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To woo its own sad image into nearness :
Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
So while the poet stood in this sweet spot,
Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot;
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale.

Where had he been, from whose warm head

outflew That sweetest of all songs, that ever new, That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, Coming ever to bless The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing From out the middle air, from flowery nests, And from the pillowy silkiness that rests Full in the speculation of the stars. Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars; Into some wondrous region he had gone, To search for thee, divine Endymion !

He was a Poet, sure a lover too, Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below; And brought, in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow, A hymn from Dian's temple; while upswelling, The incense went to her own starry dwelling. But though her face was clear as infants' eyes, Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice, The poet wept at her so piteous fate, Wept that such beauty should be desolate : So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, And gave meek Cynthia her, Endymion.

Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen! As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,

So every tale does this sweet tale of thine.
O for three words of honey, that I might
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, Phæbus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels, And turn’d to smile upon thy bashful eyes, Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. The evening weather was so bright, and clear, That men of health were of unusual cheer; Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call, Or young Apollo on the pedestal: And lovely women were as fair and warm, As Venus looking sideways in alarm. The breezes were ethereal, and pure, And crept through half-closed lattices to cure The languid sick: it cool'd their fever'd sleep, And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. Soon they awoke clear-eyed: nor burn'd with

thirsting, Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting : And springing up, they met the wondering sight Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight; Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss, and stare, And on their placid foreheads part the hair. Young men and maidens at each other gazed, With hạnds held back, and motionless, amazed To see the brightness in each other's eyes; And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise, Until their tongues were loosed in poesy. Therefore no lover did of anguish die: But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, Made silken ties, that never may be broken. Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater blisses That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses : Was there a poet born ? -- But now no more My wandering spirit must no farther soar.

SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A

POEA.

L

O! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
For large white plumes are dancing in mine

eye.
Not like the formal crest of latter days :
But bending in a thousand graceful ways;
So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand,
Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand,
Could charm them into such an attitude.
We must think rather, that in playful mood,
Some mountain breeze had turn’d its chief delight
To show this wonder of its gentle might.
Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry ;
For while I muse, the lance points slantingly
Athwart the morning air; some lady sweet,
Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,
From the worn top of some old battlement
Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent;
And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,
Wraps round her ample robe with happy trem-

bling. Sometimes when the good knight his rest could

take, It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests, And th’ half-seen mossiness of linnets' nests. Ah! shall I ever tell its cruelty, When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye, And his tremendous hand is grasping it, And his dark brow for very wrath is knit ? Or when his spirit, with more calm intent Leaps to the honours of a tournament,

And makes the gazers round about the ring
Stare at the grandeur of the balancing ?
No, no! this is far off: then how shall I
Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy,
Which linger yet about long gothic arches,
In dark green ivy, and among wild larches?
How sing the splendour of the revelries,
When butts of wine are drank off to the lees?
And that bright lance, against the fretted wall,
Beneath the shade of stately banneral,
Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield ?
Where ye may see a spur in bloody field,
Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces
Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces :
Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens:
Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens.
Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry:
Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by ?
Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight
Rein in the swelling of his ample might?
Spenser! thy brows are arched, open, kind,
And come like a clear sun-rise to my mind;
And always does my heart with pleasure dance,
When I think on thy noble countenance:
Where never yet was aught more earthly seen
Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green.
Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully
Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh
My daring steps: or if thy tender care,
Thus startled unaware,
Be jealous that the foot of other wight
Should madly follow that bright path of light
Traced by thy loved Libertas; he will speak,
And tell thee that my prayer is very meek;
That I will follow with due reverence,
And start with awe at mine own strange pretence.
Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope
To see wide plains, fair trees, and lawny slope ;

The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the

flowers; Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking

towers.

CALIDORE.

A FRAGMENT.

YOUNG

OUNG Calidore is paddling o'er the lake;
His healthful spirit eager and awake

To feel the beauty of a silent eve,
Which seem'd full loth this happy world to leave,
The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly.
He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky,
And smiles at the far clearness all around,
Until his heart is well nigh overwound,
And turns for calmness to the pleasant green
Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean
So elegantly o'er the waters' brim
And show their blossoms trim.
Scarce can his clear and nimble eyesight follow
The freaks and dartings of the black-wing'd swal-

low, Delighting much, to see it half at rest, Dip so refreshingly its wings and breast 'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, The widening circles into nothing gone.

And now the sharp keel of his little boat
Comes up with ripple, and with easy float
And glides into a bed of water-lilies :
Broad-leaved are they, and their white canopies
Are upward turn’d to catch the heavens' dew.
Near to a little island's point they grew;
Whence Calidore might have the yoodliest view

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