Be full ye courts; be great who will; Seek her on the marble floor. In vain you search, she is not there; To Constantia SINGING. DYER. THUS to be lost, and thus to sink and die, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn Between thy lips, are laid to sleep; Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour it is yet, And from thy touch like fire doth leap. Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet, Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget! A breathless awe, like the swift change Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers. Beyond the mighty moons that wane Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disappear. Her voice is hovering o'er my soul-it lingers, Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. My heart is quivering like a flame; As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, I am dissolved in these consuming ecstacies. I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song Flows on, and fills all things with melody.— Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong, On which, like one in trance upborne, Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep, Rejoicing like a cloud of morn; Now 't is the breath of summer night, Which, when the starry waters sleep, Round western isles, with incense-blossoms bright, Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight. Song. FROM ARCADES. O'ER the smooth enamelled green, And touch the warbled string, Under the shady roof Of branching elm star-proof. Follow me, I will bring you where she sits, Her deity. Such a rural Queen All Arcadia hath not seen. SHELLEY. MILTON. Sonnet liv. O, How much more doth beauty beauteous seem. They live unwooed, and unrespected fade; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made; SHAKSPEARE. Power and Gentleness. I'VE thought, at gentle and ungentle hour, Or ghastly prison, that eternally Holds its blind visage out to the lone sea; And of all sunless, subterranean deeps The creature makes, who listens while he sleeps, That stride, they say, over heroic bones; And those stone heaps Egyptian, whose small doors In seeming idleness, with stony eye, |