To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles,

He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallow'd miles; Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls; Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far-astonish'd shoals

Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, haply in a

cove,

Shell-strewn, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love,

To find the long-hair'd mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands,

To wrestle with the Sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands.

O broad-arm'd Fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?

The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy

cable line!

And night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,

Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play

But shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I

gave

A fisher's joy is to destroy-thine office is to save.
O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but

understand

Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band,

Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend,

With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend?

Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,

Thine iron side would swell with pride; thou'dst leap

within the sea!

S. Ferguson

CVI

HERODIAS

Her long black hair danced round her like a snake
Allured to each charm'd movement she did make ;
Her voice came strangely sweet;

She sang, 'O, Herod, wilt thou look on me-
Have I no beauty thy heart cares to see?'
And what her voice did sing her dancing feet
Seem'd ever to repeat.

She sang, 'O, Herod, wilt thou look on me?
What sweet I have, I have it all for thee;'
And through the dance and song
She freed and floated on the air her arms
Above dim veils that hid her bosom's charms:
The passion of her singing was so strong
It drew all hearts along.

Her sweet arms were unfolded on the air,
They seem'd like floating flowers the most fair-
White lilies the most choice;

And in the gradual bending of her hand

There lurk'd a grace that no man could withstand; Yea, none knew whether hands, or feet, or voice, Most made his heart rejoice.

A. O'Shaughnessy

CVII

'ITALIA, IO TI SALUTO !'

To come back from the sweet South, to the North
Where I was born, bred, look to die;
Come back to do my day's work in its day,

Play out my play

Amen, amen, say I.

To see no more the country half my own,
Nor hear the half familiar speech,
Amen, I say; I turn to that bleak North
Whence I came forth-

The South lies out of reach.

But when our swallows fly back to the South,
To the sweet South, to the sweet South,
The tears may come again into my eyes

On the old wise,

And the sweet name to my mouth.

C. G. Rossetti

CVIII

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England-now!

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
-Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

R. Browning

CIX

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS

Where the quiet-colour'd end of evening smiles
Miles and miles

On the solitary pastures where our sheep
Half-asleep

Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop-

Was the site once of a city great and gay, (So they say)

Of our country's very capital, its prince

Ages since

Held his court in, gather'd councils, wielding far Peace or war.

Now the country does not even boast a tree,

As you see

To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills

Intersect and give a name to, (else they run
Into one)

Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires Up like fires

O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall

Bounding all,

Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest, Twelve abreast.

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was!

Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads
And embeds

Every vestige of the city, guess'd alone,
Stock or stone-

Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe

Long ago;

Lust of glory prick'd their hearts up, dread of shame
Struck them tame;

And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.

Now, the single little turret that remains
On the plains,

By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
Overscored,

While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks
Through the chinks—

Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime,

And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced,

And the monarch and his minions and his dames View'd the games.

And I know, while thus the quiet-colour'd eve
Smiles to leave

To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
In such peace,

And the slopes and rills in undistinguish'd gray
Melt away-

That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
Waits me there

In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
For the goal,

When the king look'd, where she looks now, breathless, dumb

Till I come.

But he look'd upon the city, every side,
Far and wide,

All the mountains topp'd with temples, all the glades'
Colonnades,

All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,—and then,

All the men !