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Or, sidelong-eyed, pretending not to see
The latter in the brakes come creepingly,
While their forgotten urns, lying about

on the green herbage, let the water out.
Never, be sure, before or since was seen
A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green.

All the green garden, flower-bed, shade, and plot,
orancesca loved, but most of all this spot.
Whenever she walked forth, wherever went
About the grounds, to this at last she bent:
Here she had brought a lute and a few books;
Here would she lie for hours with grateful looks,
Thanking at heart the sunshine and the leaves,
The summer rain-drops counting from the eaves,
And all that promising, calm smile we see
n nature's face, when we look patiently.
Then would she think of heaven; and you mighthear
Sometimes, when everything was hushed and clear,
Her gentle voice from out those shades emerging,
Singing the evening anthem to the Virgin.
The gardeners and the rest, who served the place,
And blest whenever they beheld her face,
Knelt when they heard it, bowing and uncovered,
And felt as if in air some sainted beauty hovered.

One day-'twas on a summer afternoon,
When airs and gurgling brooks are best in tune,
And grasshoppers are loud, and day-work done,
And shades have heavy outlines in the sun, -
The princess came to her accustomed bower
To get her, if she could, a soothing hour,
Trying, as she was used, to leave her cares
Without, and slumberously enjoy the airs,
And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light
The vines let in, and all that hushing sight
Of closing wood seen through the opening door,
And distant plash of waters tumbling o'er,
And smell of citron blooms, and fifty luxuries more.

She tried, as usual, for the trial's sake,
For even that diminished her heart-ache;
And never yet, how ill soe'er at ease,
Came she for nothing, midst the flowers and trees.
Yet somehow or another, on that day,
She seemed to feel too lightly borne away,+
Too much relieved,—too much inclined to draw
A careless joy from every thing she saw,
And looking round her with a new-born eye,
As if some tree of knowledge had been nigh,
To taste of nature, primitive and free,
And bask at ease in her heart's liberty.

Painfully clear those rising thoughts appeared,
With something dark at bottom that she feared;
And snatching from the fields her thoughtful look,
She reached o'er-head, and took her down a book,
And fell to reading with as fixed an air,
As though she had been wrapt since morning there.

'Twas Launcelot of the Lake, a bright romance, That like a trumpet, made young pulses dance, Yet had a softer note that shook still more;— She had begun it but the day before, .

And read with a full heart, half sweet, half sad,
How old King Ban was spoiled of all he had
But one fair castle; how one summer's day
With his fair queen and child he went away
To ask the great King Arthur for assistance;
How reaching by himself a hill at distance
He turned to give his castle a last look,
And saw its far white face: and how a smoke,
As he was looking, burst in volumes forth,
And good King Ban saw all that he was worth,
And his fair castle, burning to the ground,
So that his wearied pulse felt over-wound,
And he lay down, and said a prayer apart
For those he loved, and broke his poor old heart.
Then read she of the queen with her young child,
How she came up, and nearly had gone wild;
And how in journeying on in her despair,
She reached a lake, and met a lady there,
Who pitied her, and took the baby sweet
Into her arms, when lo, with closing feet
She sprang up all at once, like bird from brake,
And vanished with him underneath the lake.
The mother's feelings we as well may pass:—
The fairy of the place that lady was,
And Launcelot (so the boy was called) became
Her inmate, till in search of knightly fame
He went to Arthur's court, and played his part
So rarely, and displayed so frank a heart,
That what with all his charms of look and limb,
The Queen Geneura fell in love with him:—
And here, with growing interest in her reading,
The princess, doubly fixed, was now proceeding.

Ready she sat with one hand to turn o'er
The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before,
The other propping her white brow, and throwing
Its ringlets out, under the skylight glowing.
So sat she fixed; and so observed was she
Of one, who at the door stood tenderly,–
Paulo, who from a window seeing her
Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where,
Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day
His usual efforts vain to keep away.
“May I come in " said he:—it made her start-
That smiling voice;—she coloured, pressed her heart
A moment, as for breath, and then with free
And usual tone said, “O yes, certainly.”

There's apt to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,
An air of something quite serene and sure,
As if to seem so, was to be secure:
With this the lovers met, with this they spoke,
With this they sat down to the self-same book,
And Paulo, by degrees, gently embraced
With one permitted arm her lovely waist;
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree,
Leaned with a touch together thrillingly;
And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said,
And every lingering page grew longer as they read.

