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Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom'st then,

Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams,

And all these merry days mak'st merry men

Thyself and melancholy streams.

But ah! the sickle! golden ears are cropt;

Ceres and Bacchus bid good-night; Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have topt,

And what scythes spared winds shave off quite.

Poor verdant fool! and now green ice, thy joys

Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass

Bid us lay in 'gainst winter rain, and poise

Their floods with an o'erflowing glass.

Thou best of men and friends, we

will create

A genuine summer in each other's breast;

And spite of this cold time and frozen fate,

Thaw us a warm seat to our rest.

Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally

As vestal flames; the North-wind,

he

Shall strike his frost-stretched wings, dissolve, and fly

This Etna in epitome.

Dropping December shall come weeping in,

Bewail th' usurping of his reign; But when in showers of old Greek* we begin,

Shall cry, he hath his crown again!

Night as clear Hesper shall our tapers whip

From the light casements where we play,

And the dark hag from her black mantle strip,

And stick there everlasting day.

Greek wine.

Thus richer than untempted kings

are we,

That asking nothing, nothing need;

Though lord of all what seas embrace, yet he

That wants himself is poor indeed. RICHARD LOVELACE.

TO JOANNA.

As it befell,

One summer morning we had walked abroad

At break of day, Joanna and myself. 'Twas that delightful season when the broom,

Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,

Along the copses runs in veins of gold.

Our pathway led us on to Rotha's

banks;

And when we came in front of that tall rock

That eastward looks. I there stopped short, and stood

Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit; such delight I found

To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower,

That intermixture of delicious hues, In one impression, by connecting force

Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart.

When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space,

Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.

The Rock, like something starting from a sleep,

Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again;

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Carried the Lady's voice, -old Skid

daw blew

His speaking-trumpet; back out of the clouds

Of Glaramara southward came the voice:

And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.

"Now whether" (said I to our cordial friend,

Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smiled in my face), "this were in simple truth

A work accomplished by the brotherhood

Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched

With dreams and visionary impulses To me alone imparted, sure I am That there was a loud uproar in the hills."

And while we both were listening, to my side

The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished

To shelter from some object of her fear.

And hence long afterwards, when eighteen moons

Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone

Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm

And silent morning, I sat down, and there,

In memory of affections old and true, I chiselled out in those rude charac

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To solitary Saturn bore;

His daughter she (in Saturn's reign,
Such mixture was not held a stain).
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of cyprus-lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the
skies,

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast
Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
And join with thee calm Peace, and

Quiet,

Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet,

And hears the Muses in a ring
Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleas-
ure;

But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,

Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon
yoke,

Gently o'er th' accustomed oak;
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise

of folly,

Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among

I woo, to hear thy even-song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heav'n's wide pathless
way;

And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide-water'd shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
Or, if the air will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the

room

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly
harm:

Or let my lamp at midnight hour
Be seen in some high lonely tow'r,
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,
With thrice-great Hermes, or un-
sphere

The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions
hold

The immortal mind, that hath forsook

Her mansion in this fleshly nook: And of those Demons that are

found

In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With planet, or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In sceptred pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,

Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Museus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did
seek.

Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canacé to wife,
That own'd the virtuous ring and
glass,

And of the wondrous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if aught else great bards be-

side,

In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forests, and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the

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Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep; And let some strange mysterious

dream

Wave at his wings in aery stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid.

And as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,
Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloisters pale,
And love the high embowèd roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light:
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full voic'd quire below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine

ear,

Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all heav'n before mine

eyes.

And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every star that heav'n doth show,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
MILTON.

FROM THE BOTHIE OF TOBER NA VUOLICH.

THERE is a stream, I name not its

name, lest inquisitive tourist Hunt it, and make it a lion, and get it at last into guide-books, Springing far off from a loch unexplored in the folds of great ¦ mountains,

Falling two miles through rowan and stunted alder, enveloped Then for four more in a forest of

pine, where broad and ample Spreads, to convey it, the glen with

heathery slopes on both sides: Broad and fair the stream, with

occasional falls and narrows; But, where the glen of its course approaches the vale of the river,

Met and blocked by a huge interposing mass of granite,

Scarce by a channel deep-cut, raging up and raging onward, Forces its flood through a passage so narrow a lady would step it,

There, across the great rocky wharves, a wooden bridge

goes,

Carrying a path to the forest; below, three hundred yards, say Lower in level some twenty-five feet, through flats of shingle, Stepping-stones and a cart-track cross in the open valley.

But in the interval here the boiling, pent-up water

Frees itself by a final descent, attaining a basin,

Ten feet wide and eighteen long, with whiteness and fury Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid, pure, a mirror;

Beautiful there for color derived from green rocks under; Beautiful, most of all, where beads of foam uprising

Mingle their clouds of white with the delicate hue of the stillness. Cliff overcliff for its sides, with rowan

and pendent birch-boughs, Here it lies, unthought of above at the bridge and pathway, Still more enclosed from below by wood and rocky projection. You are shut in, left alone with yourself and perfection of

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