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I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the dædal Earth,
and then I changed my pipings-
I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed:
it breaks in our bosom and then we bleed:
P. B. SHELLEY
JUNO'S OFFER TO PARIS
thou wert born o'er men reign;
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.
THE WINTER OF LIFE
B'he lately seen in gladsome green
in double pride were gay:
on winter blasts awa’!
again shall bring them a'.
But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
shall melt the snaws of age ;
sinks in time's wintry rage.
and nights o sleepless pain !
why com’st thou not again!
HUSH, SWEET LUTE
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:
of bright hopes but born to die.
once more let thy numbers thrill;
I must woo its anguish still.
love's sweet light when once 'tis set,-
than smile o'er any left us yet.
INDIFFERENCE TO FAME
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,
'HERE be none of Beauty's daughters
with a magic like thee;
is thy sweet voice to me :
her bright chain o'er the deep,
as an infant's asleep :
THE POET'S RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD
"HUS, while I ape the measure wild
rude' though they be, still with the chime
SIR W. SCOTT
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
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
THE POWER OF MUSIC
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.
THE SPIRIT IN COMUS TO SABRINA
VIRGIN, daughter of Locrine,
sprung of old Anchises' line,
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.