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I sang of the dancing stars,

I sang of the dædal Earth,
and of Heaven—and the giant wars,
and Love, and Death, and Birth,

and then I changed my pipings-
singing how down the vale of Menalus

I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed:
gods and men, we are all deluded thus !

it breaks in our bosom and then we bleed:
all wept, as'I think both ye now would,
if envy or age had not frozen your blood,
at the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

P. B. SHELLEY

248

LT

JUNO'S OFFER TO PARIS
ET ambition fire thy mind,

thou wert born o'er men reign;
not to follow flocks design'd,

scorn thy crook and leave the plain. Crowns I'll throw beneath thy feet;

thou on necks of kings shalt tread; joys in circles joys shall meet,

which way e'er thy fancy's led. Let not toils of empire fright,

toils of empire pleasures are; thou shalt only know delight,

all the joy but not the care. Shepherd, if thou'lt yield the prize,

for the blessings I bestow, joyful I'll ascend the skies, happy thou shalt reign below.

W. CONGREVE

249

THE WINTER OF LIFE

B'he lately seen in gladsome green

UT

the ,
through gentle showers the laughing flowers

in double pride were gay:
but now our joys are fled,

on winter blasts awa’!
yet maiden May, in rich array,

again shall bring them a'.

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe

shall melt the snaws of age ;
my trunk of eild, but buss or bield,

sinks in time's wintry rage.
Oh, age has weary days

and nights o sleepless pain !
Thou golden time of youthful prime,

why com’st thou not again!

R. BURNS

250

HUSH, SWEET LUTE

HU

USH, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me

of past joys, now turn’d to pain; of ties that long have ceas’d to bind me,

but whose burning marks remain. In each tone, some echo falleth

on my ears of joys gone by:
every note some dream recalleth

of bright hopes but born to die.
Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,

once more let thy numbers thrill;
though death were in the strain they sing me,

I must woo its anguish still.
Since no time can e'er recover

love's sweet light when once 'tis set,-
better to weep such pleasures over,

than smile o'er any left us yet.

T. MOORE

251

INDIFFERENCE TO FAME

AH

H! who can tell how hard it is to climb

the steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar ; ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime has felt the influence of malignant star, and wag'd with fortune an eternal war; checked by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, and Poverty's unconquerable bar, in life's low vale remote has pined alone, then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown ! And yet the languor of inglorious days not equally oppressive is to all: him, who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise, the silence of neglect can ne'er appal.

There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,
would shrink to hear th’ obstreperous trump of Fame;
supremely blest; if to their portion fall
health, competence and peace.

J. BEATTIE

252 THEIR

'HERE be none of Beauty's daughters

with a magic like thee;
and like music on the waters

is thy sweet voice to me :
when, as if its sound were causing
the charmed ocean's pausing,
the waves lie still and gleaming,
and the lulled winds seem dreaming :
and the midnight moon is weaving

her bright chain o'er the deep,
whose breast is gently heaving

as an infant's asleep :
so the spirit bows before thee
to listen and adore thee,
with a full but soft emotion,
like the swell of Summer's ocean.

LORD BYRON

253

THE POET'S RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD

"HUS, while I ape the measure wild

a ,

rude' though they be, still with the chime
return the thoughts of early time;
and feelings, roused in life's first day,
glow in the line, and prompt the lay.
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower,
which charmed my fancy's wakening hour :
though no broad river swept along,
to claim, perchance, heroic song ;
though sighed no groves in summer gale,
to prompt of love a softer tale ;
though scarce a puny streamlet's speed
claimed homage from a shepherd's reed;
yet was poetic impulse given
by the green hill and clear blue heaven.

SIR W. SCOTT

254

AUTUMN WOODS

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RE, in the northern gale,

the summer tresses of the trees are gone, the woods of Autumn, all around our vale,

have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold, in their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round, seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,

that guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown
the upland, where the mingled splendours glow,
where the gay company of trees look down

on the green fields below,

My steps are not alone in these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at play, flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strewn along the winding way.

W. C. BRYANT

255

THE POWER OF MUSIC

THE

HE Gift to king Amphion

that walled a city with its melody was for belief no dream :-thy skill, Arion ! could humanise the creatures of the sea, where men were monsters. A last grace he craves, leave for one chant;the dulcet sound steals from the deck o'er willing waves, and listening dolphins gather round. Self-cast, as with a desperate course, ’mid that strange audience, he bestrides a proud One docile as a managed horse; and singing, while the accordant hand sweeps his harp, the Master rides ; so shall he touch at length a friendly strand, and he, with his preserver, shine star-bright in memory, through silent night.

W. WORDSWORTH

256

THE SPIRIT IN COMUS TO SABRINA

VIRGIN, daughter of Locrine,

sprung of old Anchises' line,
may thy brimmed waves for this
their full tribute never miss,
from a thousand petty rills,
that tumble down the snowy hills:
summer-drouth or singed air
never scorch thy tresses fair,
nor wet October's torrent-flood
thy molten crystal fill with mud:
may thy billows roll ashore
the beryl, and the golden ore;
may thy lofty head be crowned
with many a tower and terrace round;
and here and there thy banks upon
with groves of myrrh and cinnamon,

J. MILTON

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I

WISH I was by that dim Lake,

where sinful souls their farewell take of this vain world, and half-way lie in death's cold shadow, ere they die. There, there, far from thee, deceitful world, my home should be; where, come what might of gloom and pain, false hope should ne'er deceive again. The lifeless sky, the mournful sound of unseen waters falling round; the dry leaves, quivering o'er my head, like man, unquiet, ev’n when dead ! these, aye, these shall wean my soul from life's deluding scene, and turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom, like willows downwards tow'rds the tomb.

T. MOORE

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