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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight, With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,

And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.

THE STREAMLET.

LINGER awhile upon some bending planks, That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, And watch intently Nature's gentle doings: They will be found softer than ring-doves' cooings. [bend! How silent comes the water round that Not the minutest whisper does it send To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass Slowly across the chequered shadows pass. Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach [preach

To where the hurrying freshnesses aye A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, [streams, Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the To taste the luxury of sunny beams Tempered with coolness. How they ever [nestle

wrestle

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And cool themselves among the emerald The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, [live; And moisture, that the bowery green may So keeping up an interchange of favours, Like good men in the truth of their behaviours.

[drop Sometimes goldfinches one by one will From low-hung branches; little space they stop,

But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek; Then off at once, as in a wanton freak; Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings,

Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. Were I in such a place, I sure should pray That nought less sweet might call my

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PRIMROSES.

WHAT next? A tuft of evening primroses,
O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
O'er which it well might take a pleasant
sleep,

But that 'tis ever startled by the leap
Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting
Of divers moths, that aye their rest are
quitting;

Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
Coming into the blue with all her light.
O maker of sweet poets, dear delight
Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
Mingler with leaves, and dew, and tumbling
streams,

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
Lover of loneliness and wandering,
Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
Thee must I praise above all other glories
That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
For what has made the sage or poet write
But the fair Paradise of Nature's light?
In the calm grandeur of a sober line
We see the waving of the mountain pine;
And when a tale is beautifully staid,
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade;
When it is moving on luxurious wings,
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings;
Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
And flowering laurels spring from diamond

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Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clear

ness

To woo its own sad image into nearness. Deaf to light Zephyrus, it would not move; But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.

So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot, Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot; Nor was it long ere he had told the tale Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale.

SCENE IN A CHAMBER.

A CASEMENT high and triple arched there

was,

All garlanded with carven imageries

Of fruits and flowers, and bunches of knotgrass,

And diamonded with panes of quaint device. Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings; [ries,

And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldAnd twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings.

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, [breast,

And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon; [prest, Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint: She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven :-Porphyro grew faint: [mortal taint.

She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees; Half-hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, [is fled. But dares not look behind, or all the charm

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay, Until the poppiedwarmth of sleep oppressed Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; Flown, like a thought, until the morrowday;

Blissfully havened both from joy and pain; Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray :

Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

Stolen to this Paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
And listened to her breathing, if it chanced
To wake into a slumberous tenderness;
Which when he heard, that minute did he
bless,
[crept,
And breathed himself; then from the closet
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness;
And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept,
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo!
how fast she slept.

Then by the bedside, where the faded moon
Made a dim silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half-anguished, threw thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:-
Oh for some drowsy Morphean amulet !
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:-
The hall door shuts again, and all the
noise is gone.

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered,
While he from forth the closet brought a

heap

[gourd;

Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferred From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedared Leba

non.

[hand

These delicates he heaped with glowing
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night,
Filling the chilly room with perfume light.

And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains: 'twas a midnight charm

Impossible to melt as iced stream:

The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies; It seemed he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes, So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phantasies.

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,Tumultuous, and, in chords that tenderest be, [mute,

He played an ancient ditty, long since In Provence called "La belle dame sans mercy:

Close to her ear touching the melody, Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan;

He ceased, she panted quick, and suddenly Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: Upon his knees he sank, pale as smoothsculptured stone.

:0:

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 1792-1822.

THE PINE FOREST.

WE wandered to the pine forest
That skirts the ocean foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.

The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep

The smile of heaven lay;

It seemed as if the hour were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scattered from above the sun
A light of Paradise.

We paused amid the pines that stood
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced.

And soothed by every azure breath
That under heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own.

Now all the tree-tops lay asleep,

Like green waves on the sea,

As still as in the silent deep
The ocean woods may be.

How calm it was !--the silence there

By such a chain was bound,

That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound

The inviolable quietness;

The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less The calm that round us grew. There seemed, from the remotest seat Of the wide mountain waste, To the soft flower beneath our feet, A magic circle traced: A spirit interfused around, A thrilling silent life, To momentary peace it bound

Our mortal nature's strife ;And still, I felt, the centre of

The magic circle there

Was one fair form, that filled with love
The lifeless atmosphere.

