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And the spring arose on the garden fair,

And the Spirit of Love fell everywhere;

And each flower and herb on Earth's

dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry


But none ever trembled and panted with bliss

In the garden, the field, or the wilderness.

Like a doe in the noontide with love's

sweet want, As the companionless sensitive-plant.

The snowdrop, and then the violet. Arose from the ground with warm rain wet.

And their breath was mixed with

fresh odor, sent From the turf, like the voice and the


Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall.

And narcissi, the fairest among them all.

Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess,

Till they die of their own dear loveliness.

And the Naiad-like lily of the vale,
Whom youth makes so fair and pas-
sion so pale,
That the light of its tremulous bells

is seen

Through their pavilions of tender green;

And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue.

Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew

Of music so delicate, soft, and intense.

It was felt like an odor within the


And the rose like a nymph to the

bath addrest, which unveiled the depth of her

glowing breast,

Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air

The soul of her beauty and love lay bare;

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up,

As a Mtenad, its moonlight-colored cup,

Till the fiery star, which is its eye, Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky;

And the jessamine faint, and the

sweet tuberose. The sweetest flower for scent that blows;

And all rare blossoms from every clime

Grew in that garden in perfect prime.

And on the stream whose inconstant


Was prankt, under boughs of embowering blossom,

With golden and green light, slanting through

Their heaven of many a tangled hue,

Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, And starry river-buds glimmered by, And around them the soft stream did

glide and dance With a motion of sweet sound and


And from this undefiled Paradise The flowers,— as an infant's awakening eyes

Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet

Can first lull, and at last must awaken it,—

When heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them. As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden


Shone smiling to heaven, and every one

Shared joy in the light of the gentle


For each one was interpenetrated

With the light and the odor its neighbor shed,

Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear,

Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere.

But the sensitive-plant, which could give small fruit

Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root,

Received more than all, it loved more than ever,

Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver,—

For the sensitive-plant has no bright flower;

Radiance and odor are not its dower: It loves, even like love, it's deep heart

is full, [ful!

It desires what it has not, the bcauti


The artist who this idol wrought,
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine;
And dreaming, some of autumn past,
And some of snrin : approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love; and so this tree,—
O that such our death may be! —
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again:
From which, beneath heaven's fair-
est star,

The artist wrought this loved guitar,
And taught it justly to reply,
To all who question skilfully,
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamored tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells;
For it had learnt all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies.
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains;

The clearest echoes of the hills.
The softest notes of falling rills,
The melodies of birds and bees,
the murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing

And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound,
which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way,—
All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The spirit that inhabits it;
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
is heard than has been felt before,
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For our beloved friend alone.


Good-night ? ah! no; the hour is ill
Which severs those it should unite;

Let us remain together still,
Then it will be good night.

How can I call the lone night good, Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?

Be it not said, thought, understood, That it will be good night.

To hearts which near each other move flight,

From evening close to morning The night is good; because, my love,

They never say good-night.


We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon; How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,

Streaking the darkness radiantly! — yet soon

Night closes round, and they are lost forever: .

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings Give various response to each varying blast, To whose frail frame no second motion brings One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest — a dream has power to poison sleep: We rise — one wandering thought pollutes the day;

We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or


Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away.

It is the same! — For, be it joy or sorrow,

The path of its departure still is


Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; Naught may endure but mutability.

William Shenstone.


In every village marked with little spire.

Embowered in trees, and hardly known to fame,

There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean attire,

A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name;

Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;

They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,

Awed by the power of this relentless dame;

And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent.

For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,

Which learning near her little

dome did stow: Whilom a twig of small regard to


Though now so wide its waving branches flow, [woe;

And work the simple vassals mickle

For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew.

But their hmbs shuddered, and their pulse beat low;

And as they looked they found their horror grow, And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view.

Near to this dome is found a patch

so green,

On which the tribe their gambols

do display; And at the door imprisoning board

is seen,

Lest weakly wights of smaller

size should stray; Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day! The noises intermixed, which

thence resound, [tray; Do learning's little tenement beWhere sits the dame, disguised in

look profound And eyes her fairy throng, and turns

her wheel around.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven


Emblem right meet of decency does yield:

Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, [field:

As is the harebell that adorns the

And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield

Tway birehen sprays; with anxious fear entwined,

With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled;

And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind.

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown;

A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air;

'Twas simple russet, but it was her own;

'Twas her own country bred the

flock so fair, 'Twas her own labor did the fleece


And, sooth to say, her pupils,

ranged around, Through pious awe, did term it

passing rare; For they in gaping wonderment


And think no doubt, she's been the greatest wight on ground.

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth,

Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;

Goody, good-woman,gossip, n'aunt,

forsooth, Or dame, the sole additions she did


Yet these she challenged, these she

held right dear: Nor would esteem him act as

mought behove. Who should not honored eld with

these revere: For never title yet so mean could


But there was eke a mind which did that title love.

One ancient hen she took delight to feed;

The plodding pattern of the busy dame:

Which, ever and anon, impelled by


Into her school, begirt with chickens, came;

Such favor did her past deportment claim;

And, if neglect had lavished on the ground

Fragments of bread, she would collect the same,

For well she knew, and quaintly could expound, What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found.

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve.

Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete;

If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave.

But in her garden found a summer seat;

Sweet melody to hear her then repeat

How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king,

While taunting foemen did a song entreat,

All, for the nonce, untuning every string,

Uphung their useless lyres — small heart had they to sing.

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,

And passed much time in truly virtuous deed;

And, in those elfins' ears, would oft deplore

The times, when truth by popish rage did bleed;

And tortuous death was true devotion's meed;

And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn,

That would on wooden image

place her creed; And lawnly saints in smouldering

flames did burn: Ah! dearest Lord, forefend thilk

days should ere return.

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem.

By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced,

In which, when he receives his diadem,

Our sovereign prince and liefest

liege is placed. The matron sate; and some with

rank she graced. (The source of children's and of

courtiers' pride!) Redressed affronts, for vile affronts

there passed; And warned them not the fretful

to deride, But love each other dear, whatever

them betide.

Right well she knew each temper to descry;

To thwart the proud and the sub

miss to raise; Some with vile copper-prize exalt

on high,

And some entice with pittance

small of praise; And other some with baleful sprig

she trays ; Even absent, she the reins of power

doth hold, While with quaint arts, the giddy

crowd she sways, Forewarned, if little bird their

pranks behold, 'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the

scene unfold.


To thee, fair Freedom, I retire From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;

Nor art thou found in mansions higher

Than the low cot or humble inn.

'Tis here with boundless power I reign,

And every health which I begin Converts dull port to bright champagne!

Such freedom crowns it at an inn,

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate,
1 fly from Falsehood's specious grin;

Freedom I love, and form I hate,
And choose my lodgings at an inn.

Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, Which lackeys else might hope to win;

It buys what, courts have not in store, It buys me freedom at an inn.

Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,

Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found His warmest welcome at an iuu.

James Shirley.

[From The Contention of Ajaxnnd Ulysses.] DEATH THE LEVELLER.

The glories of our birth and state

Are shadows,not substantial things; There is no armor against Fate — Death lays his icy hand on kings. Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field, [kill; And plant fresh laurels where they

But their strong nerves at last must yield —

They tame but one another still; Early or late They stoop to Fate, And must give up their murmuring breath,

When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow — Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon Death's purple altar, now.
See where the victor-victim bleeds!
All heads must come
To the cold tomb —
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the

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