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Up the creeks we will hie ;
And then come back down.
9. PHILOMELA HARK ! ah, the Nightingale ! The unfriendly palace in the ThraThe tawny-throated !
cian wild ? Hark! from that moonlit cedar Dost thou again peruse what a burst!
With hot cheeks and seared eyes What triumph! hark-what pain! The too clear web, and thy dumb
Sister's shame ? O Wanderer from a Grecian shore,
Dost thou once more assay Still, after many years, in distant lands,
Thy flight, and feel come over
thee, Still nourishing in thy bewildered
Poor Fugitive, the feathery change brain That wild, unquenched, deep
Once more, and once more seem to
make resound sunken, old-world pain
With love and hate, triumph and Say, will it never heal ? And can this fragrant lawn
agony, With its cool trees, and night,
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephis
sian vale ? And the sweet tranquil Thames, And moonshine and the dew,
How thick the bursts
crowding through the leaves ! Dost thou to-night behold
Again-thou hearest !
Eternal Passion ! Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,
Eternal Pain !
10. FROM `EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA’ LIKE us the lightning fires Nature, with equal mind, Love to have scope and play.
Sees all her sons at play, The stream, like us, desires Sees man control the wind, An unimpeded way:
The wind sweep man away ; Like us, the Libyan wind delights Allows the proudly-riding and the to roam at large.
Streams will not curb their
To leave his virtues room,
blows a good man's barge.
Is it so small a thing
to have done ;
beat down baffling foes ;
OTHERS abide our question. Thou art free.
STREW on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew. In quiet she reposes :
Ah! would that I did too. Her mirth the world required : She bathed it in smiles of
glee. But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.
Her life was turning, turning,
In mazes of heat and sound.
It fluttered and failed for breath.
13. FROM THE SCHOLAR GIPSY'
Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we,
Who never deeply felt, nor clearly willed,
For whom each year we see
Who hesitate and falter life away,
And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day-
Still nursing the unconquerable hope,
With a free onward impulse brushing through,
On some mild pastoral slope
Freshen thy flowers as in former years
With dew, or listen with enchanted ears,
But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly!
Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest;
Soon, soon thy cheer would die,
And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made ;
And then thy glad perennial youth would fade,
Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles !
-As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,
Descried at sunrise an emerging prow
Among the Aegean isles ;
Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,
Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine;
The young light-hearted masters of the waves ;
And day and night held on indignantly
To where the Atlantic raves
There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,
Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come;
So let me lie, and calm as they But ah, not yet! not yet !
Let beam upon my inward view Vain is the agony of grief. Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent 'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot
bueTies straitly up from mine thy Eyes too expressive to be blue, lot,
Too lovely to be grey. And were it snapt—thou lov’st me
Ah Quiet, all things feel thy balm! not!
Those blue hills too, this river's But is despair relief ?
flow, Awhile let me with thought have Were restless once, but long ago.
Tamed is their turbulent youthful And as this brimmed unwrinkled glow : Rhine
Their joy is in their calm.
M. ARNOLD. 15. MORALITY We cannot kindle when we will With aching hands and bleeding The fire that in the heart resides,
feet The spirit bloweth and is still, We dig and heap, laystone on stone; In mystery our soul abides : We bear the burden and the heat But tasks in hours of insight of the long day, and wish 'twere willed
done. Can be through hours of gloom Not till the hours of light return fulfilled.
All we have built do we discern.
16. THE SONG OF CALLICLES
What voices enrapture
'Tis Apollo comes leading ! - Whose praise do they mention, His choir, the Nine.
Of what is it told ?-The Leader is fairest,
What will be for ever,
What was from of old.
Of all things : and then
The action of men.
The Night in its silence,
The Stars in their calm.
M. ARNOLD (Empedocles on Etna).
Thine be the grief as is the blame;
He that can love unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain :
While unthrifts fool their love away!
If thou hadst still continued mine;
But thou thy freedom didst recall,
That, if thou might, elsewhere inthrall :
A captive's captive to remain ? SIR R. AYTON.
18. FROM THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE' Do not lift him from the bracken, Leave his broadsword as we found Leave him lying where he
Bent and broken with the blow, Better bier ye cannot fashion : That, before he died, avenged him
None beseems him half so well On the foremost of the foe. As the bare and broken heather, Leave the blood upon his bosom
And the hard and trampled sod, Wash not off that sacred stain; Whence his angry soul ascended Let it stiffen on the tartan,
To the judgement-seat of God ! Let his wounds unclosed remain, Winding-sheet we cannot give Till the day when he shall show him
them Seek no mantle for the dead, At the throne of God on high, Save the cold and spotless covering
When the murderer and the murShowered from heaven upon his
Meet before their Judge's eye.
W. E. AYTOUN.