For thee the Lityerses-song again

Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing;
Sings his Sicilian fold,

His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes—
And how a call celestial round him rang,

And heavenward from the fountain-brink he

sprang,

And all the marvel of the golden skies.

There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here
Sole in these fields! yet will I not despair.
Despair I will not, while I yet descry
'Neath the mild canopy of English air
That lonely tree against the western sky.
Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear,

Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee!
Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay,
Woods with anemonies in flower till May,
Know him a wanderer still; then why not me?

A fugitive and gracious light he seeks,

Shy to illumine; and I seek it too.

This does not come with houses or with gold,
With place, with honour, and a flattering crew;
'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold—
But the smooth-slipping weeks

Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired;
Out of the heed of mortals he is gone,
He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone;
Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired.

Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound;
Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour!

Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest,
If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power,
If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest.
And this rude Cumner ground,

Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields,
Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time,
Here was thine height of strength, thy golden
prime !

And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields.

What though the music of thy rustic flute
Kept not for long its happy, country tone;
Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note
Of men contention-tost, of men who groan,
Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy
throat-

It fail'd, and thou wast mute!

Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light,

And long with men of care thou couldst not stay,
And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way,

Left human haunt, and on alone till night.

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. -Then through the great town's harsh, heartwearying roar,

Let in thy voice a whisper often come,

To chase fatigue and fear :

Why faintest thou? I wander'd till I died.

Roam on!

The light we sought is shining still.

Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the

hill,

Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side.

M. Arnold

CXXXI

AMPHIBIAN

The fancy I had to-day,
Fancy which turn'd a fear!
I swam far out in the bay,

Since waves laugh'd warm and clear.

I lay and look'd at the sun,
The noon-sun look'd at me :

Between us two, no one

Live creature, that I could see.

Yes! There came floating by
Me, who lay floating too,
Such a strange butterfly!
Creature as dear as new:

Because the membraned wings
So wonderful, so wide,
So sun-suffused, were things
Like soul and nought beside.

A handbreadth over head!
All of the sea my own,
It own'd the sky instead ;
Both of us were alone.

I never shall join its flight,
For, nought buoys flesh in air.
If it touch the sea-good-night!
Death sure and swift waits there.

Can the insect feel the better
For watching the uncouth play
Of limbs that slip the fetter,
Pretend as they were not clay ?

Undoubtedly I rejoice

That the air comports so well With a creature which had the choice Of the land once. Who can tell?

What if a certain soul

Which early slipp'd its sheath,
And has for its home the whole
Of heaven, thus look beneath,

Thus watch one who, in the world,
Both lives and likes life's way,

Nor wishes the wings unfurl'd

That sleep in the worm, they say?

But sometimes when the weather
Is blue, and warm waves tempt

To free oneself of tether,

And try a life exempt

From worldly noise and dust,
In the sphere which overbrims
With passion and thought,-why, just
Unable to fly, one swims!

By passion and thought upborne,

One smiles to oneself

They fare

Scarce better, they need not scorn

Our sea, who live in the air !'

Emancipate through passion
And thought, with sea for sky,
We substitute, in a fashion,
For heaven-poetry :

Which sea, to all intent,
Gives flesh such noon-disport
As a finer element

Affords the spirit-sort.

Whatever they are, we seem :
Imagine the thing they know;
All deeds they do, we dream;
Can heaven be else but so?

And meantime, yonder streak
Meets the horizon's verge;
That is the land, to seek

If we tire or dread the surge:

Land the solid and safe

To welcome again (confess!)
When, high and dry, we chafe
The body, and don the dress.

Does she look, pity, wonder
At one who mimics flight,
Swims-heaven above, sea under,
Yet always earth in sight?

R. Browning

CXXXII

O life, O death, O world, O time,
O grave, where all things flow,
'Tis yours to make our lot sublime
With your great weight of woe.

Though sharpest anguish hearts may wring,
Though bosoms torn may be,
Yet suffering is a holy thing;
Without it what were we?

R. C. Archbishop Trench

CXXXIII

CONSOLATION

Mist clogs the sunshine.
Smoky dwarf houses

Hem me round everywhere;
A vague dejection

Weighs down my soul.

Yet, while I languish,
Everywhere countless
Prospects unroll themselves,
And countless beings
Pass countless moods.

Far hence, in Asia,

On the smooth convent-roofs,

On the gilt terraces,

Of holy Lassa,

Bright shines the sun.

Gray time-worn marbles
Hold the pure Muses;
In their cool gallery,
By yellow Tiber,
They still look fair.