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“The trees gently bent

O’er the plains in repose ;
With dew-drops besprent

Was the tremulous rose ;
The oaks now are bare;

The rose is no more ;
The zephyr's light air

Is exchanged for the roar
Of storms, and the May-fields have mantles of hoar

“ Then why do we stay

In the North, where the sun
More dimly each day

His brief course will run ?
And why need we sigh-

We leave but a grave,
To cleave through the sky

On the wings which God gave;
Then, Ocean, we welcome the roar of thy wave !"

Of rest thus bereaved,

They soar in the air,
But soon are received

Into regions more fair ;
Where elms gently shake

In the zephyr's light play,
Where rivulets take

Among myrtles their way,
And the groves are resounding with Hope's happy lay.

When earth's joys are o'er

And the days darkly roll,
When autumn winds roar-

Weep not, O my soul !
Fair lands o’er the sea

For the birds brightly bloom;
A land smiles for thee,

Beyond the dark tomb,

Where beams never fading its beauties illume. Anonymous Translation,

Eric JOHAN STAGNELIUS, 1793-1993.

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Drive not here to me
Flocks of other doves.
Ah ! of all thy doves
None can comfort me,
Only he, the father
Of my little ones.”

Translated by J. G. PERCIVAL

THE DYING SWAN.

The plain was grassy, wild, and bare,
Wide, wild, and open to the air,
Which had built up everywhere

An under-roof of doleful gray.
With an inner voice the river ran,
A down it floated a dying swan,

Which loudly did lament.
It was the middle of the day.

Ever the weary wind went on
And shook the reed-tops as it went.

Some blue peaks in the distance rose,
And white against the cold-white sky
Shone out their crowning snows.

One willow over the river wept,
And shook the wave as the wind did sigh ;
Above in the wind was the swallow,
Chasing itself at its own wild will,
And far through the marish green and still

The tangled water-courses slept,
Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow.

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul

Of that waste place with joy
Hidden in sorrow; at first to the ear
The warble was low, and full, and clear;

And floating about the under-sky,
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear;

But anon her awful jubilant voice,
With a music strange and manifold,
Flowed forth on a carol free and bold;

As when a mighty people rejoice
Vith shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold,
And the tumult of their acclaim is rolled

Through the open gates of the city afar,
To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star.
And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds,

And the willow-branches hoar and dank,
And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds,

And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank,
And the silvery marish flowers that throng,
The desolate creeks and pools among,
Were flooded over with eddying song.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE TWA CORBIES.

OLD SCOTTISH BALLAD.

As I gaed doun by yon house-en',
Twa corbies there were sittand their lane.
The tane unto the tother sae,
“() where shall we gae dine to-day ?”

“O down beside yon new-faun birk,
There lies a new-slain knicht,
Nae livin kens that he lies there,
But his horse, his hounds, and his lady fair.

“ His horse is to the huntin gone,
His hounds to bring the wild deer hame;
His lady's taen another mate;
Sae we may make our dinner swate.
“ () we'll sit on his bonnie briest-bane,
And we'll pyke out his bonnie grey e'en ;
Wi ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it blaws bare.

“ Mony a ane for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
Ower his banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair !"

Anonymous, about 1600.

THE RED-BREAST IN SEPTEMBER.

The morning mist is clear'd away,

Yet still the face of heaven is gray,
Nor yet th' autumnal breeze has stirr’d the grove,

Faded, yet full, a paler green

Skirts soberly the tranquil scene,
The red-breast warbles round this leafy cove.

Sweet messenger of calm decay,

Saluting sorrow as you may,
As one still bent to make, or find the best,

In thee, and in this quiet mead

The lesson of sweet peace I read, Rather in all to be resign'd than blest.

'Tis a low chant, according well

With the soft solitary knell, As homeward from some grave belov'd we turn,

Or by some holy death-bed dear,

Most welcome to the chasten'd ear Of her whom Heaven is teaching how to mourn.

O cheerful, tender strain! the heart

That duly bears with you its part, Singing so thankful to the dreary blast,

Though gone and spent its joyous prime,

And on the world's autumnal time 'Mid withered hues, and sere, its lot be cast,

That is the heart for thoughtful seer,

Watching, in trance nor dark nor clear, Th’ appalling Future as it nearer draws;

His spirit calm’d the storm to meet,

Feeling the Rock beneath his feet, And tracing through the cloud th' eternal Cause.

JOHN KEBLE,

10*

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