MORTE D'ARTHUR. So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, TENNYSON. IDEM GRÆCE Τοσαῦτα λέξας ἐξ ἐρειψίμου νέω στείχων, Σελήνης νυκτέρων αὐγῶν ὕπο, παρ' ἕρμα τυμβόχωστον οἴκησιν νεκρῶν ἔβαινεν, ἥ κραταιὰ τῶν πρὶν ἀλκίμων ἔκρυψεν ὀστᾶ κἀνεκώκυσεν πνοή ὕπερθεν ἁλία ξυμμιγής ψυχρᾷ ζάλη. ὁ δ ̓ οὖν κατῄει καμπίμαις ὁδοῖς ἰών ἀγμοῖσιν ἴχνος ἐντιθεὶς κραταιλέῳς, λίμνης ἕως ἀφίκετ ̓ εὐφεγγεῖς πλάκας. ἐλθὼν δ ̓ ἄρ ̓ ἔγχος ἔσπασεν χρυσήλατον τῷ δ ̓ ἐξέφηνε σπῶντι, λαμπρύνουσ' ἄκραν νεφέλην, Σελήνη λαμπάδας· κώπη δ ̓ ἄφαρ πάχνης ὑπ ̓ ἀντέλαμψεν ἐκδοχὴν φλογός. S. H. BUTCHER. WINTER'S TALE. ACT III. Sc. 3. Ant. I have heard, but not believed, the spirits of the dead May walk again if such thing be, thy mother : Appeared to me last night, for ne'er was dream I never saw a vessel of like sorrow, So fill'd and so becoming in pure white robes, My cabin where I lay thrice bow'd before me, ; IDEM GRECE. Ηκουσα μὲν γὰρ ἀλλ ̓ ἄπιστος ὢν τὸ πρὶν S. H. BUTCHER. CLEON. THIS is a dream :-but no dream, let us hope, That years and days, the summers and the springs, Follow each other with unwaning powers. The grapes which dye thy wine, are richer far Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock; The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet ; Refines upon the women of my youth. What, and the soul alone deteriorates ? I have not chanted verse like Homer's, no Nor swept string like Terpander, no-nor carved And painted men like Phidias and his friend : I am not great as they are, point by point: With these four, running these into one soul, Who, separate, ignored each other's arts. R. BROWNING. |