As, on the jag of a mountain crag

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle, alit, one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings;

FANCY IN NUBIBUS.

O, IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease, Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,

beneath,

Its ardors of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,

With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove.

That orbéd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor
By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ;

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch, through which I march,
With hurricane, fire, and snow,

Or let the easily persuaded eyes

Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould
Of a friend's fancy; or, with head bent low,
And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold,
'Twixt crimson banks; and then a traveller go
From mount to mount, through Cloudland, gor-
geous land!

Or, listening to the tide with closed sight,
Be that blind Bard, who on the Chian strand,
By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,
Beheld the Iliad and the Odysse

Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.

THOU still unravished bride of quietness! Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?

What mad pursuit? What struggles to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy ?

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets forevermore
Will silent be, and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral !

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. JOHN KEATS.

THE SUNKEN CITY.

HARK! the faint bells of the sunken city
Peal once more their wonted evening chime!
From the deep abysses floats a ditty,

Wild and wondrous, of the olden time.

Temples, towers, and domes of many stories There lie buried in an ocean grave, Undescried, save when their golden glories Gleam, at sunset, through the lighted wave.

And the mariner who had seen them glisten,
In whose ears those magic bells do sound,
Night by night bides there to watch and listen,
Though death lurks behind each dark rock
round.

So the bells of memory's wonder-city

Peal for me their old melodious chime; So my heart pours forth a changeful ditty, Sad and pleasant, from the bygone time.

Domes and towers and castles, fancy-builded, There lie lost to daylight's garish beams, There lie hidden till unveiled and gilded, Glory-gilded, by my nightly dreams!

And then hear I music sweet upknelling

From many a well-known phantom band, And, through tears, can see my natural dwelling Far off in the spirit's luminous land!

WILHELM MUELLER (German). Translation of JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

The art, which all that wrought, appeared in no place.

One would have thought (so cunningly the rude And scorned partes were mingled with the fine) That Nature had for wantonesse ensude Art, and that Art at Nature did repine; So striving each th' other to undermine, Each did the others worke more beautify; So diff'ring both in willes agreed in fine: So all agreed, through sweete diversity, This gardin to adorne with all variety.

And in the midst of all a fountaine stood, Of richest substance that on earth might bee, So pure and shiny that the silver flood Through every channell running one might see; Most goodly it with curious ymageree Was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boyes, Of which some seemed with lively iollitee To fly about, playing their wanton toyes, Whylest others did themselves embay in liquid ioyes.

And over all of purest gold was spred
A trayle of yvie in his native hew;
For the rich metall was so coloured,
That wight, who did not well avis'd it vew,
Would surely deeme it to bee yvie trew:
Low his lascivious armes adown did creepe,
That, themselves dipping in the silver dew
Their fleecy flowres they fearefully did steepe,
Which drops of christall seemed for wantones to
weep.

Infinit streames continually did well
Out of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see,
The which into an ample laver fell,
And shortly grew to so great quantitie,
That like a little lake it seemd to bee;
Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight,
That through the waves one might the bottom

Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound, Of all that mote delight a daintie eare, Such as attonce might not on living ground, Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere: Right hard it was for wight which did it heare, To read what manner musicke that mote bee ; For all that pleasing is to living eare, Was there consorted in one harmonee; Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all agree:

The ioyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade, Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet; Th' angelicall soft trembling voyces made To th' instruments divine respondence meet; The silver-sounding instruments did meet With the base murmure of the waters fall; The waters fall, with difference discreet, Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ; The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.

Long had he sought her, and through many a soyle

Had traveld still on foot in heavie armes, Ne ought was tyred with his endlesse toyle, Ne ought was feared of his certaine harmes : And now, all weetlesse of the wretched stormes In which his love was lost, he slept full fast; Till, being waked with these loud alarmes, He lightly started up like one aghast, And, catching up his armes, streight to the noise forth past.

There by th' uncertaine glims of starry night, And by the twinkling of their sacred fire, He mote perceive a litle dawning sight Of all which there was doing in that quire: Mongst whom a woman spoyled of all attire He spyde, lamenting her unluckie strife, And groning sore from grieved hart entire : Eftsoones he saw one with a naked knife Readie to launch her brest, and let out loved life.

With that he thrusts into the thickest throng; And, even as his right hand adowne descends, He him preventing layes on earth along, And sacrifizeth to th' infernall feends: Then to the rest his wrathfull hand he bends; Of whom he makes such havocke and such hew, That swarmes of damned soules to hell he sends: The rest, that scape his sword and death eschew, Fly like a flocke of doves before a faulcons vew.

From them returning to that ladie backe, Whom by the altar he doth sitting find Yet fearing death, and next to death the lacke Of clothes to cover what they ought by kind; He first her hands beginneth to unbind, And then to question of her present woe; And afterwards to cheare with speaches kind : But she, for nought that he could say or doe, One word durst speake, or answere him a whit thereto.

So inward shame of her uncomely case
She did conceive, through care of womanhood,
That though the night did cover her disgrace,
Yet she in so unwomanly a mood

Would not bewray the state in which she stood:
So all that night to him unknowen she past:
But day, that doth discover bad and good,
Ensewing, made her knowen to him at last :
The end whereof Ile keepe untill another cast.

