies

Desperate thirst
Thirst-purity throughout.
I, who have seen the dawn be born
And I was heralds snow white dress
And I sang floral lip
The day I wake up szüzpiros song,
And yet insidious fingers
Job to turn out his own candles.
But my heart has been hidrava the dawn,
Virgin forehead again and pet food
After each death:
Because the dead are not dead;
And every single night
Coffin-undead heart olerol

Only to live, only to be
In Venice, is enough for me.
To be a beggar, and to lie
At home beneath the equal sky,
To feel the sun, to drink the night,
Had been enough for my delight;
Happy because the sun allowed
The luxury of being proud
Not to some only; but to all
The right to lie along the wall.
Here my ambition dies; I ask
No more than some half-idle task,
To be done idly, and to fill
Some gaps of leisure when I will.
I care not if the world forget
That it was ever in my debt;
I care not where its prizes fall;

Night, and the silence of the night,
In Venice; far away, a song;
As if the lyric water made
Itself a serenade;
As if the water's silence were a song
Sent up into the night.

Night, a more perfect day,
A day of shadows luminous,
Water and sky at one, at one with us;
As if the very peace of night,
The older peace than heaven or light,
Came down into the day.

The masts rise white to the stars,
White on the night of the sky,
Out of the water's night,
And the stars lean down to them white.
Ah! how the stars seem nigh;
How far away are the stars!

And I too under the stars,
Alone with the night again,
And the water's monotone;
I and the night alone,
And the world and the ways of men
Farther from me than the stars.

To Cleo de Merode

Why is it, child, you choose to wear
That artful 1830 air
Of artlessness made artifice?
To lure all lips to long to kiss
The saint-like halo of your hair?

" I am the spirit of a fan.
Ah, once, what wanton breezes ran
Across my silk and ivory!
As a fan's breath is life to me,
I have no heart for any man.

" As a fan fluttered by a wrist,
Bright lips that now are dust have kissed,
I waken, out of other hours,
The phantoms of forgotten flowers
That hold me to a phantom tryst.