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It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair,

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

II.

TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR.

ARIEL to Miranda: Take

This slave of music, for the sake
Of him, who is the slave of thee;
And teach it all the harmony
In which thou canst, and only thou,
Make the delighted spirit glow,
Till joy denies itself again,
And, too intense, is turned to pain.
For, by permission and command
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,

Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken;
Your guardian spirit Ariel, who
From life to life must still pursue
Your happiness, for thus alone
Can Ariel ever find his own.
From Prospero's enchanted cell,
As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples he
Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor.

When you die, the silent Moon
In her interlunar swoon

Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel.

When you live again on earth, ——

-

Like an unseen star of birth,
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity.
Many changes have been run
Since Ferdinand and you begun

Your course of love, and Ariel still

Has tracked your steps and served your will.

Now, in humbler, happier lot,

This is all remembered not;

And now, alas! the poor Sprite is
Imprisoned for some fault of his
In a body like a grave:

From you he only dares to crave,
For his service and his sorrow,
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.

Y

The artist who this idol wrought,
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine,
And dreaming, some of Autumn past,
And some of Spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love. And so this tree
Oh, that such our death may be!
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again :

From which, beneath heaven's fairest star The artist wrought this loved Guitar,

And taught it justly to reply,

To all who question skilfully,

In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamored tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells.
For it had learnt all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voicèd fountains;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,
The melodies of birds and bees,

The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew

That seldom-heard mysterious sound

Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way:
-All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The spirit that inhabits it;

It talks according to the wit

Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For one beloved Friend alone.

- PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

12.

DAVID PLAYING BEFORE SAUL.

THEN I tuned my harp, — took off the lilies we twine round its chords

Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide those sunbeams like swords!

And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one

after one,

So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be

done.

They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed

Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed;

And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows

star

Into eve and the blue far above us, so blue and so far!

- Then the tune, for which quails on the cornland will each leave his mate

To fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate

Till for boldness they fight one another: and then, what has weight

To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand.

house

There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse!

God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear,

To give sign, we and they are his children, one family

here.

Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their winesong, when hand

Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expand

And grow one in the sense of this world's life. — Then,

the last song

66

When the dead man is praised on his jouney Bear, bear him along

With his few thoughts shut up like dead flowerets! Are balm seeds not here

To console us? The land has none left such as he on

the bier.

Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!"- And then, the glad chaunt

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