Lured by the love of the genii that

move

In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain

or stream,

The spirit he loves, remains; And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning-star shines dead.

As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when sunset may breathe, from
the lit sea beneath,

Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine
airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my windbuilt tent,

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, [pearl; And the moon's with a girdle of The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.

From cape to cape, with a bridgelike shape,

Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march,

With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-colored bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colors

wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water, And the nursling of the sky:

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I arise and unbuild it again.

FROM "THE SENSITIVE-PLANT.”

A SENSITIVE-plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew,

And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light,

And closed them beneath the kisses of night.

where;

bare;

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-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.

And as they looked they found their horror grow,

And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view.

Near to this dome is found a patch so green,

On which the tribe their gambols do display;

And at the door imprisoning board is seen,

Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray; Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day! The noises intermixed, which thence resound, [tray;

Do learning's little tenement beWhere sits the dame, disguised in look profound

And eyes her fairy throng, and turns

Her

her wheel around.

cap, far whiter than the driven snow,

Emblem right meet of decency

does yield:

Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I

And, if neglect had lavished on the ground

Fragments of bread, she would collect the same,

For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,