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Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft, on a plat of rising ground
I hear the far-off curfeu sound
Over some wide-water'd shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar :
Or, if the air will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ;
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm
To bless the doors from nightly harm.

Or let my lamp at midnight hour
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear
With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds or what vast regions hold
The immortal mind, that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook.
And of those demons that are found
In fire, air, food, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With planet, or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine ;
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek
And made Hell grant what Love did seek,
Or call up him that left half-told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife
That own’d the virtuous ring and glass ;
And of the wondrous horse of brass

On which the Tartar king did ride:
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung
Of turneys, and of trophies hung,
Of forests, and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited Morn appear
Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont
With the Attic Boy to hunt,
But kercheft in a comely cloud
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves
With minute-drops from off the eaves.
And when the sun begins to fing
His flaring beams, me, Goddess bring
To archèd walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine or monumental oak,
Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in close covert by some brook
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honey'd thigh
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep ;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in aery stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid :
And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or the unseen Genius of the wood.

But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high-embowèd roof,

With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light :
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full-voiced quire below
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth show,
And every herb that sips the dew ;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.

These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

J. MILTON

Jock of Hazeldean

I

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ?

Why weep ye by the tide ? I'll wed ye to my youngest son,

And ye sall be his bride :
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

II

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Now let this wilfu' grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale ; Young Frank is chief of Errington,

And lord of Langley-dale ;
His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen'-
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

III

'A chain of gold ye sall not lack, Nor braid to bind

your

hair; Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,

Nor palfrey fresh and fair ;
And you the foremost o' them a',

Shall ride our forest queen’
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

IV

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,

The tapers glimmer'd fair ; The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,

And dame and knight are there. They sought her baith by bower and ha’

The ladie was not seen ! She's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

Scott.

The Recollection WE wandered to the pine forest

That skirts the ocean's foam ;
The lightest wind was in its nest,

The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,

The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep

The smile of heaven lay;
It seem'd as if the hour were one

Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scatter'd from above the sun

A light of Paradise !
We paused amid the pines that stood

The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude

As serpents interlaced,
And soothed by every azure breath

That under heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,

As tender as its own ;

Now all the tree-tops lay asleep

Like green waves on the sea,
As still as in the silent deep

The ocean woods may be.
How calm it was !-the silence there

By such a chain was bound
That even the busy woodpecker

Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness ;

The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less

The calm that round us grew.
There seemed from the remotest seat

Of the white mountain waste
To the soft flower beneath our feet,

A magic circle traced --
A spirit interfused around,

A thrilling silent life :
To momentary peace it bound

Our mortal nature's strife.
And still I felt the centre of

The magic circle there
Was one fair form that fill'd with love

The lifeless atmosphere.
We paused beside the pools that lie

Under the forest bough.
Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky

Gulf'd in a world below :
A firmament of purple light

Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night

And purer than the day-
In which the lovely forests grew

As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue

Than any spreading there.
There lay the glade, the neighbouring lawn,

And through the dark-green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn

Out of a speckled cloud.
Sweet views which in our world above

Can never well be seen

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