So I told them in rime, for of rimes I had store;
And 'twas in my vocation for their recreation

That so I should sing, because I was laureate to them and the king.

From its sources which well in the Tarn on the fell;
From its fountains in the mountains,

Its rills and its gills,—through moss and through brake
It runs and it creeps for awhile, till it sleeps
In its own little lake. And thence at departing,
Awaking and starting, it runs through the reeds,
And away it proceeds through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade, and through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry, helter-skelter,

Hurry-skurry. Here it comes sparkling,

And there it lies darkling; now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in, till, in this rapid race

On which it is bent, it reaches the place

Of its steep descent.

The cataract strong then plunges along,
Striking and raging, as if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among; rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping, swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing, flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing, eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking, turning and twisting,
Around and around with endless rebound!
Smiting and fighting, a sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding, dizzying, and deafening
The ear with its sound.

Collecting, projecting, receding and speeding,

And shocking and rocking, and darting and parting,
All threading and spreading, and whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping, and hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining, and rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking, and pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving, and tossing and crossing,

And flowing and going, and running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming, and dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping, and working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling, and heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;

And glittering and flittering, and gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, and quivering and shivering,

And hurrying and skurrying, and thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding,

And falling and brawling and sprawling,

And driving and riving and striving,

And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering;

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,

Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,

And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing,
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,-
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN

BY JOHN KEATS

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rime: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Tho winning near the goal-yet, do not grieve; She can not fade, tho thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that can not shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied,

For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other wo Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say 'st "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

THE PASSIONS

BY WILLIAM COLLINS

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,-
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,-
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury-rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each for Madness ruled the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,

E'en at the sound himself had made.—
Next, Anger rushed-his eyes on fire-

In lightnings owned his secret stings: