I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?

But many a dingle on the loved hillside,

With thorns once studded, old, white-blossomed trees, Where thick the cowslips grew, and, far descried,

High towered the spikes of purple orchises,

Hath since our day put by The coronals of that forgotten time; Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team,

And only in the hidden brookside

gleam Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime.

Where is the girl, who, by the boatman's door,

Above the locks, above the boating throng,

Unmoored our skiff, when, through the Wytham flats,

Red loosestrife and blond meadowsweet among,

And darting swallows, and light water-guats,

We tracked the shy Thames

A fugitive and gracious light he seeks,

Shy to illumine; and I seek it too. This does not come with houses or with gold,

With place, with honor, and a flattering crew;

'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold.

But the smooth-slipping weeks Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired.

Out of the heed of mortals is he gone,

He wends unfollowed, he must house alone;

Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired.

Thou too, O Thyrsis, on this quest wert bound,

Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour.

Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest,

If men esteemed thee feeble, gave thee power,

If men procured thee trouble, gave

thee rest.

And this rude Cumner ground, Its fir-topped Hurst, its farins, its quiet fields,

Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time,

Here was thine height of strength,

thy golden prime, And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields.

What though the music of thy rustic flute

Kept not for long its happy country tone;

Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note

Of men contention-tost, of men who groan,

Which tasked thy pipe too sore,

and tired thy throat

It failed, and thou wert mute. Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light,

And long with men of care thou

couldst not stay,

And soon thy foot resumed its

wandering way,

Left human haunt, and on alone till

night.

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here!

'Mid city noise, not, as with thee of yore,

Thyrsis, in reach of sheep-bells is my home.

Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar,

Let in thy voice a whisper often

come,

To chase fatigue and fear: Why faintest thou? I wandered till I died.

Roam on; the light we sought is shining still.

Dost thou ask proof? Our Tree yet crowns the hill,

Our Scholar travels yet the loved hillside.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

DION.

MOURN, hills and groves of Attica! and mourn

Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn! Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads

Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades!

For him who to divinity aspired, Not on the breath of popular applause,

But through dependence on the sacred laws

Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired,

Intent to trace the ideal path of right (More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) Which Dion learned to measure with delight;

But He hath overleaped the eternal bars;

And, following guides whose craft holds no consent

With aught that breathes the ethereal element,

Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood,

Unjustly shed, though for the public good.

Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain;