Showing posts with label Shelley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shelley. Show all posts

00317--To a Skylark By Percy Bysshe Shelley

To a Skylark 

                                   By Percy Bysshe Shelley

     
  Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
                Bird thou never wert,
         That from Heaven, or near it,
                Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

         Higher still and higher
                From the earth thou springest
         Like a cloud of fire;
                The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

     
   In the golden lightning
                Of the sunken sun,
         O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
                Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

         The pale purple even
                Melts around thy flight;
         Like a star of Heaven,
                In the broad day-light
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,

         Keen as are the arrows
                Of that silver sphere,
         Whose intense lamp narrows
                In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

         All the earth and air
                With thy voice is loud,
         As, when night is bare,
                From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd.

         What thou art we know not;
                What is most like thee?
         From rainbow clouds there flow not
                Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

         Like a Poet hidden
                In the light of thought,
         Singing hymns unbidden,
                Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

         Like a high-born maiden
                In a palace-tower,
         Soothing her love-laden
                Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

         Like a glow-worm golden
                In a dell of dew,
         Scattering unbeholden
                Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

         Like a rose embower'd
                In its own green leaves,
         By warm winds deflower'd,
                Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:

         Sound of vernal showers
                On the twinkling grass,
         Rain-awaken'd flowers,
                All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

         Teach us, Sprite or Bird,
                What sweet thoughts are thine:
         I have never heard
                Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

         Chorus Hymeneal,
                Or triumphal chant,
         Match'd with thine would be all
                But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

         What objects are the fountains
                Of thy happy strain?
         What fields, or waves, or mountains?
                What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

         With thy clear keen joyance
                Languor cannot be:
         Shadow of annoyance
                Never came near thee:
Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

         Waking or asleep,
                Thou of death must deem
         Things more true and deep
                Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

         We look before and after,
                And pine for what is not:
         Our sincerest laughter
                With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

         Yet if we could scorn
                Hate, and pride, and fear;
         If we were things born
                Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

         Better than all measures
                Of delightful sound,
         Better than all treasures
                That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

         Teach me half the gladness
                That thy brain must know,
         Such harmonious madness
                From my lips would flow
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 

00079--On what basis does Shelley call the poets 'The unacknowledged legislators of the world'? OR How does Shelly defend poetry against the charges brought against it by Love Peacock in his Four Ages of Poetry.

                                      
            Shelley's 'A Defence of Poetry' is a rejoinder to Love Peacock's charges levelled against poetry and poets in his four Ages of Poetry.  Peacock called poets 'semi-barbarians in a civilized community' and condemned Shelley's own poetry as "querulous egotistical rhapsodies."
            Defending poetry, Shelley says that poetry is on embodiment of "beautiful idealism of moral excellence."  The poet "excites a generous impulse, an ardent thirst for excellence."  He calls the poet a nightingale , who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude, with sweet sound."  He says that poetry is the creative impulse in man.  Poets are "not only the authors of language and of music, of the dance and architecture, and statutory, and painting, they are the institutors of laws, and founders of a civil society, and the inventors of the arts of life."  They are men of the most spotless virtue, the most consummate prudence, the most fortunate of men."  They are "philosophers of the very loftiest power."  Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds."
            Poetry is 'the centre and circumference of knowledge and it comprehends all science.'  Consequently, Shelley calls the poets "unacknowledged legislators of the world."  The poet reveals 'those forms which are common to universal nature and existence.'  Hence a poem is "the very image of life expressed in its eternal truth."
            Thus "a poet, as he is the author of the highest wisdom, pleasure virtue and glory, so he ought personally to be the happiest, the best the wisest and the most illustrious of men."  So the poet is the legislator of the moral, spiritual and intellectual life in the world.

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