Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not :

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love which overflows her bower :

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden

Its aërial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the

view :

Like a rose embowered

In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,

Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged

thieves.

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers,

All that ever was,
Joyous and clear and fresh,—thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine :
I have never heard

Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal

Or triumphal chaunt,
Match'd with thine, would be all

But an empty vaunt-
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain ?
What fields, or waves, or mountains ?

What shapes of sky or plain ?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain ?

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be :
Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee :
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety:

Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not :
Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet, if we could scorn,

Hate and pride, and fear ;
If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures

That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground !

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know ;
Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow
The world should listen then as I am listening now !

P. B. SHELLEY.

The Nightingale As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade, Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring, Everything did banish moan Save the nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast against a thorn, And there sung the dolefullest ditty That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry ; Tereu, tereu, by-and-by : That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain ; For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own. -Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain : Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee : King Pandion, he is dead, All thy friends are lapp'd in lead : All thy fellow birds do sing Careless of thy sorrowing : Even so, poor bird, like thee None alive will pity me.

R. BARNEFIELD.

The Sleeper
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon :
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim ;
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon

the

grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest ;
Looking like Lethe, see, the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps !—and lo ! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her destinies !

O, lady bright, can it be right, This window open to the night? The wanton airs from the tree-top Laughingly through the lattice drop ; The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully, so fearfully, Above the closed and fringèd lid 'Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid, That, o'er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall ! Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? Why and what art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees. Strange is thy pallor, strange thy dress, Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all-solemn silentness. The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, Which is enduring, so be deep! Heaven have her in its sacred keep ! This chanıber changed for one more holy, This bed for one more melancholy, I pray to God that she may lie For ever with unopened eye, While the dim sheeted ghosts go by !

My love, she sleeps ! O, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep !
Soft may the worms about her creep !

Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold-
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back
Triumphant o'er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals ;
Some sepulchre remote, alone,
Against whose portal she had thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone ;
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin,
It was the dead who groaned within.

POE.

Spring
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king ;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo !
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye, birds tune this merry lay,

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo !
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street, these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo !
Spring ! the sweet Spring !

T. NASHE.

The Battle of Naseby (BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH

LINKS-OF-IRON, SERGEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT) OH! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North, With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all

red? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout ? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye