And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
  Dewy with nature’s tear-drops, as they pass,
  Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,
  Over the unreturning brave—­alas! 
  Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
  Which now beneath them, but above shall grow,
  In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
  Of living valor rolling on the foe,
  And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

JOHN KEATS.

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.

  Thou still unravished bride of quietness! 
    Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
  Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
    A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme;
  What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
    Of deities or mortals, or of both,
      In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
    What men or gods are these?  What maidens loath? 
  What mad pursuit?  What struggle to escape? 
      What pipes and timbrels?  What wild ecstasy?

  Heard melodies are sweet; but those unheard
    Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
  Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
    Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
  Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
    Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
      Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
  Though winning near the goal—­yet do not grieve: 
      She cannot fade though thou hast not thy bliss,
    Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

  Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
    Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
  And happy melodist, unwearied
    Forever piping songs forever new;
  More happy love! more happy, happy love! 
    Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
      Forever panting and forever young;
  All breathing human passion far above,
    That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed,
      A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

  Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 
    To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
  Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
    And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
  What little town by river or sea-shore,
    Or mountain built with peaceful citadel,
      Is emptied of its folk this pious morn? 
  Ah! little town, thy streets forever more
    Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
      Why thou art desolate can e’er return.

  O Attic shape!  Fair attitude! with brede
    Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
  With forest branches and the trodden weed;
    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
  As doth eternity:  Cold Pastoral! 
    When old age shall this generation waste,
      Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
  “Beauty is truth, truth beauty”—­that is all
      Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.