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Oh for a draught of vintage,

Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burned mirth! Oh for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stained mouth,

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret;

Here, where men sit and hear each other groanWhere palsy shakes a few sad, last gray hairs—

Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow,

And leaden-eyed despairs;

Where beauty can not keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of poesy,

Though the dull train perplexes and retards;

Already with thee tender is the night,

And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I can not see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets, covered up in leaves,

And mid-May's oldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of bees on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful death,

Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight, with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad,

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn:

The same that oft-times hath

Charmed magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell,

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy can not cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision or a waking dream?

Fled is that music-do I wake or sleep?

JOHN KEATS, 1796-1820.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

FROM THE DUTCH.

Prize thou the nightingale,

Who soothes thee with his tale,

And wakes the woods around;

A singing feather, he-a winged and wandering sound:

Whose tender carroling

Sets all ears listening

Unto that living lyre,

Whence flow the airy notes his ecstasies inspire;

Whose shrill, capricious song,
Breathes like a flute along,

With many a careless tone

Music of thousand tongues, formed by one tongue alone.

O charming creature rare,
Can aught with thee compare?

Thou art all song-thy breast

Thrills for one month o' th' year-is tranquil all the rest.

Thee wondrous we may call

Most wondrous this of all,

That such a tiny throat

Should wake so loud a sound, and pour so loud a note.

MARIA TESSELSCHADE VISSCHER-Born in the 16th century.

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THE MOTHER BIRD.

SIMILE FROM "DIVINA COMMEDIA."

Like as the bird who on her nest all night

Had rested, darkling with her tender brood,
'Mid the loved foliage, longing now for light,

To gaze on their dear looks, and bring them food:
Sweet task! whose pleasures all its toil repay—
Anticipates the dawn, and through the wood
Ascending, perches on the topmost spray;
There, all impatience, watching to descry
The first faint glimmer of approaching day :
Thus did my lady toward the southern sky,
Erect and motionless, her visage turn;

The mute suspense that filled her wistful eye,
Made me like one who waits a friend's return,
Lives on this hope, and will no other own.
Translation of F. C. GRAY.

DANTE ALIGHIERI, 1265-1321.

THE MOTHER NIGHTINGALE.

FROM THE SPANISH.

I have seen a nightingale,

On a sprig of thyme bewail,

Seeing the dear nest, which was
Hers alone, borne off, alas!

By a laborer. I heard,

For this outrage, the poor bird

Say a thousand mournful things
To the wind, which, on its wings,
From her to the guardian of the sky,
Bore her melancholy cry-
Bore her tender tears. She spake
As if her fond heart would break:

One while, in a sad, sweet note,
Gurgled from her straining throat;
She enforced her piteous tale,
Mournful prayer, and plaintive wail;
One while with the shrill dispute,
Quite outwearied, she was mute;
Then afresh for her dear brood,
Her harmonious shrieks renewed.

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