'Tis Apollo comes leading
His choir, the Nine.
-The Leader is fairest,
But all are divine.

They are lost in the hollows,
They stream up again.
What seeks on this mountain
The glorified train ?—
They bathe on this mountain
In the spring by their road.
Then on to Olympus,
Their endless abode.

17.

-Whose praise do they mention,
Of what is it told ?-
What will be for ever,
What was from of old.
First hymn they the Father
Of all things: and then
The rest of Immortals,
The action of men.
The Day in its hotness,
The strife with the palm;
The Night in its silence,
The Stars in their calm.
M. ARNOLD (Empedocles on Etna).

I'LL LOVE NO MORE
I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more,
Thine be the grief as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same?
He that can love unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain :
God send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away!
Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,
If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine.
But thou thy freedom didst recall,

18.

That, if thou might, elsewhere inthrall:
And then how could I but disdain

A captive's captive to remain ? SIR R. AYTON.

FROM 'THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE'

19. DEAD DUNDEE

SOUND the fife, and cry the slogan

Let the pibroch shake the air With its wild triumphal music,

Worthy of the freight we bear. Let the ancient hills of Scotland

Hear once more the battle song Swell within their glens and valleys

As the clansmen march along! Never from the field of combat,

Never from the deadly fray,
Was a nobler trophy carried
Than we bring with us to-day;
Never, since the valiant Douglas
On his dauntless bosom bore
Good King Robert's heart-the
priceless--

To our dear Redeemer's shore !
W. E. AYTOUN

Lo! we bring with us the hero-
Lo! we bring the conquering
Graeme,
Crowned as but becomes a victor

From the altar of his fame;
Fresh and bleeding from the battle
Whence his spirit took its flight,
Midst the crashing charge of
squadrons,

And the thunder of the fight! Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, As we march o'er moor and lea! Is there any here will venture

To bewail our dead Dundee ? Let the widows of the traitors

Weep until their eyes are dim! Wail ye may full well for Scotland

Let none dare to mourn for him! (The Burial March of Dundee).

20. THE REFUSAL OF CHARON

WHY look the distant mountains
So gloomy and so drear?
Are rain-clouds passing o'er them,
Or is the tempest near?
No shadow of the tempest

Is there, nor wind nor rain'Tis Charon that is passing by, With all his gloomy train.

The young men march before him,
In all their strength and
pride;

The tender little infants,
They totter by his side;
The old men walk behind him,
And earnestly they pray—
Both old and young imploring
him

To grant some brief delay.

21. THE WORLD'S A BUBBLE

THE World's a bubble, and the Life of Man
Less than a span:

In his conception wretched, from the womb
So to the tomb;

Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years
With cares and fears.

Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

FRANCIS BACON, LORD VERULAM.

22. LUCIFER'S SONG

THOU hast more music in thy | Go, search through Heaven-the

voice

Than to the spheres is given, And more temptations on thy lips Than lost the angels Heaven. Thou hast more brightness in thine eyes

Than all the stars which burn, More dazzling art thou than the throne

We fallen dared to spurn.

sweetest smile

That lightens there is thine; And through hell's burning darkness breaks

No frown so fell as mine. One smile-'twill light, one tear'twill cool;

These will be more to me Than all the wealth of all the worlds, Or boundless power could be. P. J. BAILEY (Festus).

23. WE LIVE IN DEEDS

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.

Where imperfection ceaseth, heaven begins.

24.

P. J. BAILEY (Festus).

FISHERMAN'S SONG

No fish stir in our heaving net,

And the sky is dark and the night is wet;

And we must ply the lusty oar,

For the tide is ebbing from the shore;
And sad are they whose faggots burn,

So kindly stored for our return.

Our boat is small, and the tempest raves,
And nought is heard but the lashing waves
And the sullen roar of the angry sea
And the wild winds piping drearily;
Yet sea and tempest rise in vain,
We'll bless our blazing hearths again.

Push bravely, mates! Our guiding star
Now from its towerlet streameth far,
And now along the nearing strand,
See, swiftly moves yon flaming brand.
Before the midnight watch be past

We'll quaff our bowl and mock the blast.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

25. LIFE! I KNOW NOT WHAT THOU ART

LIFE! I know not what thou art,

But know that thou and I must part;

And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear-
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;

-Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not Good Night,-but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good Morning.

A. L. BARBAULD.

26. SPRING

SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy sire,

Hoar Winter's blooming child, delightful Spring!

Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are
crowned;

From the green islands of eternal
youth
(Crowned with fresh blooms, and
ever-springing shade)

Turn, hither turn thy step,
O thou, whose powerful voice,
More sweet than softest touch of
Doric reed,

Or Lydian flute, can soothe the
madding winds,

And through the stormy deep
Breathe thy own tender calm.

27. AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE

The last lines of Thomas Ingoldsby'

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye;
There came a noble Knyghte,

With his hauberke shynynge brighte,
And his gallant heart was lyghte,
Free and gaye;

As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree!
There seemed a crimson plain,

Where a gallant Knyghte lay slayne,
And a steed with broken rein
Ran free,

As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see!

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe;
A lovely Mayde came bye,

And a gentil youthe was nyghe,
And he breathed many a syghe
And a vowe;

As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne ;
No more a youth was there,
But a Maiden rent her haire,
And cried in sad despaire

6 That I was borne !'

As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar;
There came a lovely Childe,

And his face was meek and mild,
Yet joyously he smiled

On his sire;

As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire.

But I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, And sadly sang the Birde as it perched upon a bier; That joyous smile was gone,

And the face was white and wan,

As the downe upon the Swan

Doth appear,

As I laye a-thynkynge-oh! bitter flowed the tear!