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FROM "THE EARTHLY PARADISE."

ATALANTA VICTORIOUS.

“ Didst look last night upon my native vales,

ATALANTA'S RACE. Thou Sun! that from the drenching sea hast

clomb? Ye demon winds ! that glut my gaping sails, Upon the salt sea must I ever roam,

AND there two runners did the sign abide Wander forever on the barren foam ?

Foot set to foot, - a young man slim and fair, O, happy are ye, resting mariners !

Crisp-haired, well knit, with firm limbs often tried O Death, that thou wouldst come and take me In places where no man his strength may spare ; home!

Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair
A hand unseen this vessel onward steers, A golden circlet of renown he wore,
And onward I must float through slow, moon. And in his hand an olive garland bore.
measured years.

But on this day with whom shall he contend? “Ye winds ! when like a curse ye drove us on, A maid stood by him like Diana clad Frothing the waters, and along our way,

When in the woods she lists her bow to bend, Nor cape nor headland through red mornings Too fair for one to look on and be glad, shone,

Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had,
One wept aloud, one shuddered down to pray, If he must still behold her from afar ;
One howled, “Upon the deep we are astray.'

Too fair to let the world live free from war.
On our wild hearts his words fell like a blight :
In one short hour my hair was stricken gray,

She seemed all earthly matters to forget ; For all the crew sank ghastly in my sight

Of all tormenting lines her face was clear, As we went driving on through the cold starry Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set night.

Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near;

But her foe trembled as a man in fear, “Madness fell on me in my loneliness,

Nor from her loveliness one moment turned The sea foamed curses, and the reeling sky His anxious face with fierce desire that burned. Became a dreadful face which did oppress Me with the weight of its unwinking eye. Now through the hush there broke the trumIt fled, when I burst forth into a cry,

pet's clang A shoal of fiends came on me from the deep; Just as the setting sun made eventide. I hid, but in all corners they did pry,

Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang, And dragged me forth, and round did dance and And swiftly were they running side by side ; leap;

But silent did the thronging folk abide They mouthed on me in dream, and tore me Until the turning-post was reached at last, from sweet sleep.

And round about it still abreast they passed. “Strange constellations burned above my head, But when the people saw how close they ran, Strange birds around the vessel shrieked and flew, When half-way to the starting-point they were, Strange shapes, like shadows, through the clear A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man sea fled,

Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near As our lone ship, wide-winged, came rippling Unto the very end of all his fear; through,

And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel, Angering to foam the smooth and sleeping blue." And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart 'gan steal. The lady sighed, “Far, far upon the sea, My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you !

But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard The wind blows shrill between my love and me.

Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound Fond heart! the space between was but the apple- of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard tree.

His flushed and eager face he turned around,

And even then he felt her past him bound There was a cry of joy ; with seeking hands Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there She fled to him, like worn bird to her nest; Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. Like washing water on the figured sands, His being came and went in sweet unrest,

There stood she breathing like a little chill As from the mighty shelter of his breast

Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep, The Lady Barbara her head uprears

For no victorious joy her red lips smiled, With a wan smile, “Methinks I'm but half blest: Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep; Now when I've found thee, after weary years,

No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep, I cannot see thee, love! so blind I am with tears." Though some divine thought softened all her face

As once more rang the trumpet through the place.

ALEXANDER SMITH.

man

But her late foe stopped short amidst his course, But while she seemed to hear her beating heart, One moment gazed upon her piteously,

Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out,
Then with a groan his lingering feet did force And forth they sprang; and she must play her
To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see; part;
And, changed likeone who knows his time must be Then few her white feet, knowing not a doubt,
But short and bitter, without

any
word

Though slackening once, she turned her head He knelt before the bearer of the sword;

about,

But then she cried aloud and faster fled Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade, Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead. Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place Was silence now, and midst of it the maid But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace, And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew And he to hers upturned his sad white face; And past the maid rolled ou along the sand ; Nor did his eyes behold another sight

Then trembling she her feet together drew, Ere on his soul there fell eternal night.

And in her heart a strong desire there grew

To have the toy ; some god she thought had ATALANTA CONQUERED.

given

That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. Now has the lingering month at last gone by, Again are all folk round the running place, Then from the course with eager steps she ran, Nor other seems the dismal pageantry

And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. Than heretofore, but that another face

But when she turned again, the great-limbed Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race ; For now, beheld of all, Milanion

Now well ahead she failed not to behold, Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon. And mindful of her glory waxing cold, But yet — what change is this that holds the Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit, maid?

Though with one hand she touched the golden

fruit. Does she indeed see in his glittering eye More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade,

Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear Sonne happy hope of help and victory?

She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize, The others seemed to say, “We come to die,

And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair Look down upon us for a little while,

Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes That dead, we may bethink us of thy smile.”

Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries But he - what look of mastery was this

She sprang to head the strong Milanion, He cast on her ? why were his lips so red ?

Who now the turning-post had wellnigh won. Why was his face so flushed with happiness? So looks not one who deems himself but dead,

But as he set his mighty hand on it, E'en if to death he bows a willing head;

White fingers underneath his own were laid, So rather looks a god well pleased to find

And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did Ait. Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind.

Then he the second fruit cast by the maid ;

But she ran on awhile, then as afraid Why must she drop her lids before his

gaze,

Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no And even as she casts adown her eyes

stay
Redden to note his eager glance of praise, Until the globe with its bright fellow lay.
And wish that she were clad in other guise ?
Why must the memory to her heart arise

Then, as a troubled glance she cast around,
Of things unnoticed when they first were heard, Now far ahead the Argive could she see,
Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word? And in her garment's hem one hand she wound

To keep the double prize, and strenuously What makes these longings, vague, without a Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she name,

To win the day, though now but scanty space And this vain pity never felt before,

Was left betwixt him and the winning place. This sudden languor, this contempt of fame, This tender sorrow for the time past o'er,

Short was the way unto such winged feet, These doubts that grow each minute more and Quickly she gained upon him till at last more?

