Might now perhaps their wonted impulse giveMight startle this dull pain, and make it move and live.

II.

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear-
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear—

O lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,

And its peculiar tint of yellow green;
And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and
bars,

That give away their motion to the stars-
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen —
Yon crescent moon, as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue:
I see them all so excellently fair —

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

III.

My genial spirits fail;

And what can these avail

V.

O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may beWhat, and wherein it doth exist

This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, This beautiful and beauty-making power.

727

Joy, virtuous lady! Joy that ne'er was given Save to the pure, and in their purest hourLife, and life's effluence, cloud at once and showerJoy, lady, is the spirit and the power Which, wedding nature to us, gives in dower

A new earth and new heaven,

Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloudWe in ourselves rejoice!

And thence flows all that charms our ear or sight

All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colors a suffusion from that light.

VI.

There was a time when, though my path was rough,

This joy within me dallied with distress;

And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness. For hope grew round me like the twining vine;

O lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live;
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud;
And would we aught behold of higher worth
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd-

Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the earth;

And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element !

But now afflictions bow me down to earth,
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation

Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man
This was my sole resource, my only plan;
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

VII.

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind

Reality's dark dream !

I turn from you, and listen to the wind,

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream

Of agony, by torture lengthened out,

That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that ravest without!

Bare crag, or mountain-tarn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad lutanist! who, in this month of showers,
Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak'st devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among!
Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!

Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold!
What tell'st thou now about?

"Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds

To her may all things live, from pole to poleTheir life the eddying of her living soul!

O simple spirit, guided from above! Dear lady! friend devoutest of my choice! Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,

Flowers without Fruit.

PRUNE thou thy words; the thoughts control
That o'er thee swell and throng:
They will condense within thy soul,

And change to purpose strong.

But he who lets his feelings run

In soft luxurious flow,

Shrinks when hard service must be done,
And faints at every woe.

Faith's meanest deed more favor bears,
Where hearts and wills are weighed,
Than brightest transports, choicest prayers,
Which bloom their hour, and fade.

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

Sir Marmaduke.

SIR MARMADUKE was a hearty knight — Good man! old man!

He's painted standing bolt upright,

With his hose rolled over his knee;
His periwig 's as white as chalk,
And on his fist he holds a hawk;

And he looks like the head
Of an ancient family.

His dining-room was long and wide –
Good man! old man!

His spaniels lay by the fireside;
And in other parts, d'ye see,
Cross-bows, tobacco-pipes, old hats,
A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats;
And he looked like the head

Of an ancient family.

He never turned the poor from the gate—
Good man! old man!

But was always ready to break the pate
Of his country's enemy.

Now Lazarus begs at Dives' gate

The One Gray Hair.

THE wisest of the wise
Listen to pretty lies,

And love to hear them told;

Doubt not that Solomon

Listened to many a one

Some in his youth, and more when he grew old.

I never sat among

The choir of wisdom's song,

But pretty lies loved I

As much as any king

When youth was on the wing,

And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by.

Alas! and I have not
The pleasant hour forgot,
When one pert lady said-
"O Landor! I am quite
Bewildered with affright;

feast;

And never a fear of his future fate

Disturbs the rich man's soul in the least.

And Magdalen crouches in dumb despair,
Alone at the foot of the altar-stone,
And nobody heeds her lying there,

Or hears her prayer in its anguished moan.

Another, more benign,
Drew out that hair of mine,

And in her own dark hair
Pretended she had found
That one, and twirled it round.

Fair as she was, she never was so fair.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.