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Lest thy dead should, from their sleep
Bursting o'er the starlight deep,
Lead a rapid mask of death
O'er the waters of his path.

Starred with drops of golden rain Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes On the morning's fitful gale Through the broken mist they sail ; And the vapors cloven and gleaming Follow down the dark steep streaming, Till all is bright and clear and still Round the solitary hill. Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair ; Underneath day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice, lies, – A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves. Lo ! the sun upsprings behind, Broad, red, radiant, half reclined On the level quivering line Of the waters crystalline ; And before that chasm of light, As within a furnace bright, Column, tower, and dome, and spire Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies ; As the flames of sacrifice From the marble shrines did rise As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old. Sun-girt city! thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen ; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier. A less drear ruin then than now With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne among the waves, Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate, And all is in its ancient state, Save where many a palace-gate, With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of ocean's own, Topples o'er the abandoned sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way Wandering at the close of day Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore,

Noon descends around me now:
'T is the noon of autumn's glow,
When a soft and purple mist
Like a vaporous amethyst,
Or an air-dissolved star
Mingling light and fragrance, far
From the curved horizon's bound
To the point of heaven's profound,
Fills the overflowing sky;
And the plains that silent lie
Underneath ; the leaves unsodden
Where the infant frost has trodden
With his morning-winged feet,
Whose bright print is gleaming yet;
And the red and golden vines
Piercing with their trellised lines
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
The dun and bladed grass no less,
Pointing from this hoary tower
In the windless air ; the flower
Glimmering at my feet; the line
Of the olive-sandalled Apennine
In the south dimly islanded ;
And the Alps, whose snows are spread
High between the clouds and sun;
And of living things each one ;
And my spirit, which so long
Darkened this swift stream of song,
Interpenetrated lie
By the glory of the sky;
Be it love, light, harmony,
Odor, or the soul of all
Which from heaven like dew doth fall,
Or the mind which feeds this verse
Peopling the lone universe.

Noon descends, and after noon
Autumn's evening meets me soon,
Leading the infantine moon
And that one star, which to her
Almost seems to minister
Half the crimson light she brings
From the sunset's radiant springs :
And the soft dreams of the morn
(Which like wingéd winds had borne
To that silent isle, which lies
Mid remembered agonies,
The frail bark of this lone being)
Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
And its ancient pilot, Pain,
Sits beside the helm again.
Other flowering isles must be
In the sea of life and agony ;

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Other spirits float and flee
O'er that gulf; even now, perhaps,
On some rock the wild wave wraps,
With folding winds they waiting sit
For my bark, to pilot it
To soine calm and blooming cove,
Where for me, and those I love,
May a windless bower be built,
Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
In a dell mid lawny hills
Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
And soft sunshine, and the sound
Of old forests echoing round,
And the light and smell divine
Of all fowers that breathe and shine.

We may live so happy there,
That the spirits of the air,
Envying us, may even entice
To our healing paradise
The polluting multitude ;
But their rage would be subdued
By that clime divine and calm,
And the winds whose wings rain balm
On the uplifted soul, and leaves
Under which the bright sea heaves ;
While each breathless interval
In their whisperings musical
The inspired soul supplies
With its own deep melodies ;
And the love which heals all strife
Circling, like the breath of life,
All things in that sweet abode
With its own mild brotherhood.
They, not it, would change ; and soon
Every sprite beneath the moon
Would repent its envy vain,
And the earth grow young again !

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PARADISE AND THE PERI."
Now, upon Syria's land of roses
Softly the light of eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted Lebanon ;
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,

And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,

Is sleeping rosy at his feet. To one who looked from upper air O'er all the enchanted regions there, How beauteous must have been the glow, The life, how sparkling from below! Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks Of golden melons on their banks, More golden where the sunlight falls ; Gay lizards, glittering on the walls Of ruined shrines, busy and bright As they were all alive with light; And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, With their rich restless wings, that gleam Variously in the crimson beam Of the warm west, - as if inlaid With brilliants from the mine, or made Of tearless rainbows, such as span The unclouded skies of Peristan ! And then, the mingling sounds that come, Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum Of the wild bees of Palestine,

Banqueting through the flowery vales ;And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine,

And woods, so full of nightingales !

