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Wander'd with mine where earth and ocean meet,
Beyond the aerial mountains, whose vast cells
The unreposing billows ever beat,
Through forests wide and old, and lawny dells,
Where boughs of incense droop over the emerald wells.

And warm and light I felt her clasping hand
When twined in mine: she follow'd where I went
Through the lone paths of our immortal land.
It had no waste, but some memorial lent
Which strung me to my toil—some monument
Vital with mind: then Cythna by my side,
Until the bright and beaming day were spent,

Would rest, with looks entreating to abide
Too earnest and too sweet ever to be denied.

*

[From Alastor.]

With rapid steps he went
Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow
Of the wild babbling rivulet; and now
The forest's solemn canopies were changed
For the uniform and lightsome evening-sky.
Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, and stemmed
The struggling brook: tall spires of windlestrae
Threw their thin shadows down the rugged slope ;
And naught but gnarled roots of ancient pines,
Branchless and blasted, clenched with grasping roots
The unwilling soil. A gradual change was here,
Yet ghastly. For as fast years flow away,
The smooth brow gathers, and the hair grows thin
And white; and where irradiate dewy eyes
Had shone, gleam stony orbs,--so from his steps
Bright flowers departed, and the beautiful shade
Of the green groves, with all their odorous winds
And musical motions. Calm, he still pursued
The stream, that with a larger volume now
Rolled through the labyrinthine dell; and there
Fretted a path through its descending curves
With its wintry speed. 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,
Whose windings gave ten thousand various tongues

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,
Dim tracks and vast, robed in the lustrous gloom
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,
Mingling its solemn song; whilst the broad river,
Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged path,
Fell into that immeasurable void,
Scattering its waters to the passing winds.

Yet the gray 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
The dark earth and the bending vault of stars.
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
Of its inviolated floor; and here
The children of the autumnal whirlwind bore
In wanton sport those bright leaves whose decay,
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.

THE CLOUD

Į bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the se and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet birds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers

Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,-

It struggles and howls at fits ;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move

In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills and the crags and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack

When the morning-star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain-crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings; And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea bencath

Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor

By the midnight breezes strewn;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer ;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

KEATS.

John KEATS was born in London, Oct. 29, 1795. His origin was humble, and his education imperfect; his parents having both died while he was young. On leaving school he was apprenticed to a surgeon; but from the moment that he became acquainted with the works of Spenser and Chaucer his heart was irrevocably devoted to poetry. His first volume met with little attention; and his second one, entitled Endymion, and published in 1818, was made the subject of a critical article so contemptuous and virulent, that to his exasperation on reading it the death of the poet, then in infirm health, was ascribed by many. Keats was, however, in spite of his impressionable temperament, a man of too vigorous a nature to be thus affected by any amount of vituperation. The disease of which he died was hereditary consumption. Early in 1820 he fell into a decline. He was ordered to a southern climate; and sailed from England in September, accompanied by a young painter, Mr. Severn, who ministered to his sick friend with the most assiduous affection. Keats went first to Naples, and afterwards to Rome, where, after much suffering, he expired Feb, 23, 1821.

The genius of Keats partook in a remarkable degree of a southern character. It was essentially Greek; and though Keats is said to have known little more of mythology than he had learned from Lempriere's dictionary, an imaginative instinct enabled him to enter into the true spirit of antique fable, and to reproduce it with a lifelike reality. He quickly outgrew those affectations of style by which the merits of his earlier compositions had been obscured. Few modern works equal in sublimity the fragment of Hyperion; while his Eve of St. Agnes and Isabella, as well as the Odes written during the last year of his life, possess a noble grace and a classic completeness of outline. The chief characteristic of Keats's poetry is the intensity with which it expresses the sense of Beauty. A prodigal wealth of fancy is in it subordinated to a plastic and ideal imagination ; and there is about his later works a classical repose and a andling at once light and strong. The character of his poetry being, like that of Greek poetry generally, sensuous and objective, the more spiritual order of poetic merit is of course not to be looked for in his works. Keats is, perhaps, considering that he died at the age of twenty-five, the most remarkable instance of youthful genius.

ROBIN HOOD,

TO A FRIEND.

No! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years :
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen north, and chilling east,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases..

No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone echo gives the half
To some wight, amazed to hear
Jesting deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to light you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting-ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale,
Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone the merry morris din ;
Gone the song of Gamelyn ;
Gone the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the “grené shawe;"-

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