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swiftness and power by birth are thine: from thy great Sire they came, thy Sire the Word

divine.

194 Swift as light thoughts their empty career run,

thy race is finished, when begun:

let a Post-angel start with thee, and thou the goal of Earth shalt reach as soon as he. Thou in the Moon's bright chariot, proud and gay,

dost the bright wood of stars survey ;

and all the year doth with thee bring a thousand flowery lights, thine own nocturnal spring. Night and her ugly subjects thou dost fright,

and sleep, the lazy owl of Night;

asham'd and fearful to appear, they screen their horrid shapes with the black Hemi

sphere. With them there hastes, and wildly takes th’alarm,

of painted dreams a busy swarm;

at the first opening of thine eye
the various clusters break, the antic atoms fly.
The guilty serpents and obscener beasts

creep conscious to their secret rests;

Nature to thee does reverence pay,
ill omens and ill sights removes out of thy way.

195 At thy appearance, Grief itself is said

to shake his wings and rouse his head;

and cloudy Care has often took
a gentle beamy smile reflected from thy look.
At thy appearance, Fear itself grows bold:

thy sunshine melts away his cold:

encouraged at the sight of thee, to the cheek colour comes and firmness to the knee. Even Lust, the master of a hardened face,

blushes if thou be'st in the place;

to darkness' curtains he retires,
in sympathising night he rolls his smoky fires.
When, Goddess, thou lift'st up thy wak’ned head

out of the morning's purple bed,

thy quire of birds about thee play,
and all the joyful world salutes the rising day.
The ghosts and monster spirits, that did presume

a body's privilege to assume,

vanish again invisibly
and bodies gain again their visibility.

196 All the world's bravery, that delights our eyes,

is but thy several liveries:

thou the rich dye on them bestow'st, thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go'st. A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st;

a crown of studded gold thou bear'st,

the virgin lilies in their white are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light. The violet, spring's little infant, stands

girt in thy purple swaddling-bands:

on the fair tulip thou dost dote; thou cloth’st it with a gay and party-coloured coat. With flame condens'd thou dost the jewels fix,

and solid colours in it mix:

Flora herself envies to see flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she. Ah, Goddess! would thou could'st thy hand withhold

and be less liberal to gold;

didst thou less value to it give of how much care, alas! might'st thou poor man relieve !

197 To me the Sun is more delightful far,

and all fair days much fairer are;

but few, ah wondrous few there be who do not gold prefer, O Goddess! ev'n to thee. Through the soft ways of heaven and air and sea,

which open all their pores to thee,

like a clear river thou dost glide,
and with thy living stream through the close channels

slide.
But, where firm bodies thy free course oppose,

gently thy source the land o'erflows;

takes there possession and does make, of colours mingled, light, a thick and standing lake. But the vast ocean of unbounded day

in th' empyrean heaven does stay:

thy rivers, lakes and springs below, from thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow.

A. COWLEY

198

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY

"HE fountains mingle with the river

,

the winds of heaven mix for ever
with a sweet emotion;
nothing in the world is single,
all things by a law divine
in one another's being mingle-
why not I with thine!
See the mountains kiss high heaven
and the waves clasp one another;
no sister flower would be forgiven
if it disdain'd its brother:
and the sunlight clasps the earth,
and the moonbeams kiss the sea-
what are all these kissings worth,
if thou kiss not me?

P. B. SHELLEY

199

SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW

THORY

THOUGH the torrents from their fountains

roar down many a craggy steep,
yet they find among the mountains
resting-places calm and deep.
Clouds that love through air to hasten,
ere the storm its fury stills,
helmet-like themselves will fasten
on the heads of towering hills.
If on windy days the Raven
gambol like a dancing skiff,
not the less she loves her haven
in the bosom of the cliff.

Day and night my toils redouble,
never nearer to the goal;
night and day, I feel the trouble
of the Wanderer in my soul.

W. WORDSWORTH

200

CALM AFTER A STORM IN ASIA

Hthe sailny hour

, when storms are gone;

when warring winds have died away,
and clouds, beneath the glancing ray,
melt off, and leave the land and sea
sleeping in bright tranquillity,-
fresh, as if Day again were born,
again upon the lap of Morn!-
When the light blossoms, rudely torn
and scattered at the whirlwind's will,
hang floating in the pure air still,
filling it all with precious balm,
in gratitude for this sweet calm ;-
and every drop the thunder-showers
have left upon the grass and flowers
sparkles, as 'twere that lightning gem,
whose liquid flame is born of them!

T. MOORE

201

SONG OF THE PRIEST OF PAN

SH

HEPHERDS, rise and shake off sleep!

see, the blushing morn doth peep
through the windows, whilst the sun
to the mountain-tops is run,
gilding all the vales below
with its rising flames, which grow
greater by his climbing still.
Up, ye lazy grooms, and fill
bag and bottle for the field !
Clasp your cloaks fast, lest they yield
to the bitter north-east wind.
Call the maidens up, and find
who lay longest, that she may
go without a friend all day;

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by the cold scrutiny of wit

the treasury where Thou lock'st up the wind ? What majesty of princes can

a tempest awe,
when the distracted ocean

swells to sedition, and obeys no law?
How wretched doth the tyrant stand

without a boast,
when his rich fleet even touching land

he by some storm in his own port sees lost! Vain pomp of life! what narrow bound

ambition is circled with! How false a ground hath human pride to build its triumphs on!

W. HABINGTON

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TREW on her roses, roses,
but never a spray

of yew :
in silence she reposes,

ah! would that I did too. Her mirth the world required,

she bathed it in smiles and glee : but her heart was tired, tired,

and now they let her be.
Her life was turning, turning,

in mazes of heat and sound:
but for peace her soul was yearning,

and now peace laps her round:
Her cabined, ample Spirit,

it fluttered and failed for breath; to-night it doth inherit

the vasty Hall of Death.

M. ARNOLD

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