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As, on the jag of a mountain crag

FANCY IN NUBIBUS.
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle, alit, one moment may sit

0, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease, In the light of its golden wings ;

Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea To make the shifting clouds be what you please, beneath,

Or let the easily persuaded eyes Its ardors of rest and of love,

Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould And the crimson pall of eve may fall

Of a friend's fancy ; or, with head bent low, From the depth of heaven above,

And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, 'Twixt crimson banks; and then a traveller go As still as a brooding dove.

From mount to mount, through Cloudland, gor.

geous land !

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,

That orbéd maiden with white fire laden, Or, listening to the tide with closed sight, Whoi mortals call the moon,

Be that blind Bard, who on the Chian strand, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor By those deep sounds possessed with inward light, By the midnight breezes strewn;

Beheld the Iliad and the Odysse
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.

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,

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,

Thou still unravished bride of quietness !
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Are each paved with the moon and these.

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ;

Of deities or mortals, or of both,
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reeland swim, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. What men or gods are these ? What maidens From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

loath? Over a torrent sea,

What mad pursuit ? What struggles to escape ? Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch, through which I march, Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard With hurricane, fire, and snow,

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; When the powers of the airare chained to my chair, Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Is the million-colored bow;

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone. The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave While the moist earth was laughing below. Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare.

Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal, - yet do not grieve: I am the daughter of the earth and water,

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy
And the nursling of the sky ;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ;

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair !
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain, when, with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare,

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex

Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu ; gleams,

And happy melodist, unwearied, Build the blue dome of air,

Forever piping songs forever new; up I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

More' happy love ! more happy, happy love !

Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from

Forever panting and forever young ;
the tomb,

All breathing human passion far above, I rise and upbuild it again.

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

bliss ;

FRON THE

Who are these coming to the sacrifice ?

THE BOWER OF BLISS. To what green altar, 0 mysterious priest,

FAERIE QUEENE." Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? THERE the most daintie paradise on ground What little town by river or sea-shore,

Itselfe doth offer to his sober eye, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, In which all pleasures plenteously abownd,

Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ? And none does others happinesse envye ; And, little town, thy streets forevermore

The painted flowres; the trees upshooting hye; Will silent be, and not a soul to tell

The dales for shade; the hilles for breathing Why thou art desolate can e'er return.

space;

The trembling groves; the christall running by; O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede And, that which all faire workes doth most Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

aggrace, With forest branches and the trodden weed ; The art, which all that wrought, appeared in no

Thou silent form ! dost tease us out of thought place.
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral !
When old age shall this generation waste,

One would have thought (so cunningly the rude Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

And scorned partes were mingled with the fine)

That Nature had for wantonesse ensude Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, “ Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” - that is all

Art, and that Art at Nature did repine ; Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

So striving each th' other to undermine,

Each did the others worke more beautify ; JOHN KEATS.

So diff'ring both in willes agreed in fine :

So all'agreed, through sweete diversity,

This gardin to adorne with all variety.
THE SUNKEN CITY.

And in the midst of all a fountaine stood, Hark! the faint bells of the sunken city

Of richest substance that on earth might bee, Peal once more their wonted evening chime !

So pure and shiny that the silver flood From the deep abysses floats a ditty,

Through every channell running one might see; Wild and wondrous, of the olden time.

Most goodly it with curious ymageree

Was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boyes, Temples, towers, and domes of many stories

Of which some seemed with lively iollitee There lie buried in an ocean grave,

To fly about, playing their wanton toyes, Undescried, save when their golden glories

Whylest others did themselves embay in liquid Gleam, at sunset, through the lighted wave.

ioyes.

And over all of purest gold was spred And the mariner who had seen them glisten, A trayle of yvie in his native hew ;

In whose ears those magic bells do sound, For the rich metall was so coloured, Night by night bides there to watch and listen, That wight, who did not well avis'd it vew, Though death lurks behind each dark rock Would surely deeme it to bee yvie trew : round.

Low his lascivious armes adown did creepe,

That, themselves dipping in the silver dew So the bells of memory's wonder-city

Their fleecy flowres they fearefully did steepe, Peal for me their old melodious chime; Which drops of christall seemed for wantones to So my heart pours forth a changeful ditty,

weep. Sad and pleasant, from the bygone time.

Infinit streames continually did well Domes and towers and castles, fancy-builded,

Out of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see,

The which into an There lie lost to daylight's garish beams,

ple laver fell, There lie hidden till unveiled and gilded,

And shortly grew to so great quantitie,

That like a little lake it seemd to bee ; Glory-gilded, by my nightly dreams!

Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight, And then hear I music sweet upknelling

That through the waves one might the bottom

see, From many a well-known phantom band, And, through tears, can see my natural dwelling That seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle

All pav'd beneath with iaspar shining bright, Far off in the spirit's luminous land !

upright. WILHELM MUELLER (Gernan). Translation

of JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

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EDMUND SPENSER

forth past.

Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound, Approching nigh, and murdrous knife well whet, Of all that mote delight a daintie eare,

Gan mutter close a certaine secret charme, Such as attonce might not on living ground, With other divelish ceremonies met : Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere : Which doen, he gan aloft t'advance his arme, Right hard it was for wight which did it heare, Whereat they shouted all, and made a loud alarme. To read what manner musicke that mote bee; For all that pleasing is to living eare,

Then

gan the bagpypes and the hornes to shrill Was there consorted in one harmonee;

And shrieke aloud, that, with the people's voyce Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all Confused, did the ayre with terror fill, agree :

And made the wood to tremble at the noyce :

The whyles she wayld, the more they did reioyce. The ioyous birdes, shrouded in chearefullshade,

Now mote ye understand that to this grove Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet;

Sir Calepine, by chaunce more then by choyce, Th' angelicall soft trembling voyces made

The selfe same evening fortune hether drove, To th' instruments divine respondence meet;

As he to seeke Serena through the woods did rove. The silver-sounding instruments did meet With the base murmure of the waters fall ;

Long had he sought her, and through many a The waters fall, with difference disc reet,

soyle Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ;

Had traveld still on foot in heavie armes, The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.

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;
THE CAVE OF SLEEP.

Till, being waked with these loud alarmes, FROM THE “FAERIE QUEENE."

He lightly started up like one aghast,

And, catching up his armes, streight to the noise He, making speedy way through spersed ayre, And through the world of waters wide and deepe, To Morpheus house doth hastily repaire, There by th' uncertaine glims of starry night, Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe, And by the twinkling of their sacred fire, And low, where dawning day doth never peepe, He mote perceive a litle dawning sight His dwelling is ; there Tethys his wet bed Of all which there was doing in that quire : Doth ever wash, and Cynth.a still doth steepe Mongst whom a woman spoyled of all attire In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed,

He spyde, lamenting her unluckie strife, Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth And groning sore from grieved hart entire : spred.

Eftsoones he saw one with a naked knife

Readie to launch her brest, and let out loved life. And, more, to lulle him in his slumber soft, A trickling streame from high rock tumbling With that he thrusts into the thickest throng; downe,

And, even as his right hand adowne descends, And ever-drizling raine upon the loft,

He him preventing layes on earth along, Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the And sacrifizeth to th' infernall feends :

Then to the rest his wrathfull hand he bends; Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne. Of whom he makes such havocke and such hew, No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes, That swarmes of damned soules to hell he sends: As still are wont t'annoy the walled towne,

The rest, that scape his sword and death eschew, Might there be heard ; but carelesse Quiet lyes Fly like a flocke of doves before a faulcons vew. Wrapt in eternall silence, farre from enimyes.

From them returning to that ladie backe,
Whom by the altar he doth sitting find

Yet fearing death, and next to death the lacke SIR CALEPINE RESCUES SERENA. Of clothes to cover what they ought by kind ;

He first her hands beginneth to unbind, FAERIE QUEENE."