As thus they sat, and felt with leaps of heart Their colour change, they came upon the part

Where fond Geneura, with her flame long nurst,
Smiled upon Launcelot when he kissed her first:—
That touch, at last, through every fibre slid;
And Paulo turned, scarce knowing what he did,
Only he felt he could no more dissemble,
And kissed her, mouth to mouth, all in a tremble.
Sad were those hearts, and sweet was that long kiss:
Sacred be love from sight, whate'er it is.
The world was all forgot, the struggle o'er,
Desperate the joy.—That day they read no more.


The panther leaped to the front of his lair,
And stood with a foot up, and snuffed the air;
He quivered his tongue from his panting mouth,
And looked with a yearning towards the south;
For he scented afar in the coming breeze,
News of the gums and their blossoming trees;
And out of Armenia that same day,
He and his race came bounding away.
Over the mountains and down to the plains
Like Bacchus's panthers with wine in their veins,
They came where the woods wept odorous rains;
And there, with a quivering, every beast
Fell to his old Pamphylian feast.

The people who lived not far away,
Heard the roaring on that same day;
And they said, as they lay in their carpeted rooms,
The panthers are come, and are drinking the gums:
And some of them going with swords and spears,
To gather their share of the rich round tears,
The panther I spoke of followed them back;
And dumbly they let him tread close in the track,
And lured him after them into the town;
And then they let the portcullis down,
And took the panther, which happened to be
The largest was seen in all Pamphily.

By every one there was the panther admired,
So fine was his shape and so sleekly attired,
And such an air, both princely and swift,
He had, when giving a sudden lift
To his mighty paw, he'd turn at a sound,
And so stand panting and looking around,
As if he attended a monarch crowned.
And truly, they wondered the more to behold
About his neck a collar of gold,
On which was written, in characters broad,
“Arsaces the king to the Nysian God.”
So they tied to the collar a golden chain,
And made the panther a captive again,
And by degrees he grew fearful and still,
As if he had lost his lordly will.

But now came the spring, when free-born love
Calls up nature in forest and grove,
And makes each thing leap forth, and be
Loving, and lovely, and blithe as he.
The panther he felt the thrill o' the air,
And he gave a leap up like that at his lair;

He felt the sharp sweetness more strengthen to
Ten times than ever the spicy rains, [ve:
And ere they're aware, he has burst his chains:
He has burst his chains, and ah, ha! he's gone,
And the links and the gazers are left alone,
And off to the mountains the pantlier's flown.

Now what made the panther a prisoner be;
Lo! 'twas the spices and luxury.
And what set that lordly panther free ?
'Twas Lovel—'twas Love!—'twas no one bat be.

FROM AMFTNT_{S. PROLOGUE. LovE, disguised As A she PHERD.

Who would believe that in a human form.
And underneath these lowly shepherd's weeds,
There walked a hidden God 2 and he no God
Sylvan, or of the common crowd of heaven.
But the most potent of their greatest;—one
Who many a time has made the hand of Mars
Let fall his bloody sword; and looked away,
From the earth-shaker Neptune, his great triest;
And his old thunders from consummate Jewe.

Doubtless beneath this aspect and this dress, Venus will not soon know me, me, her son, Her own son, Love. I am constrained to leave he, And hide from her pursuit; because she wishes That I should place my arrows and myself At her discretion solely; and like a woman. Vain and ambitious, she would hunt me back Among mere courts, and coronets, and sceptres, There to pin down my powers; and to my ministen And minor brethren, leave sole liberty To lodge in the green woods, and flesh their dris In bosoms rude. But 1, who am no boy, Whate'er I seem in visage or in act, Would of myself dispose as it should please me; Since not to her, but me, were given by lot The torch omnipotent, and golden bow.

Therefore I hide about; and so escaping Not her authority, which she has not in me, But the strong pressure of a mother's prayers, I cover me in the wood, and do become An inmate with its lowly populace. She follows me, and promises to give To whomsoever will betray me to her, Sweet kisses, or a something else still dearer: As if, forsooth, I knew not how to give To whomsoever will conceal me from her, Sweet kisses, or a something else still dearer. This, at the least, is certain; that my kisses Will be much dearer to the lasses' lips, If I, who am Love's self, to love apply me; So that in many an instance, she must needs Ask after me in vain. The lips are sealed.

But to keep closer still, and to prevent her From finding me by any sign or symptom, I have put off my wings, my bow and quiver.

