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So said the Shepherd to his younger peer,
The while to pasture for the night he drove
In meads, where his soft charge no winds may fear;
But Thenot, whose delight was all in love,
Found little in his counsel to approve ;
But weaving a soft crown of myrtle green,
He bound in thought the forehead of his queen.

This glorious index of a heav'nly book, Not seldom, as in youthful years he stood,

Divinest Spenser would admiring look; And, framing thence high wit and pure desire, Imagin’d deeds, that set the world on fire!

SONG.

TO MAY.

May, queen of blossoms,

And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music

Shall we charm the hours ? Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead ? Or to the lute give heed

In the green bowers !
Thou hast no need of us,

Or pipe or wire,
That hast the golden bee

Ripen'd with fire;
And many thousand more
Songsters that thee adore,
Filling earth's grassy floor

With new desire.

How oft, O Moon, in thy most tragic face,
The travellid map

of mournful history, Some record of long-perish'd woe I trace,

Fetch'd from old kings' moth-eaten memory ; Which thou, perhaps, didst in its acting see,

The perturbation of its doleful birth, Then crawling on to sad maturity,

And it's last sleep in the forgetful earth : But if, in style proportion’d to its worth,

We raise it up, to shake the world again, To madness we shall turn heart-easing mirth,

With horror laying waste the minds of men: 0, marble is the flesh, unmov'd can be, When it beholds so fearful tragedy!

I grieve to think, so often as I muse,

Musing on sweet and bitter argument, How many souls posterity doth lose,

In that they leave behind no monument: Souls, that have fed upon divinest thought,

Yet lacking utt'rance of their music's store, To us, that breathe hereafter, are as nought,

Or question'd but as names, that dwelt before: Were it sad chance, that them of fame bereft,

Love, grief, or sickness, or resentful woe, Or abstinence of virtue made a theft

Of that, which virtue to itself doth owe; The cause unknown, their worth unwritten too, Let the world weep, for they are pity's due!

T'hou hast thy mighty herds,

Tame, and free livers; Doubt not, thy music too,

In the deep rivers; And the whole plumy flight, Warbling the day and night; Up at the gates of light,

See, the lark quivers ! When with the jacinth

Coy fountains are tressed ; And for the mournful bird

Green woods are dressed, That did for Tereus pine; Then shall our songs be tbine, To whom our hearts incline:

May, be thou blessed!

The nightingale is mute, and so art thou,

Whose voice is sweeter than the nightingale: While ev'ry idle scholar makes a vow,

Above thy worth and glory to prevail : Yet shall not envy to that level bring

The true precedence, which is born in thee; Thou art no less the prophet of the Spring,

Though in the woods thy voice now silent be: For silence may impair, but cannot kill

The music, that is native to thy soul;
Nor thy sweet mind, in this thy froward will,

Upon thy purest honour have controul:
But, since thou will not to our wishes sing,
This truth I speak, thou art of poets king.

SONNETS.

ON BEHOLDING THE PORTRAITURE OF SIR PHILIP

SIDNEY, IN THE GALLERY AT PENSHURST.

The man that looks, sweet Sidney, in thy face,

Beholding there love's truest majesty, And the soft image of departed grace,

Shall fill his mind with magnanimity : There may he read unfeign'd humility,

And golden pity, born of heav'nly brood, Unsullied thoughts of immortality,

And musing virtue, prodigal of blood : Yes, in this map of what is fair and good,

The largest reign of silence yet bath sway

In beauty, which is music to the soul; The lily hath no voice, yet shames the day ;

Nay, the sweet air is liken'd in controul : The silver Moon, more paler than desire,

That with unvoiced wheel doth climb on high, In meditation's ear is as a quire,

That leads th' o'er-visioned Night along the sky: All silence in it's pleasure hath a voice,

If balanc'd in the fine esteem of thought;

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TO THE MUSE.

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Then let dumb nature in that plea rejoice,
But be not thou to that dominion brought:

Of age have robb’d thee of thy warlike charms,
For speech in thee, some men’s disparagement,

And plac'd thee here, an image in my rhyme; Thy purer gifts with glory shall augment.

The owl now haunts thee, and, oblivion's plant,

The creeping ivy, has o'er-veil'd thy towers; In Parian marble of divinest price,

And Rother, looking up with eye askant,

Recalling to his mind thy brighter hours,
In fairest gems, in silver and in gold,

Laments the time, when, fair and elegant,
In flow'ry sweets, that have been steeped thrice
In Phæbus' beams, and now his image hold,

Beauty first laugh'd from out thy joyous bowers!
In fountains, and in woods, in beauteous meads,
In palaces of pomp, and love withal,

THE TEMPLES OF VENUS AND MARS.
In scooped chariots, and in fiery steeds,
I am, indeed, most rich and prodigal!

First, in the chapel of the Paphian queen,
The Sun cannot behold a greater lord,

Wrought on the wall, there may by you be seen Nor doth the eye of Jove survey a man,

A sight indeed full piteous to behold, Whose fortune can such boundless wealth afford,

The broken sleep; and the sighs deadly cold; E'er since the artificial world began :

The sacred tears; the wailings, a whole quire; Thy face, which faults Olympus, is to me

The fiery strokes of the unrein’d desire;
This orbed World, and Nature's treasury!

All, that love's servants in this world endure;
And all the oaths their covenants assure;

Pleasure; and hope; desire ; fool-hardiness ;
Daughter of Jove, encircled by the Hours,

Beauty; and youth ; and purchas'd wantonness; The warbling Spring comes dancing from the gate

Gold; charms; and force; and lies; and flattery: Of Heaven, and, ripe in majesty and state,

And waste expense; bus'ness; and jealousy, Pours from her golden ewer the purpling flowers

Upon whose head a golden sun-flower bland, On mead, on mountain, on the hallow'd marge

And the false cuckoo sate upon her hand; Of sacred rivers; and the Mermaid chants

Feasts; instruments; and carols; and ripe dances; The seas into a calm; and the wood-haunts

Lust; and array; and all the circumstances Of coy Diana echo all at large

Of Love; that I may reckon, and reckon on With the smooth songs of Philomel : awake,

Till the mid-summer, and yet ne'er have done; Daughter of Heaven, and blameless memory;

All these were painted the fresh wall upon,

And more than I can tell to any one; Put on thy flowery sandals, and uptake

For Mount Cithæron was depicted there,
Thy golden rod, beloved of the Sky!

Where Venus hath her princely dwelling fair.
And with a tongue, like vernal thunder, make
Virtue the heir of immortality!

All the world glow'd with the delightful place,

The fount, eye, soul of passion and of grace ; TO A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF LAKEN There was the garden, and the lustiness:

Be sure they not forgot the porter, Idleness ; O melancholy bird, a winter's day,

Nor fair Narcissus, that from love is gone;
Thou standest by the margin of the pool;

Nor yet the folly of King Solomon ;
And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school Nor strength of Hercules, that tore hell up;
To patience, which all evil can allay:

Nor Circe, nor Medea's charmed cup;
God has appointed thee the fish thy prey;

Nor Turnus, and his hard and fiery rage; And giv'n thyself a lesson to the fool

Nor golden Cræsus in the Persian cage: Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule,

By which it may be seen, that neither gold, And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. Nor stronger wisdom, nor the courage bold,

There need not schools, nor the professor's chair, Nor strength, nor art, nor beauty's powerful face, Though these be good, true wisdom to impart: Can hold with Venus any equal pace :

He, who has not enough for these to spare, What party in her realm have they, who rules Of time, or gold, may yet amend his heart,

The rolling world, and makes all people fools ;
And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair: Such as these were, who in her snare were caught,
Nature is always wise in every part.

And often cried, “ Alas!" and all for nought:
And these examples may suffice; although

Ten thousands more may date from her their woe.
ON BEHOLDING BODIHAM CASTLE,
ON THE BANK OF THE ROTHER, IN SUSSEX.

The froth-born Goddess, ravishing to see,
O thou, brave ruin of the passed time,

Was naked, fleeting in the ample sea;
When glorious spirits shone in burning arms, And, downwards from the waist, was hid from sight
And the brave trumpet, with its sweet alarms,

By the green waves, as any crystal bright:
Callid honour! at the matin hour sublime,

A citole in her right hand softly held ; And the grey ev'ning; thou hast had thy prime, And on her head, a type of summer swellid

And thy full vigour, and the eating harms And blush'd like fire, aad like all Eden smelld,

TE

A

IN THE WINTER,

A garland of the rose; and a white pair

Every great pillar of this house of war
Of doves above her flicker'd in the air:

Was tun-great, of bright iron blazing far.
And her son, Cupid, stood before her feet;
Two wings upon his shoulders, fair and fleet, There saw I first the dark imagining
And blind as night, as he is often seen:

Of felony, and all the compassing ;
A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen.