And then to question of her present woe; Tho, when as all things readie were aright, And afterwards to cheare with speaches kind : The damzell was before the altar set,

But she, for nought that he could say or doe, Being alreadie dead with fearefull fright: One word durst speake, or answere him a whit To whom the priest with naked armes full net

thereto.

sowne

EDMUND SPENSER.

FROM THE

So inward shame of her uncomely case

With pittie calmd, downe fell his

angry

mood. She did conceive, through care of womanhood, At last, in close hart shutting up her payne, That though the night did cover her disgrace, Arose the virgin borne of heavenly brood, Yet she in so unwomanly a mood

And to her snowy palfrey got agayne, Would not bewray the state in which she stood : To seeke herstrayed champion if she mightattayne. So all that night to him unknowen she past: But day, that doth discover bad and good,

The lyon would not leave her desolate, Ensewing, made her knowen to him at last :

But with her went along, as a strong gard The end whereof Ile keepe untill another cast.

Of her chast person, and a faythfull mate
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard :
Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and

EDMUND SPENSER.

ward ;

EDMUND SPENSER.

12

And, when she wakt, he wayted diligent, UNA AND THE LION.

With humble service to her will prepard ; FROM THE “FAERIE QUEENE."

From her fayre eyes he took commandément, One day, nigh wearie of the yrkesome way,

And ever by her lookes conceived her intent. 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,

SCENES FROM "COMUS." And layd her stole aside. Her angels face,

THE LADY LOST IN THE WOOD. As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright,

And made a sunshine in the shady place ; This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly grace. My best guide now; methought it was the sound

Of riot and ill-managed merriment, It fortuned, out of the thickest wood

Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe A ramping lyon rushed suddeinly,

Stirs up amongst the loose, unlettered hinds, Hunting full greedy after salvage blood : When for their teeming flocks and granges full Soone as the royall virgin he did spy,

In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, And thank the gods amiss. I should be loath To have attonce devourd her tender corse ;

To meet the rudeness and swilled insolence But to the pray whenas he drew more ny, Of such late wassailers ; yet 0, where else

His bloody rage aswaged with remorse, Shall I inform my unacquainted feet
And, with the sightamazd, forgat his furious forse. In the blind mazes of this tangled wood ?
Instead thereof, he kist her wearie feet,

My brothers, when they saw me wearied out And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong ; Under the spreading favor of these pines,

With this long way, resolving here to lodge As he her wronged innocence did weet. O how can beautie maister the most strong,

Stepped, as they said, to the next thicket side And simple truth subdue avenging wrong!

To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit Whose yielded pryde and proud submission,

As the kind, hospitable woods provide. Still dreading death, when she had marked long, Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed,

They left me then, when the gray-hooded even, Her hart gan melt in great compassion ;

Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phæbus' wain. And drizling teares did shed for pure affection.

But where they are, and why they came not back, “The lyon, lord of everie beast in field, Is now the labor of my thoughts : 't is likeliest Quoth she, “his princely puissance doth abate, They had engaged their wandering steps too far, And mightie proud to humble weakedoes yield, And envious darkness, ere they could return, Forgetfull of the hungry rage, which late

Had stole them from me ; else, O thievish night, Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate :

Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end, But he, my lyon, and my noble lord,

In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars, How does he find in cruell hart to hate That nature hung in heaven, and filled their Her, that him lov’d, and ever most adord

lamps As the god of my life ? why hath he me abhord ?” With everlasting oil, to give due light

To the misled and lonely traveller ? Redounding tears did choketh'end of her plaint, This is the place, as well as I may guess, Which softly ecchoed from the neighbour wood; ; Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth And, sad to see her sorrowfull constraint, Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear, The kingly beast upon her gazing stood ; 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 un blemished 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.

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;
Tiat 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;

MILTON

TAM O'SHANTER.

A TALE.

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

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 wratlı to keep it warm.

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