Yet not the more for that walk I unarmed;
Since this which seems a rod, is my good torch,
So have I wrought deception, and breathes all
Invisible flame; and this good dart of mine,
Though pointed not with gold, is nevertheless
Temper divine; and wheresoe'er it lights,
Infixes love.

o And now will I with this, -Pierce with a deep immedicable wound _nto the hard heart of the cruellest nymph, That ever followed on Diana's choir. No shallower shall it go in Sylvia's bosom, Such is the name of this fair heart of rock) Than once it went, years back, out of this hand, nto the gentle bosom of Amyntas, When every where he followed her about To chace and sport, young lover his young lass. \nd that my point may go the deeper, I Will wait awhile, till pity mollify The blunting ice, which round about her heart old honour has kept bound, and virgin niceness; \nd wheresoe'er it turn to softness most, There will I lance the dart. And to perform to fair a work most finely, I go now To mingle with the holiday multitude )f flowery-crowned shepherds, who are met Hard by in the accustomed place of sport, Where I will feign me one of them; and there, ven in this place and fashion, will I strike A blow invisible to mortal eye.

" After new fashion shall these woods to day
Hear love discoursed; and it shall well be seen
That my divinity is present here
n its own person, not its ministers.
will inbreathe high fancies in rude hearts;
will refine, and render dulcet sweet,
Their tongues; because, wherever I may be,
Whether with rustic or heroic men,
There am I Love; and inequality,
As it may please me, do I equalize;
And 'tis my crowning glory and great miracle
To make the rural pipe as eloquent
Even as the subtlest harp. If my proud mother,
Who scorns to have me roving in the woods,
Knows not thus much, 'tis she is blind, not I;
Though blind I am miscalled by blinded men.


One day, Sylvia and Phillis Were sitting underneath a shady beech, I with them; when a little ingenious bee, Gathering his honey in those flowery fields, Lit on the cheeks of Phillis, cheeks as red As the red rose; and bit, and bit again With so much eagerness, that it appeared The likeness did beguile him. Phillis, at this, Impatient of the smart, sent up a cry; [grieve; “ Hush Hush!” said my sweet Sylvia, “do not I have a few words of enchantment, Phillis,

Will ease thee of this little suffering.
The sage Artesia told them me, and had
That little ivory horn of mine in payment,
Fretted with gold.” So saying, she applied
To the hurt cheek the lips of her divine
And most delicious mouth, and with sweet humming
Murmured some verses that I knew not of.
Oh admirable effect! a little while,
And all the pain was gone; either by virtue
Of those enchanted words, or as I thought,
By virtue of those lips of dew,
That heal whate'er they turn them to.
I, who till then had never had a wish
Beyond the sunny sweetness of her eyes,
Or her dear dulcet words, more dulcet far
Than the soft murmur of a humming stream
Crooking its way among the pebble-stones,
Or summer airs that babble in the leaves,
Felt a new wish move in me to apply
This mouth of mine to hers; and so becoming
Crafty and plotting, (an unusual art
With me, but it was love's intelligence)
I did bethink me of a gentle stratagem
To work out my new wit. I made pretence,
As if the bee had bitten my under lip;
And fell to lamentations of such sort,
That the sweet medicine which I dared not ask
With word of mouth, I asked for with my looks.
The simple Sylvia then
Compassioning my pain,
Offered to give her help
To that pretended wound;
And oh! the real and the mortal wound,
Which pierced into my being,
When her lips came on mine.
Never did bee from flower
Suck sugar so divine,
As was the honey that I gathered then
From those twin roses fresh.
I could have bathed in them my burning kisses,
But fear and shame withheld
That too audacious fire,
And made them gently hang.
But while into my bosom's core, the sweetness,
Mixed with a secret poison, did go down,
It pierced me so with pleasure, that still feigning
The pain of the bee's weapon, I contrived
That more than once the enchantment was repeated.
From that time forth, desire
And irrepressible pain so grew within me,
That not being able to contain it more,
I was compelled to speak; and so, one day,
While in a circle a whole set of us,
Shepherds and nymphs, sat playing at the game,
In which they tell in one another's ears
Their secret each, “Sylvia,” said I in her's,
“I burn for thee; and if thou help me not,
I feel I cannot live.” As I said this,
She dropt her lovely looks, and out of them
There came a sudden and unusual flush,
Portending shame and anger: not an answer
Did she vouchsafe me, but by a dead silence,

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Broken at last by threats more terrible.
She parted then, and would not hear me more,
Nor see me. And now three times the naked reaper
Has clipped the spiky harvest, and as often
The winter shaken down from the fair woods
Their tresses green, since I have tried in vain
Every thing to appease her, except death. -
Nothing remains indeed but that I die!
And I shall die with pleasure, being certain
That it will either please her, or be pitied;
And I scarce know which of the two to hope for.
Pity perhaps would more remunerate
My faith, more recompence my death; but still
I must not hope for aught that would disturb
The sweet and quiet shining of her eyes,
And trouble that fair bosom, built of bliss.