We paused beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,
Each seemed as 'twere a little sky
Gulfed in a world below:
A firmament of purple light,
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And purer than the day—
In which the lovely forests grew,
As in the upper air,

More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there. [lawn,
There lay the glade and neighbouring

And through the dark green wood The white sun twinkling like the dawn Out of a speckled cloud.

Sweet views, which in our world above
Can never well be seen,

Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian glow,

An atmosphere without a breath,
A softer day below.

Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast
Its every leaf and lineament

With more than truth exprest,
Until an envious wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from the mind's too faithful eye
Blots one dear image out.

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And winds with short turns down the precipice;

And in its depth there is a mighty rock,
Which has, from unimaginable years,

Sustained itself with terror and with toil
Over a gulf, and with the agony [down;
With which it clings seems slowly coming
Even as a wretched soul, hour after hour,
Clings to the mass of life; yet, clinging,
leans,
[abyss
And, leaning, makes more dark the dread
In which it fears to fall. Beneath this crag,
Huge as despair, as if in weariness
The melancholy mountain yawns. Below
You hear, but see not, the impetuous
torrent

Raging among the caverns; and a bridge
Crosses the chasm; and high above these

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The meeting boughs and implicated leaves
Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led
By love, or dream, or god, or mightier
Death,
[bank,

He sought in Nature's dearest haunt, some
Her cradle, and his sepulchre. More dark
And dark the shades accumulate-the oak,
Expanding its immeasurable arms,
Embraces the light beech. The pyramids
Of the tall cedar overarching, frame
Most solemn domes within, and far below,
Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky,
The ash and the acacia floating hang
Tremulous and pale. Like restless
serpents, clothed

In rainbow and in fire, the parasites, Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around

The grey trunks, and as gamesome infants' eyes,

With gentle meanings and most innocent wiles, [that love, Fold their beams round the heart of those These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs,

Uniting their close union; the woven leaves Make network of the dark blue light of day, And the night's noontide clearness, mutable As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns

Beneath these canopies extend their swells, Fragrant with pèrfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with jasmine,

A soul-dissolving odour, to invite To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell,

Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades [a well,

Like vaporous shapes half seen; beyond, Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent

wave,

Images all the woven boughs above,
And each depending leaf, and every speck
Of azure sky, darting between their chasms;
Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves
Its portraiture, but some inconstant star
Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair,
Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon,
Or gorgeous insect floating motionless,
Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings
Have spread their glories to the gaze of

noon.

A MOUNTAIN SCENE.

ON every side now rose Rocks, which in unimaginable forms Lifted their black and barren pinnacles In the light of evening, and its precipice Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above, 'Mid toppling stones, black gulfs, and yawning caves, [tongues Whose windings gave ten thousand various To the loud stream. Lo! where the pass expands

Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks, And seems, with its accumulated crags, To overhang the world: for wide expand Beneath the wan stars and descending moon Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams, [gloom

Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous Of leaden-coloured even, and fiery hills

Mingling their flames with twilight, on the

verge

Of the remote horizon. The near scene, In naked and severe simplicity,

Made contrast with the universe. A pine, Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the vacancy Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast

Yielding one only response at each pause, In most familiar cadence, with the howl, The thunder, and the hiss of homeless streams

[river, Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged path, Fell into that immeasurable void, Scattering its waters to the passing winds.

Yet the grey precipice, and solemn pine, And torrent, were not all: one silent nook Was there. Even on the edge of that vast mountain,

Upheld by knotty roots and fallen rocks, It overlooked in its serenity [stars. The dark earth, and the bending vault of It was a tranquil spot, that seemed to smile Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped The fissured stones with its entwining arms, And did embower with leaves for ever green, And berries dark, the smooth and even space

bore,

Of its inviolate floor; and here
The children of the autumnal whirlwind
[decay,
In wanton sport, those bright leaves, whose
Red, yellow, or ethereally pale,

Rival the pride of summer. 'Tis the haunt Of every gentle wind, whose breath can teach

The wilds to love tranquillity.

:0:

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

1777-1844.

THE FALL OF POLAND.

O SACRED Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, [smile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to When leagued Oppression poured to Nor[hussars,

thern wars Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, [trumpet horn; Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her

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