Long on the deep the mists of morning lay,
Then rose, revealing as they roll'd away
Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods
Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy
floods:

And say, when all, to holy transport given,
Embraced and wept as at the gates of Heaven,
When one and all of us, repentant, ran,
And, on our faces, bless'd the wondrous man;
Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies
Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies ?
"Glory to God!" unnumber'd voices sung,
Glory to God!" the vales and mountains
rung,

Voices that hail'd creation's primal morn, And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born. Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we bore

The sacred cross, and, kneeling, kiss'd the shore.

But what a scene was there! romance,

Nymphs of

Youths graceful as the fawn, with eager

Over the sea in darkness and in flame! They saw, they heard; and up the highest hill,

As in a picture, all at once were still! Creatures so fair, in garments strangely wrought,

From citadels, with Heaven's own thunder fraught,

Check'd their light footsteps-statue-like they stood

As worshipp'd forms, the Genii of the Wood! At length the spell dissolves! The warrior's lance

Rings on the tortoise with wild dissonance!
And see, the regal plumes, the couch of state!
Still where it moves the wise in council wait!
See now borne forth the monstrous mask of
gold,

And ebon chair of many a serpent-fold;
These now exchanged for gifts that thrice

surpass

The wondrous ring, and lamp, and horse of brass.

What long-drawn tube transports the gazer home,

Kindling with stars at noon th' ethereal dome!

'Tis here and here circles of solid light Charm with another self the cheated sight; As man to man another self disclose,

That now with terror starts, with triumph glows!

Then Cora came, the youngest of her race,
And in her hands she hid her lovely face;

Yet oft by stealth a timid glance she cast,
And now with playful step the mirror pass'd,
Each bright reflection brighter than the last!
And oft behind it flew, and oft before;
The more she search'd, pleased and perplex'd
the more!

And look'd and laugh'd, and blush'd with quick surprise!

Her lips all mirth, all ecstasy her eyes!

But soon the telescope attracts her view: And lo, her lover in his light canoe Rocking, at noontide, on the silent sea, Before her lies! It cannot, cannot be. Late as he left the shore, she linger'd there, Till, less and less, he melted into air! Sigh after sigh steals from her gentle frame, And say that murmur-was it not his name ?

She turns, and thinks, and, lost in wild

amaze,

Gazes again, and could for ever gaze!

Samuel Rogers.-Born 1762, Died 1855.

1183.-GINEVRA.

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance

To Modena, where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; through their arch'd
walks,

Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day. A summer sun
Sets ere one half is seen; but, ere thou go,
Enter the house-prithee, forget it not-
And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half-open, and her finger up, As though she said "Beware!" Her vest of gold

'Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot,

An emerald-stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,

Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken-chest, half eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture-stories from, the life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor.
That by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not,
When thou hast heard the tale they told me
there.

She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.
Her mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remain'd to him?
The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first
love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gaiety,

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.

But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,

The nurse, that ancient lady, preached de

corum;

And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,
When all sat down, the bride was wanting
there.

Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, ""Tis but to make a trial of our love!"

And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,

And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.

'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guess'd
But that she was not! Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived; and long mightst thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of some-
thing,

Something he could not find-he knew not what.

When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, When on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas

said

By one as young, as thoughtles as Ginevra, "Why not remove it from its lurking place?" 'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emeraldstone,

A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold! All else had perished-save a nuptial ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, "Ginevra." There then had she found a grave!

Within that chest had she conceal'd herself, Fluttering with joy the happiest of the happy;

When a spring-lock that lay in ambush there, Fasten'd her down for ever!

Samuel Rogers. - Born 1762, Died 1855.

1184. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile-
Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile
And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
And mantle o'er her neck of snow:
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish-and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breast:
-And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above controul
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
And may the secret of thy soul
Remain within its sanctuary!

Samuel Rogers.-Born 1762, Died 1855.

1185. A WISH.

Mine be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet-gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to Heaven.

Samuel Rogers.-Born 1762, Died 1855.

1186.-AN ITALIAN SONG.

Dear is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange groves and myrtle bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Of crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent greenwood shade:
These simple joys that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.
Samuel Rogers.-Born 1762, Died 1855.

1187.-TO THE BUTTERFLY.

Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight,

Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light;

And, where the flowers of paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold.

There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky,

Expand and shut with silent ecstasy!

Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept

On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept.

And such is man; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day.

Samuel Rogers.-Born 1762, Died 1855.

1188. ON A TEAR.

Oh that the chemist's magic art
Could crystallise this sacred treasure!
Long should glitter near my heart,
A secret source of pensive pleasure.

The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye;
Then, trembling, left its coral cell-
The spring of Sensibility!

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light,
In thee the rays of Virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.

Benign restorer of the soul!
Who ever fliest to bring relief,
When first we feel the rude control

Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.

The sage's and the poet's theme,
In every clime, in every age;
Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream,
In Reason's philosophic page.

That very law which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.
Samuel Rogers.-Born 1762, Died 1855.

1189.-LONDON, 1802.

Milton thou shouldst be living at this hour;
England hath need of thee; she is a fen
Of stagnant waters; altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the

sea;

Pure as the naked heavens-majestie, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself didst lay.
Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

1190. THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our

powers:

Little we see in nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid

boon!

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn:
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less
forlorn ;

Have sight of Protens coming from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

1191.-ON KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL,

CAMBRIDGE.

Tax not the royal saint with vain expense, With ill-match'd aims the architect who plann'd,

Albeit labouring for a scanty band

Of white-robed scholars only, this immense
And glorious work of fine intelligence!

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore

Of nicely calculated less or more;

So deem'd the man who fashioned for the

sense

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells,

Where light and shade repose, where music dwells

Lingering and wandering on, as loath to

die;

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof

That they were born for immortality.

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

1192.-LINES.

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man ;
So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

1193.-LUCY.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways, Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone,

Half hidden from the eye; Fair as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850,

1194.-A PORTRAIT.

She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller betwixt life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill,
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright,
With something of an angel light.

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

Among the woods and copses, nor disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little
lines

Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms

Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke

Sent up in silence from among the trees, With some uncertain notice, as might seem, Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, where, by his fire, The hermit sits alone.

Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration-feelings, too,
Of unremember'd pleasure; such, perhaps,
As may have had no trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremember'd acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world

Is lighten'd; that serene and blessed mood
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight, when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft in spirit have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye!-thou wanderer through the

woods

How often has my spirit turn'd to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd
thought,

With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things. Therefore am 1 still

A lover of the meadows and the woods
And mountains, and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty
world

Of eye and ear, both what they half create
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature, and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and
soul

Of all my moral being.

Nor, perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

For thou art with me here, upon the banks Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend, My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch

The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while