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Of forests and enchantments drear,

Where more is meant than meets the ear.

Thus Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited* Morn appear.

Not tricked and frounced + as she was wont
With the Attic Boy to hunt,

But kerchiefed in a comely cloud

While rocking winds are piping loud,

Or ushered with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To archéd walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan§ loves,
Of pine or monumental oak,

Where the rude axe, with heavéd stroke,
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.
There in close covert by some brook
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from Day's garish eye,
While the bee with honeyed thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep:
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture displayed,

Softly on my eyelids laid :

And as I wake sweet music breathe

Above, about, or underneath,

Civil, grave, decent. Frounced, curled.

The Attic Boy, Cephalus. § Sylvan, the god of the woods.

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Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or the unseen Genius of the wood.

But let my due feet never fail,
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high embowéd* roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced quire+ below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear
Dissolve me into ecstacies,

And bring all Heaven before mine eyes,
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth show,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old Experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

Milton.

XXX.

VENICE BY NIGHT.

IGHT in her dark array
Steals o'er the ocean,
And with departed day
Hushed seems its motion.
Slowly o'er yon blue coast
Onward she's treading,

High embowed, vaulted. + Quire, choir.

Spell, learn.

Till its dark line is lost,

'Neath her veil spreading.
The bark on the rippling deep
Hath found a pillow,

And the pale moonbeams sleep
On the green billow.⚫

Bound by her emerald zone
Venice is lying,

And round her marble crown

Night-winds are sighing.
From the high lattice now
Bright eyes are gleaming,
That seem on night's dark brow
Brighter stars beaming.

Now o'er the blue lagoon
Light barks are dancing,
And 'neath the silver moon
Swift oars are glancing.
Strains from the mandolin
Steal o'er the water :
Echo replies between

To mirth and laughter.
O'er the wave seen afar

Brilliantly shining,

Gleams like a fallen star

Venice reclining.

F. Kemble.

XXXI.

HE was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ;

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty ;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.

W. Wordsworth.

XXXIL

THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS.

(FROM THE FAERY QUEEN.')

Book II. CANTO VIII.

ND is there care in Heaven? And is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move? There is :-else much more wretched were the case

Of men than beasts :-But O! the exceeding grace
Of Highest God, that loves his creatures so,
And all his works with mercy doth embrace,

That blessed Angels he sends to and fro,

To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe!

How oft do they their silver bowers leave
To come to succour us that succour want!
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,*
Against foul fiends to aid us militant!

They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant ;`
And all for love and nothing for reward:

O, why should Heavenly God to men have such regard !

E. Spenser.

XXXIII.

THE BOY OF EGREMOND.

S

AY, what remains when Hope is fled?'
She answered, 'Endless weeping!'
For in the herdsman's eye she read
Who in his shroud lay sleeping.

At Embsay rung the matin-bell,

The stag was roused on Barden Fell;
The mingled sounds were swelling, dying,
And down the Wharfe a hern was flying;
When near the cabin in the wood,

In tartan clad and forest green,
With hound in leash and hawk in hood,
The Boy of Egremond was seen.
Blithe was his song, a song of yore;
But where the rock is rent in two

Pursuivant, an officer-at-arms.

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