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Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast-
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,
Or let the easily persuaded eyes
Of a friend's fancy; or with head bent low, And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold
'Twixt crimson banks; and then, à traveller, go From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous
land! Or listening to the tide, with closed sight, Be that blind bard, who, on the Chan strand,
By those deep sounds possessed with inward light, Beheld the Iliad and Odyssee
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.
ODE TO ENGLAND.
Écho to the bleat of flocks ;
Proudly ramparted with rocks :
Has social Freedom loved the Land, Nor alien Despot's jealous rage, Or warped thy growth, or stamped the servile.
SOUTHEY.—BORN 1774; DIED 1843.
The holly-tree ?
Its glossy leaves,
Wrinkled and keen;
Can reach to wound;
I love to view these things with curious eyes,
Can emblems see,
Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere;
Reserved and rude;-
Some harshness show,
Would wear away,
So bright and green,
Less bright than they;
So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;
More grave than they;
How calmly, gliding through the dark-blue sky, The midnight moon ascends! Her placid beams, Through thinly scattered leaves, and boughs
grotesque, Mottle with mazy shades the orchard-slope: Here o'er the chesnut's fretted foliage, gray And massy, motionless they spread; here shine Upon their crags, deepening with blacker night Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry Ripples and glances on the confluent streams. A lovelier, purer light than that of day Rests on the hills; and 0, how awfully Into that deep and tranquil firmament The summits of Anseva rise serene! The watchman on the battlement partakes The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels The silence of the earth; the endless sound Of flowing water soothes him; and the stars, Which in that brightest moonlight well-nigh
quenched. Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen, Draw on with elevating influence Towards eternity the attempered mind. Musing on worlds beyond the grave he stands, And to the Virgin Mother silently Breathes forth her hymn of praise.
THE CATARACT OF LODORE.
Here it comes sparkling,
Its tumult and wrath in,
Now striking and raging,
As if a war waging,
Rising and leaping,
Around and around,
With endless rebound ;
Receding and speeding,