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

THE ORIENT.

THOMAS MOORE,

FROM "THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS." Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their

clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the

turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever

shine : Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with

perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom ! Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute, Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,

THE VALE OF CASHMERE.

FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM." Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, With its roses the brightest that earth ever

gave,

goes !

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Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear Press to one centre still, the general good.
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their See dying vegetables life sustain,
wave ?

See live dissolving vegetate again : 0, to see it at sunset, —- when warm o'er the lake (By turns we catch the vital breath, and die);

All forms that perish other forms supply Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws, Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne, Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to

They rise, they break, and to that sea return. take

Nothing is foreign ; parts relate to whole ; A last look of her mirror at night ere she

One all-extending, all-preserving Soul When the shrines through the foliage are gleam- Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast;

Connects each being, greatest with the least ; ing half shown, And each hallows the hour by some rites of its The chain holds on, and where it ends, unknown.

All served, all serving ; nothing stands alone;

Has God, thou fool ! worked solely for thy good, Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells, Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food i

Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, swinging,

For him as kindly spread the flowery lawn. And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells

Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings? Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is

Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. ringing.

Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat ? Or to see it by moonlight, when mellowly Loves of his own and raptures swell the note.

shines The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines ; Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride.

The bounding steed you pompously bestride When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of

Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain? stars, And the rightingale's hymn from the Isle of Thine the full harvest of the golden year?

The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain. Chenars

Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer : Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet From the cool shining walks where the young Lives on the labors of this lord of all.

The log that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, people meet. Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes the fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear.

Know, nature's children all divide her care ; A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks,

While man exclaims, “See all things for my use !" Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one Out of darkness, as they were just born of the And just as short of reason he must fall

“See man for mine !" replies a pampered goose :

Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. When the spirit of fragrance is up with the day, From his harem of night-flowers stealing away; Be man the wit and tyrant of the whole

Grant that the powerful still the weak control; And the wind, full of wantonness, wooes like a

Nature that tyrant checks; he only knows, lover

And helps, another creature's wants and woes. The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over.

Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, When the east is as warm as the light first

Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove? hopes, And day, with its banner of radiance unfurled, Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?

Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings ? Shines in through the mountainous portal that

Man cares for all : to birds he gives his woods, opes,

To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods; Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world !

For some his interest prompts him to provide,
For more his pleasure, yet for more his pride :

All feed on one vain patron, and enjoy
NATURE'S CHAIN.

The extensive blessing of his luxury.

That very life his learned hunger craves,
ESSAY ON MAN."

He saves from famine, from the savage saves ; Look round our world; behold the chain of love Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast, Combining all below and all above,

And, till he ends the being, makes it blest; See plastic nature working to this end,

Which sees no more the stroke, or feels the pain, The single atoms each to other tend,

Than favored man by touch ethereal slain. Attract, attracted to, the next in place,

The creature had his feast of life before ; Formed and impelled its neighbor to embrace. Thou too must perish when thy feast is o'er ! See matter next, with various life endued,

sun.

THOMAS MOORE.

FROM THE

ALEXANDER POPR

see no more

THE LION'S RIDE.

From the sandy sea uprising, as the water-spout

from oceala, (Translation.)

A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the The lion is the desert's king; through his do courser's fiery motion.

main so wide Right swiftly and right royally this night he Croaking companion of their flight, the vulture means to ride.

whirs on high ; By the sedgy brink, where the wild herds drink, Below, the terror of the fold, the panther fierce close couches the grim chief;

and sly, The trembling sycamore above whispers with every And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join leaf.

in the horrid race ;

By the footprints wet with gore and sweat, their At evening, on the Table Mount, when ye can

monarch's course they trace. The changeful play of signals gay ; when the gloom They see him on his living throne, and quake with is speckled o'er

fear, the while With kraal fires ; when the Caffre wends home With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his cushion's through the lone karroo ;

painted sile. When the bosh bok in the thicket sleeps, and by On! on! no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life and the stream the gnu;

strength remain ! Then bend your gaze across the waste, — what The steed by such a rider backed may madly plunge

in vain. see ye? The giraffe, Majestic, stalks towards the lagoon, the turbid lymph to quaff ;

Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls, and

breathes his last ; With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he kneels him down to cool

The courser, stained with dust and foam, is the

rider's fell repast. His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the foul and brackish pool.