He turned about her eager eyes to meet, Why does she tremble as the time grows near, And from his hand the third fair apple cast. And weak defeat and woful victory fear? She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast

WILLIAM MORRIS.

FROM THE SPANISH.

After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, “It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep That in her hand it lay ere it was still.

and bear

What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my Nor did she rest, but turned about to win

own with care. Once more, an unblest, woful victory - Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and And yet — and yet — why does her breath begin ah! thou know'st I feel To fail her, and her feet drag heavily?

That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades Why fails she now to see if far or nigh

of steel, The goal is? Why do her gray eyes grow dim ? | 'T was the doubt that thou wert false that wrung Why do these tremors run through every limb ? my heart with pain ;

But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find

again. Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this,

I would proclaim thee as thou art, – but every A strong man's arms about her body twined.

maiden knows Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss,

That she who chides her lover forgives him ere So wrapped she is in new, unbroken bliss :

he goes."
Made happy that the foe the prize hath won,
She weeps glad tears for all her glory done.

Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan,
Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's foun-

tains ran :
FATIMA AND RADUAN.

The Moor was inly moved, and, blameless as he

was,

He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded "Diamante falso y fingido,

thus his cause : Engastado en pedernal," etc.

O lady, dry those star-like eyes, their dim“False diamond set in flint! hard heart in

ness does me wrong ; haughty breast !

If my heart be made of Aint, at least 't will keep By a softer, warmer bosom the tiger's couch is thy image long; prest.

Thou hast uttered cruel words, – but I grieve Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering

the less for those, as the wind,

Since she who chides her lover forgives him ere And the restless ever-mounting Alame is not he goes.”

more hard to bind. If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few

would be To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me.

FIRST LOVE. Oh! I could chide thee sharply, — but every

maiden knows That she who chides her lover forgives him ere

"T is sweet to hear, At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep,

and oar of Adria's gondolier, “Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Gre

By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep; nada's maids, Thou hast said that by the side of me the first 'T is sweet to see the evening star appear;

'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep and fairest fades; And they thought thy heart was mine, and it From leaf to leaf ; 't is sweet to view on high

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. seemed to every one That what thou didst to win my love, for love of me was done.

'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Alas! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to Bay sleep-mouthed welcome as we draw near know,

home; They well might see another mark to which 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark thine arrows go ;

Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; But thou giv'st little heed, - for 1 speak to one 'T is sweet to be awakened by the lark, who knows

Or lulled by falling waters ; sweet the hum That she who chides her lover forgives him ere of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, he goes.

The lisp of chillren, and their earliest words.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

FROM "DON JUAN," CANTO 1.

he goes.

The song

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,
Purple and gushing : sweet are our escapes

From civic revelry to rural mirth ;
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps ;

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth; Sweet is revenge,

especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.

She, rosy in the morning light,
Among the water-daisies white,

Like some fair sloop appeared to sail.
Against her ankles as she trod
The lucky buttercups did nod :

I leaned upon the gate to see.
The sweet thing looked, but did not speak;
A dimple came in either cheek,

And all my heart was gone from nie.

'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,

By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end To strife ; 't is sometimes sweet to have our

quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend ; Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ;

Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world ; and dear the school-boy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,

Is first and passionate love, it stands alone, Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; The tree of knowledge has been plucked,

all's known, — And life yields nothing further to recall

Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filched for us from

heaven.

Then, as I lingered on the gate,
And she came up like coming fate,

I saw my picture in her eyes,
Clear dancirg eyes, more black than sloes !
Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows

Among white-headed majesties ! I said, “A tale was made of old That I would fain to thee unfold.

Ah ! let me, — let me tell the tale." But high she held her comely head : “I cannot heed it now," she said,

“For carrying of the milking-pail." She laughed. What good to make ado? I held the gate, and she came through,

And took her homeward path anon. From the clear pool her face had fed ; It rested on my heart instead,

Reflected when the maid was gone. With happy youth, and work content, So sweet and stately, on she went,

Right careless of the untold tale. Each step she took I loved her more, And followed to her dairy door

The maiden with the milking-pail.

BYRON

A MAIDEN WITH A MILKING-PAIL.

I.

What change has made the pastures sweet, And reached the daisies at my feet,

And cloud that wears a golden hem ? This lovely world, the hills, the sward, They all look fresh, as if our Lord

But yesterday had finished them.

And here's the field with light aglow : How fresh its boundary lime-trees show!

And how its wet leaves trembling shine! Between their trunks come through to me The morning sparkles of the sea,

Below the level browsing line.

II.
For hearts where wakened love doth lurk,
How fine, how blest a thing is work !

For work does good when reasons fail, -
Good ; yet the axe at every stroke
The echo of a name awoke,

Her name is Mary Martindale. I'm glad that echo was not heard Aright by other men. A bird

Knows doubtless what his own notes tell ;
And I know not, but I can say
I felt as shamefaced all that day

As if folks heard her name right well.
And when the west began to glow
I went - I could not choose but go –

To that same dairy on the hill ;
And while sweet Mary moved about
Within, I came to her without,

And leaned upon the window-sill.

I see the pool, more clear by half Than pools where other waters laugh

Up at the breasts of coot and rail. There, as she passed it on her way, I saw reflected yesterday

A maiden with a milking-pail.

There, neither slowly nor in haste, One hand upon her slender waist,

The other lifted to her pail,

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