Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,

9 Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. William Blake.

CLXXXVIII

ON AN ANTIQUE GEM BEARING THE HEADS OF PERICLES AND ASPASIA.

This was the ruler of the land,

When Athens was the land of fame;
This was the light that led the band,
When each was like a living flame;
The centre of earth's noblest ring-
Of more than men the more than king!

Yet not by fetter, nor by spear,

His sovereignty was held or won :
Feared-but alone as freemen fear,

Loved-but as freemen love alone,
He waved the sceptre o'er his kind
By nature's first great title-mind!

Resistless words were on his tongue,

Then eloquence first flashed below;
Full armed to life the portent sprung-
Minerva from the Thunderer's brow!

And his the sole, the sacred hand
That shook her ægis o'er the land.
And throned immortal by his side,

A woman sits with eye sublime,—
Aspasia, all his spirit's bride;

But, if their solemn love were crime,
Pity the Beauty and the Sage-
Their crime was in their darkened age.

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He perished, but his wreath was won—
He perished in his height of fame;
Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun,
Yet still she conquered in his name.
Filled with his soul, she could not die;
Her conquest was posterity.

CLXXXIX

LOVE.

George Croly.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She leaned against the armèd man,
The statue of the armèd knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve !
She loves me best, whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he wooed
The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,

Interpreted my own.

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And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night;

And how she wept, and clasped his knees,
And how she tended him in vain;

And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain ;—

And that she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves

A dying man he lay;—

His dying words-but when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,

My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!

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All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;

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And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,

Her bosom heaved-she stepped aside,

As conscious of my look she stept—
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.

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'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see,

The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;

And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous Bride.

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Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes :
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace,
Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Lord Byron.

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