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OR
R when the winter torrent rolls

down the deep-channeld rain course, foamingly,
dark with its mountain spoils,
with bare feet pressing the wet sand,

there wanders Thalaba,
the rushing flow, the flowing roar,

filling his yielded faculties,
a vague, a dizzy, a tumultuous joy.

Or lingers it a vernal brook,

gleaming o'er yellow sands?
beneath the lofty bank reclined,
with idle eye he views its little waves

quietly listening to the quiet flow;
while in the breathings of the stirring gale

the tall canes bend above,
floating like streamers on the wind
their lank uplifted leaves.

R. SOUTHEY

1

269

IONA
HERE, as to shame the temples decked
Nature herself, it seemed, would raise
a minster to her Maker's praise:
not for ą meaner use ascend
her columns, or her arches bend;
nor of a theme less solemn tells
that mighty -surge that ebbs and swells,
and still between each awful pause,
from the high vault an answer draws,
in varied tone prolonged and high,
that mocks the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
to old Iona's holy fane,
that Nature's voice might seem to say,
"Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
thy humble powers that stately shrine
tasked high and hard—but witness mine.'

SIR W. SCOTT

270

TO BLOSSOMS
FAIR
AIR pledges of a fruitful tree,

why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,
but you may stay yet here awhile
to blush and gently smile,

and go at last.
What, were ye born to be

an hour or half's delight,

and so to bid good night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
merely to show your worth,

and lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we

may read how soon things have

their end, though ne'er so brave; and after they have shown their pride, like you, awhile, they glide

into the grave.

R. HERRICK

271

SONG FOR THE SPINNING-WHEEL

,

WIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel!

night has brought the welcome hour,
when the weary fingers feel
help, as if from faery power;
dewy night o'ershades the ground;
turn the swift wheel round and round!
Now beneath the starry sky
couch the widely-scattered sheep ;-
ply the pleasant labour, ply!
for the spindle, while they sleep,
runs with motion smooth and fine,
gathering up a trustier line.
Short-lived likings may be bred
by a glance from fickle eyes;
but true love is like the thread
which the kindly wool supplies,
when the flocks are all at rest
sleeping on the mountain's breast.

W. WORDSWORTH

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272

MORNING SOUNDS
UT who the melodies of morn can tell ?

the wild brook babbling down the mountain-side ;
the lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
the pipe of early shepherd dim descried
in the low valley; echoing far and wide
the clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
the hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
the hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
and the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark;
crown'd with her pail the tripping milk-maid sings;
the whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark!
down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings ;
through rustling corn the hare astonished springs ;
slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour;
the partridge bursts away on whirring wings;
deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower,
and shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower.

J. BEATTIE 273

ORPHEUS
UT when through all the infernal bounds,

which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,
Love, strong as Death, the Poet led

to the pale nations of the dead,
what sounds were heard,
what scenes appeared,
o'er all the dreary coasts !

dreadful gleams,
dismal screams,
fires that glow,
shrieks of woe,
sullen moans,

hollow groans,
and cries of tortured ghosts !
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
and see! the tortured ghosts respire,

see, shady ms advance !
thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,

and the pale spectres dance;
the Furies sink upon their iron beds,
and snakes uncurled hang listening round their heads.

A, POPE F. S. II.

8

BUT

274

THE HOPELESS LOVER

'ELL me not how fair she is;

I have no mind to hear
the story of that distant bliss

I never shall come near:
by sad experience I have found
that her perfection is my wound.
And tell me not how fond I am

to tempt my daring fate
from whence no triumph ever came,

but to repent too late :
there is some hope ere long I may
in silence dote myself away.
I ask no pity, Love, from thee,

nor will thy justice blame,
so that thou wilt not envy me

the glory of my flame:
which crowns my heart whene'er it dies,
in that it falls her sacrifice.

H. KING

275

THE RESTORATION OF HELLAS

AS

S an eagle, fed with morning,

scorns the embattled tempest's warning,
when she seeks her aerie hanging

in the mountain-cedar's hair,
and her brood expect the clanging

of her wings through the wild air,
sick with famine ;-Freedom so
to what of Greece remaineth now
returns; her hoary ruins glow
like orient mountains lost in day;

beneath the safety of her wings
her renovated nurselings play,

and in the naked lightnings
of truth they purge their dazzled eyes.
Let Freedom leave, where'er she flies,
a Desert, or a Paradise ;
let the beautiful and the brave,
share her glory, or a grave.

P. B. SHELLEY

276

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP

WHA

THAT hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells,

thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ? pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells, bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee. Yet more! the billows and the depths have more ! high hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! they hear not now the booming waters roar, the battle-thunders will not break their rest : keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy gravem

give back the true and brave ! Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom the place was kept at board and hearth so long ; the prayer went up through midnight's breathless

gloom, and the vain yearning woke midst festal song ! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,

-But all is not thine own!

F. HEMANS

277

OUR SORROWES STILL PURSUE

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND, SIR E. P. KNIGHT

G

OE find some whispering shade neare Arne or Poe,

your weary'd limbs, and see if all those faire

enchantments can charme griefe or care.
Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when you

the ruined capitoll shall view
and statues, a disordered heape ; you can

not cure yet the disease of man,
and banish youre owne thoughts. Goe travaile where

another Sun and starres appeare,
and land not toucht by any covetous fleet,
and yet even there youre selfe youle meete.

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