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were

is yet,

Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green;

To Constantia - Singing.
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen Tuus to be lost, and thus to sink and die,
spear.

Perchance death indeed! Constantia,

turn! Last came Joy's ecstatic trial :

In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, He, with viny crown advancing,

Even though the sounds which were thy voice,

which burn First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ;

Between thy lips, are laid to sleep;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the

Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odor it best; They would have thought, who heard the strain,

And from thy touch like fire doth leap.

Even while I write, my burning cheeks are They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,

wetAmidst the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing,

Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forWhile, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,

get ! Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;

A breathless awe like the swift change, And he, amidst his frolic play,

Unseen but felt, in youthful slumbers, As if he would the charming air repay,

Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

Thou breathest now in fast ascending num

bers.

The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven O Music! sphere-descended maid,

By the enchantment of thy strain ; Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid !

And on my shoulders wings are woven,
Why, goddess ! why, to us denied,

To follow its sublime career
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside
As, in that loved Athenian bower,

Beyond the mighty moons that wane
You learned an all-commanding power,

Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, Thy mimic soul, 0 nymph endeared,

Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disCan well recall what then it heard ;

appear. Where is thy native simple heart,

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul — it lingers, Devote to virtue, fancy, art 1

O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings; Arise, as in that elder time,

The blood and life within those snowy fingers Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime !

Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. Thy wonders, in that godlike age,

My brain is wild, my breath comes quick — Fill thy recording sister's page;

The blood is listening in my frame; 'Tis said — and I believe the tale

And thronging shadows, fast and thick, Thy humblest reed could more prevail,

Fall on my overflowing eyes; Had more of strength, diviner rage,

My heart is quivering like a flame; Than all which charms this laggard age –

As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, E'en all at once together found

I am dissolved in these consuming ecstasies. Cecilia's mingled world of sound. Oh bid our vain endeavors cease;

I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee; Revive the just designs of Greece!

Whilst, like the world - surrounding air, thy Return in all thy simple state —

song Confirm the tales her sons relate!

Flows and fills all things with melody.
WILLIAM COLLINS.

Now is thy voice a tempest, swift and strong,

on,

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Like the smell of the vine, when its early bloom
Sprinkles the green lane with sunny perfume,

Woman's Voice.
Such a delicate fragrance filled the room.
Whether it came from the vine without,

“Her voice was ever low, Or arose from her presence, I dwell in doubt.

Gentle and soft - an excellent thing in woman."

Kixg LEAR. Light shadows played on the pictured wall

Not in the swaying of the summer trees, From the maples that fluttered outside the

When evening breezes sing their vesper hymn hall,

Not in the minst rel's mighty symphonies, And hindered the daylight — yet ah! not all;

Nor ripples breaking on the river's brim, Too little for that all the forest would be -

Is earth's best music; these may move awhile Such a sunbeam she was, and is, to me!

High thoughts in happy hearts, and carking cares

beguile. When my sense returned, as the song was

o'er, I fain would have said to her, “Sing it once

But even as the swallow's silken wings, more ; "

Skimming the water of the sleeping lake, But soon as she smiled my wish I forbore :

Stir the still silver with a hundred rings — Music enough in her look I found,

So doth one sound the sleeping spirit wake And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the To brave the danger, and to bear the harm — sound.

A low and gentle voice — dear woman's chiefest THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. charm.

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Those graces were that seemed grim fates;

With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me; The long-sought secret's golden gates

On musical hinges swung before me.

I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp

Thrilling with godhood ; like a lover, I sprang the proffered life to clasp —

The beaker fell; the luck was over.

"Tis much immortal beauty to admire,

But more immortal beauty to withstand ; The perfect soul can overcome desire,

If beauty with divine delight be scanned. For what is beauty, but the blooming child

Of fair Olympus, that in night must end, And be for ever from that bliss exiled,

If admiration stand too much its friend? The wind may be enamored of a flower,

The ocean of the green and laughing shore, The silver lightning of a lofty tower —

But must not with too near a love adore; Or flower, and margin, and cloud-capped tower, Love and delight shall with delight devour!

LORD THURLOW.

The earth has drunk the vintage up;

What boots it patch the goblet's splinters ! Can summer fill the icy cup

Whose treacherous crystal is but winter's ?

O spendthrift haste! await the gods ;

Their nectar crowns the lips of patience. Haste scatters on unthankful sods

The immortal gift in vain libations.

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo,

And shuns the hands would seize upon her: Follow thy life, and she will sue To pour for thee the cup of honor.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Song.
O LADY, leave thy silken thread

And flowery tapestry —
There's living roses on the bush,

And blossoms on the tree. Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand

Some random bud will meet; Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find

The daisy at thy feet.

who is Sylvia ?

Who is Sylvia? what is she,

That all the swains commend her Holy, fair, and wise, is she;

The heavens such grace did lend her That she might adored be.

'Tis like the birthday of the world,

When earth was born in bloom; The light is made of many dyes,

The air is all perfume;
There's crimson buds, and white and blue -

The very rainbow showers
Have turned to blossoms where they fell,

And sown the earth with flowers.

Is she kind, or is she fair

For beauty lives with kindness. Love does to her eyes repair

To help him of his blindness — And, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Sylvia let us sing

That Sylvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing

Upon the dull earth dwelling; To her let us garlands bring.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

There's fairy tulips in the east

The garden of the sun;
The very streams reflect the hues,

And blossom as they run;
While morn opes like a crimson rose,

Still wet with pearly showers :
Then, lady, leave the silken thread
Thou twinest into flowers !

THOMAS HOOD.

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