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THE WOODMAN AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
A WOODMAN whose rough heart was out of tune (I think such hearts yet never came to good) Hated to hear, under the stars or moon
One nightingale in an interfluous wood
Or as the moonlight fills the open sky
Like clouds above the flower from which they rose, The singing of that happy nightingale
In this sweet forest, from the golden close
Of evening, till the star of dawn may fail,
Heard her within their slumbers, the abyss
Of the circumfluous waters,-every sphere
And every beast stretched in its rugged cave,
Which is its cradle-ever from below
Of one serene and unapproached star,
Itself how low, how high beyond all height
Was awed into delight, and by the charm
Whilst that sweet bird, whose music was a storm
Of sound, shook forth the dull oblivion
Out of their dreams; harmony became love
And so this man returned with axe and saw
Was each a wood-nymph, and kept ever green
With jagged leaves,-and from the forest tops
Into their mother's bosom, sweet and soft,
They spread themselves into the loveliness
Hang like moist clouds :-or, where high branches kiss,
Make a green space among the silent bowers,
Like a vast fane in a metropolis,
Surrounded by the columns and the towers
All overwrought with branch-like traceries
Odours and gleams and murmurs, which the lute
Stirs as it sails, now grave and now acute,
Wakening the leaves and waves ere it has past
To such brief unison as on the brain
One tone, which never can recur, has cast,
One accent never to return again.
WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF TII!
DEATH OF NAPOLEON.
What! alive and so bold, oh earth?
What! leapest thou forth as of old
Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fle 1,
How! is not thy quick heart cold
What spark is alive on thy hearth?
Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled—
"Who has known me of old," replied Earth,
It is thou who art overbol l."
And the lightning of scorn laughed forth
As she sung,
"to my bosom I fold
All my sons when their knell is knolled,
And so with living motion all are fed,
And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.
"Still alive and still bold," shouted Earth,
Fuller of speed, and splendour, and mirth,
Till by the spirit of the mighty dead
I feed on whom I fed.
Aye, alive and still bold," muttered Earth,
Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled,
In terror and blood and gold,
A torrent of ruin to death from his birth.
And weave into his shame, which like the dead