Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tuned law; Round about a throne, where, sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well-befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, And travellers now within that valley, A hideous throng rush out for ever, STAND LIKE AN ANVIL. "STAND, like an anvil," when the stroke "Stand, like an anvil," when the sparks BISHOP DOANE. That there is warmth, not heat, in the broad sun, The ardors of his car; The stealthy frosts, whom his spent looks embolden, What a brave splendor Is in the October air! How rich, and clear, And bracing, and all-joyous! we must render But autumn is a thing of perfect glory, I love the woods, In this good season of the liberal year; And find strange lessons, as I sit and ponder, But not alone, As Shakspeare's melancholy courtier loved Ardennes, I would not oft have mused, as he, but flown And little thought, as up the bold deer bounded, What passionate And keen delight is in the proud swift chase! With the high pride of his place; What time the unrisen sun arrays the morning Hark! the quick horn As sweet to hear as any clarion Piercing with silver call the ear of morn; Each one of them his fiery mood displaying Urge your swift horse, After the crying hounds in this fresh hour, Vanquish high hills-stem perilous streams perforce, Of the brave chase-and how of griefs the sorest Or stalk the deer; The same red lip of dawn has kissed the hills, Your very nature fills With the fresh hour, as up the hills aspiring A strong joy fills (A joy beyond the tongue's expressive power) My heart in autumn weather-fills and thrills! And I would rather stalk the breezy hills, Descending to my bower |