O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush is

descried :A rustling sound, a roar, a bound, the lion sits Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king of astride

beasts doth ride. Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king so

FERDINAND FREILIGRATH (German). ride ? Had ever king a steed so rare, caparisons of state To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits elate ?

THE BLOOD HORSE. In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged GAMARRA is a dainty steed, with ravenous greed ;

Strong, black, and of a noble breed, His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of

Full of fire, and full of bone, the steed.

With all his line of fathers known; Up leaping with a hollow yell of anguish and sur Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, prise,

But blown abroad by the pride within ! Away, away, in wild dismay, the camel-leopard His mane is like a river flowing, flies.

And his eyes like embers glowing

In the darkness of the night, His feet have wings ; see how he springs across the moonlit plain!

And his pace as swift as light. As from their sockets they would burst, his glaring

Look, how round his straining throat eyeballs strain ; In thick black streams of purling blood, full fast

Grace and shifting beauty float ; his life is fleeting ;

Sinewy strength is in his reins, The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tu.

And the red blood gallops through his veins, – multuous beating.

Richer, redder, never ran

Through the boasting heart of man. Like the cloud that, through the wilderness, the He can trace his lineage higher path of Israel traced,

Than the Bourbon dare aspire, .Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, the waste,

Or O'Brien's blood itself!

He, who hath no peer, was born
Here, upon a red March morn;
But his famous fathers dead
Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred,
And the last of that great line
Trod like one of a race divine !
And yet, — he was but friend to one,
Who fed him at the set of sun
By some lone fountain fringed with green ;
With him, a roving Bedouin,
He lived (none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day),
And died untamed upon the sands
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands !

BARRY CORNWALL.

'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops, how they kiss
Every little flower that is ;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a string of crystal beads.
See the heavy clouds low falling
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from underground;
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapors, fly apace,
And hover o'er the smiling face
Of these pastures ; where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom.
Therefore from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;
And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain, and ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;
Or the crafty, thievish fox,
Break upon your simple flocks.
To secure yourself from these,
Be not too secure in ease;
So shall you good shepherds prove,
And deserve your master's love.
Now, good night ! may sweetest slumbers
And soft silence fall in numbers
On your eyelids. So farewell :
Thus I end my evening knell.

LAMBS AT PLAY.

BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.

Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen Spring's morning smiles, and soul-enlivening

green, Say, did you give the thrilling transport way, Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play Leaped o'er your path with animated pride, Or gazed in merry clusters by your side ? Ye who can smile — to wisdom no disgrace At the arch meaning of a kitten's face ; If spotless innocence and infant mirth Excites to praise, or gives reflection birth ; In shades like these pursue your favorite joy, Midst nature's revels, sports that never cloy. A few begin a short but vigorous race, And indolence, abashed, soon flies the place : Thus challenged forth, see thither, one by one, From every side, assembling playmates run ; A thousand wily antics mark their stay, A starting crowd, impatient of delay; Like the fond dove from fearful prison freed, Each seems to say, “Come, let us try our speed" ; Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, The green turf trembling as they bound along Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, Where every mole-hill is a bed of thyme, Then, panting, stop; yet scarcely can refrain, A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, Scattering the wild-brier roses into snow, Their little limbs increasing efforts try ; Like the torn flower, the fair assemblage fly. Ah, fallen rose ! sad emblem of their doom ; Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom !

TO A MOUSE,

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH

NOVEMBER, 1785.

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa' sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle !
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' murd'ring pattle !

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

FOLDING THE FLOCKS. SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair, Fold your flocks up; for the air

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request ; I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive,

And never miss 't!

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