The cruel ire, as red as burning coal ;

The pick-purse; and pale fear, with ghastly soul; And now to tell you, on the westward side,

The smiler, with the knife under the cloke;
What colours the great painters did provide, The stables burning with the pitchy smoke;
What portraiture upon the wall was spread,

The treason of the murdering of the bed ;
Within the temple of grim Mars the red;

The open war, whose wounds for ever bled;
All painted was the wall, in dismal grace,

Contest with bloody knife, and menace keen, Like to the inward of the grisly place,

And full of scritching cries the doleful scene; Call’d the great temple of the God in Thrace, The slayer of himself then saw I there, Where Mars his sovereign mansion still doth hold, His own heart-blood had bathed all his hair; In frosty regions and eternal cold.

The nail, too, driven in the skull at night;

The cold death with the gaping mouth upright;
A forest on the wall was there exprest

Amidst of all the temple sate Mischance,
In which there never wons nor man nor beast, With great discomfort, and pale countenance ;
With knotty, knarry, barren trees, right old,

And saw I Madness, laughing in his ire ;
And sharp with stubs, and hideous to behold, Armed Complaint; Outcry; and fierce Desire
Where, like the thunder, ran a rumble through, Of fiery outrage; in the bushes put,
As though a storm would break down ev'ry bough, I saw the corpse of him whose throat was cut;
And downward, (and a savage hill o'erbent,) And flow'd the crimson blood on slaughter's bed,
There stood the fane of Mars armipotent;

A thousand slain, and not of sickness dead;
Wrought all of burned steel : the entrance keen The tyrant with his prey from subject reft;
Was long, and strait, and ghastly to be seen; The town destroy'd, and not a rafter left;
And thereout came a rage, and air, God knows, The burot ships dancing on the waves I saw;
The gates from their great hinges heav'd and rose: The hunter strangled in the wild bear's paw;
The northern light in at the door there shone; The child, eat by the fretting sow in cradle;
For window on the massy wall was none,

The cook, too, scalded, maugre his long ladle;
Through which men might the open light discern: And every mortal act in every part;
The door was all of adamant eterne,

The carter, over-ridden with his cart,
And clenched overthwart, and end-ways long, Under the wheel full low he lay adown.
With iron tough, and, for to make it strong,

:

JOHN KEATS.

PROCESSION AND HYMN IN HONOUR

OF PAN.

Leading the way, young damsels danced along, Bearing the burden of a shepherd song; Each having a white wicker over brimm'd With April's tender younglings: next, welltrimm'd, A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks As may be read of in Arcadian books ; Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, When the great deity, for earth too ripe, Let his divinity o'erflowing die In music, through the vales of Thessaly: Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the ground, And some kept up a shrilly-mellow sound With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these, Now coming from beneath the forest-trees, A venerable priest full soberly, Begirt with ministering looks: always his eye Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept, And after him his sacred vestments swept. From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white, Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light; And in his left he held a basket full Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull: Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill. His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath, Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth Of winter hoar. Then came another crowd Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud Their share of the ditty. After them appear’d, Up-follow'd by a multitude that rear'd Their voices to the clouds, a fair-wrought car, Easily rolling so as scarce to mar The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown: Who stood therein did seem of great renown Among the throng. His youth was fully blown, Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown; And, for those simple times, his garments were A chieftain king's: beneath his breast, half bare, Was hung a silver bugle, and between His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen. A smile was on his countenance; he seem'd, To common lookers-on, like one who dream'd Of idleness in groves Elysian : But there were some who feelingly could scan A lurking trouble in his nether-lip, And see that oftentimes the reins would slip Through his forgotten hands : then would they sigh, And think of yellow leaves, of owlet's cry, Of logs piled solemnly.-Ah, well-a-day, Why should our young Endymion pine away!