O lovely age of gold!
Not that the rivers rolled
With milk, or that the woods dropped honey dew;
Not that the ready ground
Produced without a wound,
Or the mild serpent had no tooth that slew;
Not that a cloudless blue
For ever was in sight,
Or that the heaven which burns,
And now is cold by turns,
Looked out in glad and everlasting light;
No, nor that ev'n the insolent ships from far
Brought war to no new lands, nor riches worse than
But solely that that vain [war:
And breath-invented pain,
That idol of mistakes, that worshipped cheat,
That Honour, since so called
By vulgar minds appalled,
Played not the tyrant with our nature yet.
It had not come to fret
The sweet and happy fold
Of gentle human-kind;
Nor did its hard law bind
Souls nursed in freedom; but that law of gold,
That glad and golden law, all free, all fitted,
Which Nature's own hand wrote, What pleases,
is permitted. -

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Our sorrows and our pains,
These are thy noble gains!
But oh, thou Love's and Nature's masterer,
Thou conq'ror of the crowned,
What dost thou on this ground,
Too small a circle for thy mighty sphere?
Go and make slumber dear
To the renowned and high:
We here, a lowly race,
Can live without thy grace,
After the use of mild antiquity. |
Go; let us love; since years
No trace allow, and life soon disappears.
Go; let us love: the daylight dies, is born;
But unto us the light
Dies once for all; and sleep brings on eternal nigh-



There was a poet, whose untimely tomb
No human hands with pious reverence reared,
But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds
Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid
Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness:
A lovely youth, no mourning maiden decked
With weeping flowers, or white cypress wreath,
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep:-
Gentle, and brave, and generous-no lorn bard
Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh:
He lived, he died, he sang, in solitude.
Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes,
And virgins, as unknown he past, have pined
And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes.
The fire of those orbs has ceased to burn,
And silence, too enamoured of that voice,
Locks its mute music in her rugged cell.
By solemn vision, and bright silver dream,
His infancy was nurtured. Every sight
And sound from the vast earth and ambient air,
Sent to his heart its choicest impulses.
The fountains of divine philosophy
Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of great,
Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past
In truth, or fable consecrates, he felt
And knew. When early youth had past, he left
His cold fireside and alienated home
To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands.
Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness
Has lured his fearful steps; and he has bought
With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men,
His rest and food. Nature's most secret steps
He like her shadow has pursued, where'er
The red volcano over-canopies
Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice
With burning smoke, or where bitumen lakes
On black bare pointed islets ever beat
With sluggish surge, or where the secret caves,
Rugged and dark, winding among the springs
Of fire and poison, inaccessible
To avarice or pride, their starry domes
Of diamond and of gold expand above
Numberless and immeasurable halls,
Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines
Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysolite.
Nor had that scene of ampler majesty
Than gems or gold, the varying of heaven
And the green earth lost in his heart its claims
To love and wonder; he would linger long
In lonesome vales, making the wild his home,
Until the doves and squirrels would partake
From his innocuous hand his bloodless food,

Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks;
And the wild antelope, that starts whene'er
The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend
Her timid steps to gaze upon a form
More graceful than her own.

His wandering step, Obedient to high thoughts, has visited The awful ruins of the days of old: Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the waste Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids, Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of strange Sculptured on alabaster obelisk, Or jasper tomb, or mutilated sphynx, Dark Aethiopia in her desert hills Conceals. Among the ruined temples there, Stupendous columns, and wild images Of more than man, where marble daemons watch The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men Hang their mute thoughtson the mute walls around, He lingered, poring in memorials Of the world's youth; through the long burning day Gazed in those speechless shapes, nor, when the moon Filled the mysterious halls with floating shades Suspended he that task, but ever gazed And gazed, till meaning on his vacant mind Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw The thrilling secrets of the birth of time.



So now my summer task is ended, Mary,
And I return to thee, mine own heart's home;
As to his queen some victor knight of faery,
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome;
Northou disdain, that ere my fame become
A star among the stars of mortal night,
If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom,
Its doubtful promise thus I would unite
With thy beloved name, thou child of love and light.

The toil which stole from thee so many an hour
Is ended.—And the fruit is at thy feet!
No longer where the woods to frame a bower
With interlaced branches mix and meet,
Or where with sound like many voices sweet
water-falls leap among wild islands green
Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat
Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen:
But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been:

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