The princely dome, the column and

the arch,

The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold,

Beyond the proud possessor's nar row claim,

His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the Spring

Distils her dews, and from the silken gem

His lucid leaves unfolds; for him the

hand

Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch

With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.

Each passing Hour sheds tribute from her wings,

And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,

And loves unfelt attract him.

Look, then, abroad through Nature, to the range

Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres,

Wheeling unshaken through the Void immense,

And speak, O man! does this capacious scene

With half that kindling majesty dilate

Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose

Refulgent from the stroke of Cæsar's fate,

Amid the crowd of patriots; and his

ULYSSES.

IT little profits that an idle king By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed

Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when

Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea: I am become a

name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honored of them

all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough

Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades

Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!

As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something

more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it

were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking

star

Or a mere fiction of what never was? For the discerning intellect of Man, When wedded to this goodly uni

verse

In love and holy passion, shall find these

A simple produce of the common day.

I, long before the blissful hour arrives,

Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse

Of this great consummation: — and, by words

Which speak of nothing more than what we are,

Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep

Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain

To noble raptures; while my voice proclaims

How exquisitely the individual Mind (And the progressive powers, perhaps no less,

Of the whole species) to the external World

Is fitted: and how exquisitely,

Of bright aerial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air,

Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot

Which men call Earth, and with low-thoughted care

Confined and pestered in this pinfold here,

Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being,

Unmindful of the crown that virtue

gives,

After this mortal change, to her true servants,

Amongst the enthroned Gods on sainted seats.

Yet some there be that by due steps aspire

To lay their just hands on that golden key

That opes the palace of eternity; To such my errand is; and, but for such,

I would not soil these pure ambrosial weeds

With the rank vapors of this sinworn mould.

But to my task. Neptune, besides the sway

Of every salt flood, and each ebbing stream,

Took in by lot 'twixt high and nether