KUBLA KHAN.

IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree,
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran,

Through caverns measureless to man,
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens, bright with sinuous
rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But O! that deep romantic chasm, which

slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil
seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced, Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail; And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and

ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale, the sacred river

ran

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war.

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves,
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device-
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw;

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That, with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air-
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! beware
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

THE RAVEN.

ONCE, upon a midnight dreary, While I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious

Volume of forgotten loreWhile I nodded, nearly napping, Suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping,

Rapping at my chamber door: ""Tis some visitor," I muttered, "Tapping at my chamber doorOnly this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember!
It was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember

Wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;
Vainly I had tried to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow-
Sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden
Whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain Rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic Terrors never felt before;

On! on! the storm of wings

Bears far the fiery fear,

Till scarce the breeze now brings
Dim murmurings to the ear;
Like locusts' humming hail,
Or thrash of tiny flail

Plied by the pattering hail

On some old roof-tree near.

Fainter now are borne
Fitful mutterings still;
As, when Arab horn
Swells its magic peal,
Shoreward o'er the deep
Fairy voices sweep,
And the infant's sleep
Golden visions fill.

Each deadly Djinn,
Dark child of fright,
Of death and sin,

Speeds the wild flight.

Hark, the dull moan!
Like the deep tone

Of ocean's groan,
Afar, by night!

More and more
Fades it now,

As on shore
Ripples flow-
As the plaint,
Far and faint,
Of a saint,
Murmured low.

Hark! hist!
Around

I list!
The bounds

Of space

All trace

Efface

Of sound.

VICTOR HUGO (French)

Translation of JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.