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Dragged back again by cruel destinies,
An iron slumber shuts my swimming eyes.
And now farewell, - involved in shades of night,
Forever I am ravished from thy sight.
In vain I reach my feeble hands, to join
In sweet embraces ; ah ! no longer thïne !
She said, and from his eyes the fleeting fair
Retired, like subtile smoke dissolved in air ;
And left her hopeless lover in despair.
In vain, with folding arms, the youth assayed
To stop her flight, and strain the flying shade :
He prays, he raves, all means in vain he tries,
With rage inflamed, astonished with surprise :
But she returned no more, to bless his longing eyes.

The nymph returned, her drooping son to cheer, And bade him banish his superfluous fear : For now, said she, the cause is known from whence Thy woe succeeded, and for what offence : The nymphs, companions of th' unhappy maid, This punishment upon thy crimes have laid ; And sent a plague among thy thriving bees. With vows and suppliant prayers their powers apThe soft Napæan race will soon repent (pease : Their anger, and remit the punishment : The secret in an easy method lies ; Select four brawny bulls for sacrifice, Which on Lycæus graze, without a guide ; Add four fair heifers yet in yoke untried : For these, four altars in their temple rear, And then adore the woodland powers with prayer. From the slain victims pour the streaming blood, And leave the bodies in the shady wood : Nine mornings thence, Lethæan poppy bring, To appease the manes of the poet's king : And, to propitiate his offended bride, A fatted calf and a black ewe provide : This finished, to the former woods repair.

THE GRIEF OF ORPHEUS ; THE BEREAVED NIGHTINGALE.

Nor would the infernal ferryman once more Be bribed, to waft him to the further shore. What should he do, who twice had lost his love ? What notes invent, what new petitions move? Her soul already was consigned to fate, And shivering in the leaky sculler sat. For seven continued months, if fame say true, The wretched swain his sorrows did renew ; By Strymnon's freezing streams he sat alone, The rocks were moved to pity with his moan : Trees bent their heads to hear him sing his wrongs, Fierce tigers couched around, and lolled their fawn

ing tongues. So, close in poplar shades, her children gone, The mother-nightingale laments alone : Whose nest some prying churl had found, and thence, By stealth, conveyed th' unfeathered innocence. But she supplies the night with mournful strains, And melancholy music fills the plains.

ARISTÆUS PERFORMS THE PRESCRIBED RITES, AND THE BEES

ARE PRODUCED; THEIR SWARMS.

His mother's precepts he performs with care ; The temple visits, and adores with prayer. Four altars raises ; from his herd he culls, For slaughter, four the fairest of his bulls; Four heifers from his female store he took, All fair, and all unknowing of the yoke. Nine mornings thence, with sacrifice and prayers, The powers atoned, he to the grove repairs. Behold a prodigy ! for from within The broken bowels, and the bloated skin, A buzzing noise of bees his ears alarms,Straight issue through the sides assembling swarms; Dark as a cloud they make a wheeling flight, Then on a neighboring tree, descending, light : Like a large cluster of black grapes they show, And make a large dependence from the bough.

THE DREADFUL FATE OF ORPHEUS.

Sad Orpheus thus his tedious hours employs, Averse from Venus, and from nuptial joys. Alone he tempts the frozen floods, alone Th' unhappy climes, where Spring was never known; Ho mourned his wretched wife, in vain restored, And Pluto's unavailing boon deplored.

The Thracian matrons, who the youth accused Of love disdained, and marriage-rites refused, With furies and nocturnal orgies fired, At length against his sacred life conspired. [killed Whom ev'n the savage beasts had spared, they And strewed his mangled limbs about the field. Then, when his head, from his fair shoulders torn, * Washed by the waters, was on Hebrus borne, Ev’n then his trembling tongue invoked his bride ; With his last voice, Eurydice, he cried, Eurydice, the rocks and river-banks replied.

CONCLUSION OF THE GEORGICS. - COMPLIMENT TO CASAR;

THE GOLDEN AGE RENEWED. - NAPLES, THE RESIDENCE OF VIRGIL.

Thus have I sung of fields, and flocks, and trees, And of the waxen work of laboring bees: While mighty Cæsar, thundering from afar, Seeks on Euphrates' banks the spoils of war ; With conquering arts asserts his country's cause, With arts of peace the willing people draws; On the glad earth the Golden Age renews, And his great father's path to heaven pursues. While I at Naples pass my peaceful days, Affecting studies of less noisy praise : [shade, And bold, through youth, beneath the beechen The lays of shepherds, and their loves have played.

PROTEUS DISAPPEARS. THE ADVICE OF CYRENE.

This answer Proteus gave, nor more he said, But in the billows plunged his hoary head ; [spread. And where he leaped, the waves in circles widely

Elegy and Ballad for Fuly.

GRAY'S “ELEGY,”

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such us, wandering near her secret bower,

Molest her ancient, solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; Nor children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Perhaps in this noglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire : Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene,

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute, inglorious Milton, — here may rest ;

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senatos to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife

Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires : Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries,

Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their teams afield !

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave, Await, alike, the inevitable hour ;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud ! impute to these the fault,

If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

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For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

That wreathes its old fantastio root so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by. * Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn,

Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove ; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love : One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill,

Along the heath, and near his favorite tree : Another came ; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he. • The next, with dirges due, in sad array, [borne ;

Slow through the church-yard path we saw him Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth

A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown ; Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heaven did a recompense as largely send : He gave to Misery all he had, a tear ; [friend.

He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode There they alike in trembling hope repose

The bosom of his Father and his God.

