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Be full ye courts; be great who will;
Search for peace with all your skill:
Open wide the lofty door,

Seek her on the marble floor.

In vain you search, she is not there;
In vain you seek the domes of care!
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure, close allied,
Ever by each other's side:
And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

To Constantia

SINGING.

DYER.

THUS to be lost, and thus to sink and die,
Perchance were death indeed!—Constantia, turn!
In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie,

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
Unseen but felt in youthful slumbers,
Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange,
Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers.
The
cope of heaven seems rent and cloven

By the enchantment of thy strain,

And on my shoulders wings are woven,
To follow its sublime career,

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,
O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings,
The blood and life within those snowy fingers

Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings.
My brain is wild, my breath comes quick-
The blood is listening in my frame,
And thronging shadows, fast and thick,
Fall on my overflowing eyes;

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,
Where no print of step hath been,
Follow me as I sing,

And touch the warbled string,

Under the shady roof

Of branching elm star-proof.

Follow me,

I will bring you where she sits,
Clad in splendour, as befits

Her deity.

Such a rural Queen

All Arcadia hath not seen.

SHELLEY.

MILTON.

Sonnet liv.

O, How much more doth beauty beauteous seem.
By that sweet ornament which Truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye,
As the perfumed tincture of the roses;
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses ;
But, for their virtue only is their shew,

They live unwooed, and unrespected fade;
Die to themselves: sweet roses do not so;

Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made;
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade my verse distils your truth.

SHAKSPEARE.

Power and Gentleness.

I'VE thought, at gentle and ungentle hour,
Of many an act and giant shape of power!
Of the old kings with high exacting looks,
Sceptered and globed; of eagles on their rocks,
With straining feet, and that fierce mouth and drear,
Answering the strain with downward drag austere;
Of the rich-headed lion, whose huge frown
All his great nature, gathering, seems to crown;
Of towers on hills, with foreheads out of sight
In clouds, or shown us by the thunder's light,

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,
Avarice; and then of those old earthly cones,

That stride, they say, over heroic bones;

And those stone heaps Egyptian, whose small doors
Look like low dens under precipitous shores;
And him, great Memnon, that long sitting by

In seeming idleness, with stony eye,
Sang at the morning's touch, like poetry;
And then of all the fierce and bitter fruit
Of the proud planting of a tyrannous foot,-
Of bruised rights, and flourishing bad men,
And virtue wasting heavenwards from a den;

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