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Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air

The soul of her beauty and love lay bare;

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up,

As a Menad, its moonlight-colored Till the fiery star, which is its eye, cup, Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky;

And the jessamine faint, and the The sweetest flower for scent that sweet tuberose, blows;

And all rare blossoms from every clime

Grew in that garden in perfect prime.

And on the stream whose inconstant bosom

Was prankt, under boughs of embowering blossom,

With golden and green light, slanting through

Their heaven of many a tangled hue,

Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, And starry river-buds glimmered by, And around them the soft stream did glide and dance With a motion of sweet sound and radiance.

And from this undefiled Paradise

The flowers,- as an infant's awakening eyes Smile on its mother, whose singing

sweet

Can first lull, and at last must awaken it,

When heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them,

As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem,

Shone smiling to heaven, and every

one

Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun;

For each one was interpenetrated With the light and the odor its neighbor shed,

Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear,

Wrapped and filled by their mutual

atmosphere.

But the sensitive-plant, which could give small fruit

Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root,

Received more than all, it loved more than ever,

Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver,—

For the sensitive-plant has no bright flower;

Radiance and odor are not its dower: It loves, even like love, its deep heart is full, [ful! It desires what it has not, the beauti

FROM "TO A LADY WITH A
GUITAR."

THE artist who this idol wrought,
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine;
And dreaming, some of autumn past,
And some of spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love; and so this tree,-
O that such our death may be!—
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again:
From which, beneath heaven's fair-

est star,

The artist wrought this loved guitar,
And taught it justly to reply,
To all who question skilfully,
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamored tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells;
For it had learnt all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains;

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The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,
The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing
dew,

And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound,
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way,-
All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The spirit that inhabits it;
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before,
By those who tempt it to betray

These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For our beloved friend alone.

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For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders What sin it were to waste the small

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est crumb she found.

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's de

cent eve,

Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete;

If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave,

But in her garden found a summer seat;

Sweet melody to hear her then repeat

How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king,

While taunting foemen did a song entreat,

All, for the nonce, untuning every string, Uphung their useless lyres - small heart had they to sing.

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,

And passed much time in truly virtuous deed;

And, in those elfins' ears, would

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Right well she knew each temper to descry;

To thwart the proud and the sub-I

miss to raise;

Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high,

And some entice with pittance small of praise;

And other some with baleful sprig

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WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY. To thee, fair Freedom, I retire

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;

Nor art thou found in mansions higher

Than the low cot or humble inn. 'Tis here with boundless power I reign,

And every health which I begin Converts dull port to bright champagne!

Such freedom crowns it at an inn, fly from pomp, I fly from plate, I fly from Falsehood's specious grin; Freedom I love, and form I hate,

And choose my lodgings at an inn. Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, Which lackeys else might hope to win;

It buys what courts have not in store, It buys me freedom at an inn. Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,

Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found His warmest welcome at an inn.

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