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The light of the dying day,

Speeded by my sweet pipinga. The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,

And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,

And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,

With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars,

I sang of the dædal Earth,
And of Heaven-and the giant wars,
And Love, and Death, and Birth, -

And then I changed my pipings,-
Singing how down the vale of Menalus

I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed :
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus !

It breaks in our busom, and then we bleed:
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood,

At the sorrow of my sweet pipings,

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Our boat is asleep in Serchio's stream,
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream,
The helm sways idly, hither and thither;
Dominic, the boat-man, has brought the mast,
And the oars, and the sails; but ’lis sleeping fast,
Like a beast, unconscious of its tether.

The stars burnt out in the pale blue air,
And the thin white moon lay withering there,
To tower, and cavern, and rift, and tree,
The owl and the bat fed drowsily.
Day had kindled the dewy woods
And the rocks above and the streain below,
And the vapours in their multitudes,
And the Apennine's shroud of summer snow,
And cloathed with light of aery gold
The mists in their eastern caves uprolled.

Day had awakened all things that be,
The lark and the thrush and the swallow free ;
And the milkmaid's song and the mower's scythe,
And the matin-bell and the mountain bee:
Fire-fies were quenched on the dewy corn;
Glow-worms went out on the river's brim,
Like lamps which a student forgets to trim :

The beetle forgot to wind his horn,
The crickets were still in the ineadow and hill:
Like a flock of rooks at a farıner's gun,
Night's dreams and terrors, every one,
Fied from the brains which are their prey,
From the lamp's death to the morning ray:

All rose to do the task He set to each,
Who shaped us to his ends and not our own;
The million rose to learn, and one to teach
What none yet ever kuew or can be known ;.

And many rose Wbose woe was such that fear became desire; Melchior and Lionel were not among those;

They from the throng of men had stepped aside,
And made their home under the green hill side.
It was that hill, whose intervening brow
Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye,
Which the circumfluous plain waving below,
Like a wide lake of green fertility,
With streams and fields and marshes bare,
Divides from the far Apennines—which lie
Islanded in the immeasurable air.

“What think you, as she lies in her green cove,
Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of?
If morning dreams are true, why I should guess
That she was dreaming of our idleness,
And of the miles of watery way
We should have led her by this time of day.”-

.“ Never mind," said Lionel, “Give care to the winds, they can bear it well About you poplar tops ; and see The white clouds are driving merrily, And the stars we miss this morn will light More willingly our return to-night.List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair; How it scatters Dominic's long black hair, Singing of us, and our lazy motions, If I can guess a boat's emotions."

The chain is loosed, the sails are spread,
The living breath is fresh behind,
As, with dews and sunrise fed,
Comes the laughing morning wind;-
The sails are full, the boat makes head
Against the Serchio's torrent fierce,
Then flags with intermitting course,

And bangs upon the wave ( ].
Which fervid from its mountain source
Shallow, sinooth, and strong, doth come,
Swift as fire, tempestuously
It sweeps into the affrighted sea;
In morning's smile its eddies coil,
Its billows sparkle, toss, and boil,
Torturing all its quiet light
Into columns fierce and bright.

The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death which lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling, But the clear stream in full enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, until wandering, Down one clear path of efluence chrystalline Sends its clear waves, that they may filing At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine: Then, through the pestilential deserts wild Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted fir, It rushes to the Ocean.

July, 1821.


Summer was dead and Autumn was expiring,

And infant Winter laughed upon the land All cloudlessly and cold; --- when I, desiring

* Pumpkin.

In winds, and trees, and streams, and all things common,

More in this world than any understand, Wept o'er the beauty, which, like sea retiring,

Had left the earth bare as the wave-worn sand Of my poor heart, and o'er the grass and flowers Pale for the falsehood of the flattering hours.

Summer was dead, but I yet lived to weep,

The instability of all but weeping;
And on the earth lulled in her winter sleep

I woke, and envied her as she was sleeping.
Too happy Earth! over thy face shall creep

The wakening vernal airs, until thou, leaping From unremembered dreams shalt [ ) see No death divide thy immortality.

I loved - no, I mean not one of ye,

Or any earthly one, though ye are dear As human heart to human heart may be;

I loved, I know not what--but this low sphere,
And all that it contains, contains not thee,

Thou, whom seen no where, I feel every where,
Dim object of my soul's idolatry.
Veiled art thou like-

By Heaven and Earth, from all whose shapes thou Howest,

Neither to be contained, delayed, or hidden, Making divi

the loftiest and the lowest, When for a moment thou art not forbidden To live within the life which thou bestowest;

And leaving noblest things vacant and chidden,
Cold as a corpse after the spirit's fight,
Blank as the sun after the birth of night.

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