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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,

Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity.
Many changes have been run,
Since Ferdinand and you begun
Your course of love, and Ariel still
Has track'd your steps and serv'd your will.

low in humbler, happier lot,
This is all remember d not;
And now, alas ! the poor sprite is
Imprisoned for some fault of his
In a body like a grave.
From you, he only dares to crave,
For his service and his sorrow,
A smile to-day-a song to-morrow.

The artist who this idol wrought,
To echo all harmonious thought,
Fell'd a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rock'd in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Appenine :
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 fairest star,
The artist wrought this lov'd Guitar,
And taught it justly to reply
To all who question skilfully,
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamor'd 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 forest and the mountains,
And the many-voicèd fountains,
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.

This is a Catullian melody of the first water. The transformation of the dreaming wood of the tree into a guitar was probably suggested by Catullus's Dedication of the Galley,—a poem with which I know he was conversant, and which was particularly calculated to please him ; for it records the consecration of a favorite old sea-boat to the Dioscuri. The modern poet's imagination beats the ancient; but Catullus equals him in graceful flow; and there is one very Shelleian passage in the original :

Ubi iste, post phaselus, antea fuit
Comata silva: nam Cytorio in jugo
Loquente sæpe sibilum edidit comâ.

For of old, what now you see
A galley, was a leafy tree
On the Cytorian heights, and there
Talk'd to the wind with whistling hair.



Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odors, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken;
Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

1 “ Music, when soft voices die.”—This song is a great

rite with musicians: and no wonder. Beaumont and Fletcher never wrote anything of the kind more lovely.


BORN, 1796,-DIED, 1821.

Keats was a born poet of the most poetical kind. All his feel. ings came to him through a poetical medium, or were speedily i colored by it. He enjoyed a jest as heartily as any one, and sympathized with the lowliest common-place; but the next minute his thoughts were in a garden of enchantment, with nymphs, and fauns, and shapes of exalted humanity;

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace.

It might be said of him, that he never beheld an oak-tree with. out seeing the Dryad. His fame may now forgive the critics who disliked his politics, and did not understand his poetry. Repeated editions of him in England, France, and America, attest its triumphant survival of all obloquy; and there can be no doubt that he has taken a permanent station among the British Poets, of a very high, if not thoroughly mature, description.

Keats's early poetry, indeed, partook plentifully of the exube. rance of youth; and even in most of his later, his sensibility, sharpened by mortal illness, tended to a morbid excess. His region is “a wilderness of sweets,"_flowers of all hue, and “weeds of glorious feature," --where, as he says, the luxuriant soil brings

The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth.

But there also is the “rain-scented eglantine,” and bushes oi May-flowers, with bees, and myrtle, and bay, and endless paths into forests haunted with the loveliest as well as the gentlest

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