EDMUND SPENSER.

UNA AND THE LION.

FROM THE "FAERIE QUEENE." ONE day, nigh wearie of the yrkesome way, From her unhastie beast she did alight; And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight; From her fayre head her fillet she undight, And layd her stole aside. Her angels face, As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place; Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly grace. It fortuned, out of the thickest wood A ramping lyon rushed suddeinly, Hunting full greedy after salvage blood: Soone as the royall virgin he did spy, With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, To have attonce devourd her tender corse; But to the pray whenas he drew more ny, His bloody rage aswaged with remorse, And, with the sight amazd, forgat his furious forse.

Instead thereof, he kist her wearie feet, And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong; As he her wronged innocence did weet. O how can beautie maister the most strong, And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! Whose yielded pryde and proud submission, Still dreading death, when she had marked long, Her hart gan melt in great compassion; And drizling teares did shed for pure affection.

"The lyon, lord of everie beast in field,
Quoth she, "his princely puissance doth abate,
And mightie proud to humble weake does yield,
Forgetfull of the hungry rage, which late
Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate :-
But he, my lyon, and my noble lord,
How does he find in cruell hart to hate
Her, that him lov'd, and ever most adord
As the god of my life? why hath he me abhord?"

Redounding tears did choke th' end of her plaint,
Which softly ecchoed from the neighbour wood;
And, sad to see her sorrowfull constraint,
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood;

With pittie calmd, downe fell his angry mood.
At last, in close hart shutting up her payne,
Arose the virgin borne of heavenly brood,
And to her snowy palfrey got agayne,
To seeke her strayed champion if she might attayne.

The lyon would not leave her desolate,
But with her went along, as a strong gard
Of her chast person, and a faythfull mate
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard :
Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and
ward;

And, when she wakt, he wayted diligent, With humble service to her will prepard; From her fayre eyes he took commandément, And ever by her lookes conceived her intent.

EDMUND SPENSER.

SCENES FROM "COMUS."

THE LADY LOST IN THE WOOD.
THIS way the noise was, if mine ear be true,
My best guide now; methought it was the sound
Of riot and ill-managed merriment,
Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe
Stirs up amongst the loose, unlettered hinds,
When for their teeming flocks and granges full
In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan,
And thank the gods amiss. I should be loath
To meet the rudeness and swilled insolence
Of such late wassailers; yet O, where else
Shall I inform my unacquainted feet
In the blind mazes of this tangled wood?
My brothers, when they saw me wearied out
Under the spreading favor of these pines,
With this long way, resolving here to lodge
Stepped, as they said, to the next thicket side
To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit
As the kind, hospitable woods provide.
Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed,
They left me then, when the gray-hooded even,

Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain.
But where they are, and why they came not back,
Is now the labor of my thoughts: 't is likeliest
They had engaged their wandering steps too far,
And envious darkness, ere they could return,
Had stole them from me; else, O thievish night,
Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end,
In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars,
That nature hung in heaven, and filled their
lamps

With everlasting oil, to give due light
To the misled and lonely traveller?
This is the place, as well as I may guess,
Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth
Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear,
Yet naught but single darkness do I find.

What might this be? A thousand fantasies
Begin to throng into my memory,

Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire,
And airy tongues, that syllable men's names
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.
These thoughts may startle well, but not astound
The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended
By a strong siding champion, Conscience.
O welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope,
Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings,
And thou unblemished form of Chastity;
I see you visibly, and now believe

That he, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill

Are but as slavish officers of vengeance,
Would send a glistering guardian, if need were,
To keep my life and honor unassailed.

THE LADY TO COMUS.

IMPOSTOR, do not charge most innocent Nature,
As if she would her children should be riotous
With her abundance; she, good cateress,
Means her provision only to the good,
That live according to her sober laws,
And holy dictate of spare temperance:

If every just man, that now pines with want,
Had but a moderate and beseeming share
Of that which lewdly pampered luxury
Now heaps upon some few with vast excess,
Nature's full blessings would be well dispensed
In unsuperfluous even proportion,

And she no whit encumbered with her store;
And then the Giver would be better thanked,
His praise due paid; for swinish gluttony
Ne'er looks to Heaven amidst his gorgeous feast,
But with besotted, base ingratitude
Crams, and blasphemes his Feeder.

TAM O'SHANTER.

A TALE.

"Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke."

MILTON.

GAWIN DOUGLASS.

WHEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Narsing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter,
As he, frae Ayr, ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonnie lasses.)

O Tam! hadst thou been but sae wise
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A bleth'ring, blust'ring, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the L-d's house, ev'n on Sunday,
T. ou drank wi' Kirten Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon;
Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet
To think how monie counsels sweet,
How monie lengthened sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises !
But to our tale: Ae market night
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony,
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither,
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,
And ay the ale was growing better;
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious;
The souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus;
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drowned himself amang the nappy;
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure;
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow-fall in the river,
A moment white, then melts forever;
Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place ;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.

Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride,
That hour o' night's black arch the keystane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;