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E Rehe surmther Presses in the trees are gone,

RE, in gale,

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

THE 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

VIRG
TIRGIN, 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

258

INVOCATION

RARELY, rarely fomest thou,

Spirit
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

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HOW

OW 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

261

THE WINTER'S EVENING

THE

'HE sun is sinking in the fiery west;

the clouds are rushing on their wild, 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.

lanthe ! 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

IF

262 TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS

F to be absent were to be

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

CHEN 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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