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THE FAIRY QUEEN'S CHARIOT.

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Her chariot of a snail's fine shell,
Which for the colours did excel :
The fair Queen Mab becoming well,

So lively was the limning;
The seat the soft wool of the bee,
The cover, gallantly to see,
The wing of a pyed butterflee;

I trow, 'twas simple trimming.
The wheels composed of crickets' bones,
And daintily made for the nonce,
For fear of rattling on the stones,

With thistle-down they shod it;
For all her maidens much did fear,
If Oberon had chanced to hear
That Mab his queen should have been there,
He would not have abode it.

DRAYTON.

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The Young Herdsman.

FROM early childhood, even,

as hath been said, From his sixth year, he had

been sent abroad, In summer, to tend herds : such

was his task Thenceforward till the latter

day of youth. Oh then what soul was his,

when, on the tops Of the high mountains, he be

held the sun Rise up and bathe the world

in light! He lookedOcean and earth, the solid frame

of earth And ocean's liquid mass beneath

him lay, In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched, And in their silent faces did he read Unutterable love. Sound needed none,

THE YOUNG HERDSMAN.

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Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank
The spectacle ; sensation, soul, and form,
All melted into him ; they swallowed up
His animal being; in them did he live,
And by them did he live; they were his life.
In such access of mind, in such high hour
Of visitation from the living God,
Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired.
No thanks he breathed; he proffered no request;
Rapt into still communion, that transcends
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,
His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power
That made him ;-It was blessedness and love !

A herdsman, on the lonely mountain tops,
Such intercourse was his ; and in this sort
Was his existence oftentimes possessed.
Oh then, how beautiful, how bright appeared
The written promise! He had early learned
To reverence the Volume which displays
The mysteries, the life that cannot die ;
But in the mountains did he feel his faith;
There did he see the writing ;-all things there
Breathed immortality, revolving life,
And greatness still revolving ;-infinite !
There littleness was not ;—the least of things
Seemed infinite ; and there his spirit shaped
Her prospects ; nor did he believe he saw.
What wonder if his being thus became
Sublime and comprehensive ! low desires,

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Higher still and higher,

From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire ;

The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright’ning,

Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven

In the broad daylight,
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

was born in 1792, and received his education at Eton and Oxford. From the university he was expelled, perhaps harshly, for atheistical doubts, which a milder treatment might have eradicated. His subsequent life was passed chiefly in Italy, where he met with an early death. He was drowned by the upsetting of his sailing boat during a sudden storm. Gorgeous in imagination and instinct with beauty as his works are, it is to be regretted that many of them have not been suppressed. The subject of the “Cenci,” his great tragedy, is revolting in its horror.]

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All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art, we know not ;

What is most like thee;
From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower.

Like a glowworm golden

In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden

Its aërial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the

view.

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