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ERE, in the northern gathe 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 Gift to with

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,

VIRG

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

257

I

A WISH

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

258

INVOCATION

RARELY, rarely, comest thou,

Spirit of Delight!

wherefore hast thou left me now
many a day and night?
many a weary night and day
'tis since thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like me
win thee back again?
with the joyous and the free
thou wilt scoff at pain.

Spirit false thou hast forgot
all but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

of a trembling leaf,

thou with sorrow art dismayed;

even the sighs of grief

reproach thee, that thou art not near,

and reproach thou wilt not hear.

259 I love all that thou lovest,.

Spirit of Delight!

the fresh Earth in new leaves drest
and the starry night;

autumn evening, and the morn
when the golden mists are born.

I love snow and all the forms
of the radiant frost ;

I love waves, and winds, and storms,
everything almost

which is Nature's, and may be

untainted by man's misery.

I love Love-though he has wings,
and like light can flee,

but above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee

thou art love and life! O come!

make once more my heart thy home!

P. B. SHELLEY

260

261

ECHOES

How sweet the answer Echo makes

to Music at night

when, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
and far away o'er lawns and lakes

goes answering light!

yet Love hath echoes truer far

and far more sweet

than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,

of horn or lute or soft guitar

the songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh,-in youth sincere

and only then,

the sigh that's breathed for one to hear-
is by that one, that only Dear,

breathed back again.

T. MOORE

THE WINTER'S EVENING

HE sun is sinking in the fiery west;

wet wings;

the lightning, like an eagle from its nest,
in dazzling circles round the mountain springs;
the groaning forest in the whirlwind swings,
strewing the marble cliffs with branches hoar;
with cries of startled wolves the valley rings:
and when the sullen sounds of earth are o'er,
ocean lifts up his voice, and thunders on the shore.
Now close the portal!-'Tis the hour of hours!
though ancient Winter lords it o'er the sky,
and the snow thickens on our leafless bowers;
for now the few we love on earth are nigh.
Ianthe! shall the livelong eve pass by

without one song from that red lip of thine?

come, fill the bowls, and heap the faggots high! to birds and flowers let Summer's morning shine, to nobler man alone the Winter eve's divine.

G. CROLY

262

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS

F to be absent were to be

IF

away from thee;

or that when I am gone

you or I were alone;

then, my Lucasta, might I crave pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. Though seas and land betwixt us both, our faith and troth,

like separated souls,

all time and space controls:
above the highest sphere we meet
unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet.

So then we do anticipate
our after-fate,

and are alive i' the skies,
if thus our lips and eyes

can speak like spirits unconfined

in Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.

R. LOVELACE

263

MODERN GREECE

WHEN riseth Lacedæmon's hardihood,

when Thebes Epaminondas rears again, when Athens' children are with hearts endued, when Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, then may'st thou be restored; but not till then. A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; an hour may lay it in the dust, and when can man its shatter'd splendour renovate, recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate?

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild; sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, and still his honied wealth Hymettus yields; there the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, the freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ; Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare; Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair.

LORD BYRON

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