What though the music of thy rustic flute
Kept not for long its happy, country tone;
Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note
Of men contention-tost, of men who groan,
Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy
throat-

It fail'd, and thou wast mute!

Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light,

And long with men of care thou couldst not stay, And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way, Left human haunt, and on alone till night.

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore,

Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. -Then through the great town's harsh, heartwearying roar,

Let in thy voice a whisper often come,

To chase fatigue and fear:

Why faintest thou? I wander'd till I died.

Roam on!

The light we sought is shining still.

Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the

hill,

Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side.

CXXXI

M. Arnold

AMPHIBIAN

The fancy I had to-day,
Fancy which turn'd a fear!
I swam far out in the bay,

Since waves laugh'd warm and clear.

I lay and look'd at the sun,
The noon-sun look'd at me :

Between us two, no one

Live creature, that I could see.

Yes! There came floating by
Me, who lay floating too,
Such a strange butterfly!
Creature as dear as new:

Because the membraned wings
So wonderful, so wide,
So sun-suffused, were things
Like soul and nought beside.

A handbreadth over head!
All of the sea my own,
It own'd the sky instead ;
Both of us were alone.

I never shall join its flight,
For, nought buoys flesh in air.
If it touch the sea-good-night!
Death sure and swift waits there.

Can the insect feel the better
For watching the uncouth play
Of limbs that slip the fetter,
Pretend as they were not clay?

Undoubtedly I rejoice

That the air comports so well With a creature which had the choice Of the land once. Who can tell?

What if a certain soul

Which early slipp'd its sheath,
And has for its home the whole
Of heaven, thus look beneath,

Thus watch one who, in the world,
Both lives and likes life's way,

Nor wishes the wings unfurl'd

That sleep in the worm, they say?

But sometimes when the weather
Is blue, and warm waves tempt
To free oneself of tether,

And try a life exempt

From worldly noise and dust,
In the sphere which overbrims
With passion and thought,-why, just
Unable to fly, one swims!

By passion and thought upborne,
One smiles to oneself

They fare

Scarce better, they need not scorn

Our sea, who live in the air!'

Emancipate through passion
And thought, with sea for sky,
We substitute, in a fashion,
For heaven-poetry :

Which sea, to all intent,
Gives flesh such noon-disport
As a finer element

Affords the spirit-sort.

Whatever they are, we seem :
Imagine the thing they know ;
All deeds they do, we dream;
Can heaven be else but so?

And meantime, yonder streak
Meets the horizon's verge;
That is the land, to seek

If we tire or dread the surge:

Land the solid and safe

To welcome again (confess!)
When, high and dry, we chafe
The body, and don the dress.

Does she look, pity, wonder
At one who mimics flight,
Swims-heaven above, sea under,
Yet always earth in sight?

R. Browning

CXXXII

O life, O death, O world, O time,
O grave, where all things flow,
'Tis yours to make our lot sublime
With your great weight of woe.

Though sharpest anguish hearts may wring,
Though bosoms torn may be,
Yet suffering is a holy thing;
Without it what were we?

R. C. Archbishop Trench

CXXXIII

CONSOLATION

Mist clogs the sunshine.
Smoky dwarf houses

Hem me round everywhere;
A vague dejection
Weighs down my soul.

Yet, while I languish,
Everywhere countless
Prospects unroll themselves,
And countless beings
Pass countless moods.

Far hence, in Asia,

On the smooth convent-roofs,

On the gilt terraces,

Of holy Lassa,

Bright shines the sun.

Gray time-worn marbles
Hold the pure Muses;
In their cool gallery,
By yellow Tiber,
They still look fair.

Strange unloved uproar
Shrills round their portal;
Yet not on Helicon
Kept they more cloudless
Their noble calm.

Through sun-proof alleys
In a lone, sand-hemm'd
City of Africa,

A blind, led beggar,
Age-bow'd, asks alms.

No bolder robber
Erst abode ambush'd

Deep in the sandy waste;
No clearer eyesight
Spied prey afar.

Saharan sand-winds
Sear'd his keen eyeballs;
Spent is the spoil he won.
For him the present
Holds only pain.

Two young, fair lovers, Where the warm June-wind, Fresh from the summer fields Plays fondly round them, Stand, tranced in joy.

With sweet, join'd voices,
And with eyes brimming:
'Ah,' they cry, 'Destiny,
Prolong the present !
Time, stand still here!'

The prompt stern Goddess
Shakes her head, frowning;
Time gives his hour-glass
Its due reversal;

Their hour is gone.