And thus from Memory's treasured sweets,

And thus from Love's pure fount, she drew That peace which busy Care defeats,

And bids our pleasures bloom anew. Six weeks of absence have I borne

Since Henry took his fond farewell : The charms of that delightful morn

My tongue could thus forever tell. He at my window, whistling loud,

Aroused my lightsome heart to go :
Day, conquering, climbed from cloud to cloud ;

The fields all wore a purple glow.
We strolled the bordering flowers among :

One hand the bridle held behind,
The other round my waist was flung:

Sure never youth spoke half so kind ! The rising lark I could but hear ;

And jocund seemed the song to be : But sweeter sounded in my ear,

"Will Dolly still be true to me!' From the rude dock my skirt had swept

A fringe of clinging burs so green ; Like them our hearts still closer crept,

And hooked a thousand holds unseen. High o'er the road each branching bough

Its globes of silent dew had shed ; And on the pure-washed sand below

The dimpling drops around had spread. The sweet-brier oped its pink-eyed rose,

And gave its fragrance to the gale ;
Though modest flowers may sweets disclose,

More sweet was Henry's earnest tale.
He seemed, methought, on that dear morn,

To pour out all his heart to me ;
As if, the separation borne,

The coming hours would joyless be. A bank rose high beside the way,

And full against the morning sun ; Of heavenly blue the violets gay

His hand invited one by one. The posy with a smile he gave :

I saw his meaning in his eyes : The withered treasure still I have ;

My bosom holds the fragrant prize. With his last kiss he would have vowed ;

But blessings, crowding, forced their way : Then mounted he his courser proud ;

His time elapsed, he could not stay. Then first I felt the parting pang; —

Sure the worst pang the lover feels ! His horse, unruly, from me sprang

The pebbles flew beneath bis heels. Then down the road his vigor tried,

His rider gazing, gazing still : • My dearest, I'll be true,' he cried ;

And, if he lives, I'm sure he will. Then haste, ye hours, — haste, Eve and Morn,

Yet strew your blessings round my home : Ere Winter's blasts shall strip the thorn,

My promised joy, my Love, will come.

BLOOMFIELD'S “ DOLLY."

Ingenuous trust, and confidence of Love.

The bat began, with giddy wing,

His circuit round the shed, the tree ; And clouds of dancing gnats to sing

A summer night's serenity. Darkness crept slowly o'er the east ;

Upon the barn-roof watched the cat ; Sweet breathed the ruminating beast

At rest where Dolly musing sat. A simple maid, who could employ

The silent lapse of evening mild, And loved its solitary joy :

For Dolly was Reflection's child. He who had pledged his word to be

Her life's dear guardian, far away, The flower of yeoman cavalry,

Bestrode & stced with trappings gay.

Milton's "Rural Poems."

" L'ALLEGRO."

HENCE, loathéd Melancholy,
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,
In Stygian cave forlorn,

(holy, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights un

Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,

And the night raven sings ;
There under ebon shades and low-browed rocks,

As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

But come, thou goddess fair and free,
In heaven yeleped Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth
With two sister graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ;
Or whether (as some sages sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the Spring,
Zephyr with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a-maying,
There on beds of violets blue,
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,
Filled her with thee a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity.
Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and wreathéd Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek ;
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as you go
On the light fantastic toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ;
And if I give thee honor due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free ;
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise :
Then to come, in spite of Sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the sweet-brier, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine : .
While the cock with lively din
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,

And to the stack, or the barn-door,
Stoutly struts his dames before :
Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill :
Some time walking, not unseen,
By hedge-row elms on hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate,
Where the great sun begins his state.
Robed in flames, and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight,
While the ploughman near at hand
Whistles o'er the furrowed land,
And the milk-maid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the landscape round it measures,
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray ;
Mountains on whose barren breast
The laboring clouds do often rest,
Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The cynosure of neighboring eyes.
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,
Are at their savory dinner set
Of herbs and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses ;
And then in haste her bower she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ;
Or, if the earlier season lead,
To the tanned haycock in the mead.

Sometimes with secure delight
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecs sound
To many a youth and many a maid,
Dancing in the checkered shade ;
And young and old come forth to play
On a sunshine holiday,
Till the live-long daylight fail ;
Then to the spicy, nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How fairy Mab the junkets eat ;

She was pinched and pulled, she said ;
And he, by friar's lanthorn led,
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat,
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath thrashed the corn
That ten day-laborers could not end ;
Then lies him down, the lubber fiend,
And, stretched out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
And crop-full out of doors he flings,
Ere the first cock his matin rings.
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering winds soon lulled asleep.

Towered cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men,
Where throngs of knights and barons bold
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit, or arms, while both contend
To win her grace whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear
In saffron robe, with taper clear,
And Pomp, and Feast, and Revelry,
With Mask and antique Page ntry,
Such sights as youthful poets dream
On summer eves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild.

And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal Verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony ; That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regained Eurydice.

These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,

Or likest hovering dreams, The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy ! Hail, divinest Melancholy ! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O’erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem : Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauties' praise above The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended : Yet thou art higher far descended ; Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore To solitary Saturn bore ; His daughter she in Saturn's reign Such mixture was not held a stain. Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove.

Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of Cyprus lawn, Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy wrapt soul sitting in thine eyes : There, held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad, leaden, downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast : And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing : And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; But first and chiefest with thee bring Him

yon that soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation ; And the mute Silence hist along, 'Less Philomel will deign a song, In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o'er the accustomed oak ; Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of Folly, Most musical, most melancholy ! Thee, chantress, oft the woods among I woo, to hear thy even-song ; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green,

“IL PENSEROSO."

HENCE, vain deluding Joys,
The brood of Folly, without father bred,
How little

you bestead,
Or fill the fixéd mind with all your toys!

Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,

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