Soon the assembly in a circle rang'd, Stood silent round the shrine: each look was changed To sudden veneration: women meek Beckon'd their sons to silence; while each cheek Of virgin-bloom paled gently for slight fear. Endymion too, without a forest peer, Stood, wan and pale, and with an unawed face, Among his brothers of the mountain-chase. In midst of all, the venerable priest Ey'd them with joy from greatest to the least, And, after lifting up his aged hands, Thus spake he: -“ Men of Latmos! shepherd

bands! Whose care it is to guard a thousand focks: Whether descended from beneath the rocks That overtop your mountains; whether come From vallies where the pipe is never dumb; Or from your swelling downs, where sweet airstin Blue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly farze Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious charga, Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge, Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlorn By the dim echoes of old Triton's horu: Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare The scrip, with needments, for the mountain-zir; And all ye gentle girls who foster up Udderless lambs, and in a little cup Will put choice honey for a favoured youth: Yea, every one attend! for in good truth Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan. Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than Night-swollen mushrooms ? Are not our wide pains Speckled with countless fleeces? Have not falas Green'd over April's lap? No howling sad Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had Great bounty from Endymion our lord. The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd His early song against yon breezy sky, That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity."

Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spine Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred tire; Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god. Now while the earth was drinking it, and while Bay-leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile

, And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright ’Neath smothering parsley, and a bazy light Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang:

“ O thou! whose mighty palace-roof doth hang From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death

Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness ;

Be still the unimaginable lodge Who lov’st to see the hamadryads dress

For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken; Conception to the very bourne of heaven, And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven, hearken

That spreading in this dull and clodded earth The dreary melody of bedded reeds

Gives it a touch ethereal-a new birth:
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds Be still a symbol of immensity ;
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth ;

A firmament reflected in a sea;
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth

An element filling the space

between ; Chou wast to lose fair Syrinx-do thou now,

An unknown-but no more: we humbly screen By thy love's milky brow!

With uplift hands our foreheads lowly bending, By all the trembling mazes that she ran,

And giving out a shout most heaven-rending, lear us, great Pan !

Conjure thee to receive our humble Pæan,

Upon thy Mount Lycean!” “O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles Passion their voices cooingly among myrtles, Ever while they brought the burden to a close, What time thou wanderest at eventide

A shout from the whole multitude arose, Chrough sunny meadows, that outskirt the side That lingered in the air like dying rolls :f thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals froad leaved fig trees even now foredoom

Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine. Cheir ripen’d fruitage; yellow-girted bees

Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine, Cheir golden honeycombs; our village-leas Young companies nimbly began dancing Cheir fairest blossom'd beans and poppied corn ; To the swift treble pipe, and humming string. "he chuckling linnet its five young unborn, Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly lo sing for thee; low creeping strawberries To tunes forgotten-out of memory: [bred l'heir summer coolness; pent up butterflies Fair creatures! whose young children's children Cheir freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding year Thermopylæ its heroes not yet dead, All its completions—be quickly near,

But in old marbles ever beautiful. By every wind that nods the mountain-pine, -) forester divine !

THE MOON.
“ Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies
for willing service: whether to surprise

By the feud
The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit; 'Twixt nothing and Creation, I here swear,
Ir upward ragged precipices flit

Eterne Apollo! that thy Sister fair
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw ; Is of all these the gentlier mightiest.
Or by mysterious enticement draw

When thy gold breath is misting in the west, Bewilder'd shepherds to their path again;

She unobserved steals unto her throne, Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, And there she sits most meek and most alone; And gather up all fancifullest shells

As if she had not pomp subservient; For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,

As if thine eye, high Poet! was not bent And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping ; Towards her with the Muses in thine heart; Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,

As if the ministring stars kept not apart, The while they pelt each other on the crown Waiting for silver-footed messages. With silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown- O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees By all the echoes that about thee ring,

Feel palpitations when thou lookest in: Hear us, O satyr king!

O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din

The while they feel thine airy fellowship. “ O Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, Thou dost bless every where with silver lip, While ever and anon to his shorn peers

Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine, A ram goes bleating : Winder of the horn,

Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine: When snouted wild boars routing tender corn Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, Anger our huntsmen : Breather round our farms, Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes; To keep off mildews, and all weather harms: And yet thy benediction passeth not Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,

One obscure hiding place, one little spot That come a swooning over hollow grounds, Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren And wither drearily on barren moors :

Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken, Dread opener of the mysterious doors

And from beneath a sheltering ivy-leaf Leading to universal knowledge-see,

Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief Great son of Dryope,

To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps The many that are come to pay their vows

Within its pearly house.—The mighty deeps, With leaves about their brows!

The monstrous sea is thine-the myriad sea!

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