Which long has raved unnoticed.

scream

Of agony, by torture lengthened out,

What a

That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that ravest

Bare crag, or mountain-tarn, or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house long held the witches' home,

Methinks, were fitter instruments for thee! Mad lutanist! who, in this month of showers, Of dark-brown gardens and of peeping flowers, Makest devils' yule, with worse than wintry

song,

The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among!

Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold! What tell'st thou now about?

'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,

With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds

At once they groan with pain and shudder with the cold!

But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,

A tale of less affright,

And temper'd with delight,

As Otway's self had framed the tender lay : "T is of a little child,

Upon a lonesome wild,

Not far from home but she had lost her way; And now, moans low, in bitter grief and fear, And now, screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear!

'Tis midnight!

of sleep.

but small thoughts have I

Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle sleep! with wings of healing!
And may
this storm be but a mountain-birth!
May all the stars hang bright above her dwell-

ing,

Silent as though they watched the sleeping earth!

With light heart may she rise,

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice! To her may all things live, from pole to pole, Their life the eddying of her living soul! O simple spirit! guided from above.

Dear lady!friend devoutest of my choice, — Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice!

THE VISIT OF THE GODS.

IMITATED FROM SCHILLER.

EVER, believe me,

Appear the Immortals,

Never alone:

Scarce had I welcomed the sorrow-beguiler,
Iacchus! but in came boy Cupid the smiler;
Lo! Phoebus the glorious descends from his
throne !

They advance, they float in, the Olympians all!
With divinities fills my
Terrestrial hall!

How shall I yield you

Due entertainment,

Celestial quire?

Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of

upbuoyance,

Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of

joyance,

That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre! Hah! we mount! on their pinions they waft up my soul!

O give me the nectar!

O fill me the bowl!

Give him the nectar!

Pour out for the poet,
Hebe pour free!

Quicken his eyes with celestial dew,

That Styx the detested no more he may view, And like one of us Gods may conceit him to

be!

Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it! Io Pæan, I cry!
The wine of the Immortals

Forbids me to die!