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“Chalic'd flowers that lies,” is an ungrammatical license in use with the most scholarly writers of the time; and, to say the truth, it was a slovenly one; though there is all the difference in the world between the license of power and that of poverty.

1“ In profuse strains of unpremeditated art."-During the prevalence of the unimaginative and unmusical poetry of the last century, it was thought an Alexandrine should always be cut in halves, for the greater sweetness ; that is to say, monotony. The truth is, the pause may be thrown anywhere, or even entirely omitted, as in the unhesitating and characteristic instance before us. See also the eighth stanza. The Alexandrines throughout the poem evince the nicest musical feeling.

2 Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower.

Mark the accents on the word "love-laden," so beautifully carrying on the stress into the next line

Soothing her love-làden
Soul in secret hour.

The music of the whole stanza is of the loveliest sweetness; of energy in the midst of softness; of dulcitude and variety. Not a sound of a vowel in the quatrain resembles that of another, except in the rhymes; while the very sameness or repetition of the sounds in the Alexandrine intimates the revolvement and continuity of the music which the lady is playing. Observe, for instance (for nothing is too minute to dwell upon in such beauty), the contrast of the i and o in “high-born;" the difference of the a in “maiden” from that in “palace;' the strong opposition of maiden to tower (making the rhyme more vigorous in proportion to the general softness); then the new differences in soothing, love-laden, soul, and secret, all diverse from one another, and from the whole strain; and finally, the strain itself, winding up in the Alexandrine with a cadence of particular repetitions, which constitutes nevertheless a new difference on that account, and by the prolongation of the tone.

“ It gives a very echo to the seat

Where love is throned.”

There is another passage of Shakspeare which it more particularly calls to mind;-the

Ditties highly penn’d,
Sung by a fair queen in a summer bower,
With ravishing division to her lute.

But as Shakspeare was not writing lyrically in this passage, nor desirous to fill it with so much love and sentiment, it is no irreverence to say that the modern excels it. The music is car. ried on into the first two lines of the next stanza :

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew;

a melody as happy in its alliteration as in what may be termed its counterpoint. And the coloring of this stanza is as beautiful as the music.

3Thou scorner of the ground.”—A most noble and emphatic close of the stanza. Not that the lark, in any vulgar sense of the word, “scorns" the ground, for he dwells upon it: but that, like the poet, nobody can take leave of common places with more heavenly triumph.



The all-beholding sun yet shines; I hear
A busy stir of men about the streets ;
I see the bright sky through the window-panes ;
It is a garish, broad, and peering day;
Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and ears ;
And every little corner, nook, and hole,
Is penetrated with the insolent light.
Come, darkness !



Spare me now.
I am as one lost in a midnight wood,
Who dares not ask some harmless passenger
The path across the wilderness, lest he,
As my thoughts are, should be a murderer


I remember, Two miles on this side of the fort, the road Crosses a deep ravine : 't is rough and narrow, And winds with short turns down the precipice; 2'nd in its depth there is a mighty rock, Wich has, from unimaginable years, Sustain'd itself with terror and with toil Over a gulf, and with the agony With which it clings seems slowly coming down ; Even as a wretched soul, hour after hour, Clings to the mass of life; yet clinging, leans, And, leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss In which it fears to fall. Beneath this crag, Huge as despair, as if in weariness, The melancholy mountain yawns. Below You hear, but see not, an impetuous torrent Raging among the caverns: and a bridge Crosses the chasm; and high above these grow, With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag, Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose tangled hair Is matted in one solid roof of shade By the dark ivy's twine. At noon-day here 'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night.


Sweet lamp ! my moth-like muse has burnt its wings;
Or, like a dying swan w soars and sings,
Young Love should teach Time in his own grey style
All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile?
A lovely soul form’d to be blest and bless ?
A well of seald and secret happiness,
Whose waters like blithe light and music are,
Vanquishing dissonance and gloom ?-a star
Which moves not in the moving heavens, alone ?
A smile amid dark frowns ?-a gentle tone
Amid rude voices ?-a beloved sight?
A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight?
A lute, which those whom love has taught to play,
Make music on, to soothe the roughest day,
And lull fond grief asleep ?-a buried treasure ?
A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleasure ?
A violet-shrouded grave of wo? I measure
The world of fancies, seeking one like thee,
And find-alas! mine own infirmity.


Life, like a dome of many-colored glass,
Stains the white radiance of eternity.


One word is too often profaned

For me to profane it ;
One feeling too falsely disdain'd

For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,

And pity from thee more dear

Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love;

But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above,

And the Heaven's reject not?
The desire of the moth for the star

Of the night for the morrow; The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow.


Ariel to Miranda :--Take
This slave of music, for the sake
Of him who is the slave of thee;
And teach it all the harmony
In which thou canst, and only thou,
Make the delighted spirit glow,
Till joy denies itself again,
And, too intense, is turned to pain.
For by permission and command
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken:
Your guadian spirit, Ariel, who
From life to life must still pursue
Your happiness, for thus alone
Can Ariel ever find his own :
From Prospero's enchanted cell,
As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples he
Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor :
When you die, the silent moon
In her interlunar swoon,
Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel:
When you live again on earth,
Like an unseen star of birth,

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