Of the marriage, - first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vaunt

As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling. And then, the great march

Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an

arch

Nought can break; who shall harm them, our friends? Then, the chorus intoned

As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. But I stopped here: for here in the darkness Saul groaned.

ROBERT BROWNING.

13.

STANZAS FROM "WINE OF CYPRUS."

Go, let others praise the Chian!

This is soft as Muses' string,

This is tawny as Rhea's lion,

This is rapid as his spring,
Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us,
Light as ever trod her feet;
And the brown bees of Hymettus
Make their honey not so sweet.

Very copious are my praises,

Though I sip it like a fly!

Ah but, sipping,

times and places

Change before me suddenly:

As Ulysses' old libation

Drew the ghosts from every part,
So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian,
Stirs the Hades of my heart.

And I think of those long mornings
Which my thoughts go far to seek,
When, betwixt the folio's turnings,

Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek:
Past the pane the mountain spreading,
Swept the sheep-bells' tinkling noise,
While a girlish voice was reading,
Somewhat low for aus and ois.

Then, what golden hours were for us!
While we sat together there,
How the white vests of the chorus

Seemed to wave up a live air!
How the cothurns trod majestic
Down the deep iambic lines,

And the rolling anapastic

Curled like vapor over shrines!

Oh, our Æschylus, the thunderous,
How he drove the bolted breath
Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous
In the gnarlèd oak beneath!

Oh, our Sophocles, the royal,

Who was born to monarch's place, And who made the whole world loyal, Less by kingly power than grace!

Our Euripides, the human,

With his droppings of warm tears, And his touches of things common Till they rose to touch the spheres!

Our Theocritus, our Bion,

And our Pindar's shining goals!-
These were cup-bearers undying,

Of the wine that's meant for souls.

— ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

14.

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 struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone;
Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
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; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,

For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,
For ever panting and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue,

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 for evermore 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,"

Ye know on earth, and all ye

that is all

need to know.

-JOHN KEATS.

15.

INVOCATION TO THE SPIRIT OF ACHILLES.

BEAUTIFUL shadow

Of Thetis's boy!

Who sleeps in the meadow

Whose grass grows o'er Troy:
From the red earth, like Adam,
Thy likeness I shape,
As the being who made him,
Whose actions I ape.
Thou clay, be all glowing,
Till the rose in his cheek
Be as fair as, when blowing,
It wears its first streak!
Ye violets, I scatter,
Now turn into eyes!
And thou, sunshiny water,
Of blood take the guise!
Let these hyacinth boughs
Be his long flowing hair,
And wave o'er his brows
As thou wavest in air!
Let his heart be this marble
I tear from the rock!

But his voice as the warble
Of birds on yon oak!
Let his flesh be the purest
Of mould, in which grew
The lily-root surest,

And drank the best dew!