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Lilies for a bridal bed,

Semi-chorus II.
Roses for a matron's head,
Violets for a maiden dead-

There the voluptuous nightingales
Pansies let my flowers be;

Are awake through all the broad On the living grave I bear,

noonday. Scatter them without a tear,

When one with bliss or sadness fails,
Let no friend, however dear,

And through the windless ivy-boughs,
Waste one hope, one fear for me.

Sick with sweet love, droops dying

away
On its mate's music-panting bosom;
Another, from the swinging blossom

Watching to catch the languid close
FROM "PROMETHEUS UN- Of the last strain, then lifts on high
BOUND."

The wings of the weak melody,

Till some new strain of feeling bear
ACT II., SCENE II.

The song, and all the woods are Semi-chorus I. of Spirits (as Asia and

mute; Panthea pass into the forest).

When there is heard through the dim

air The path through which that lovely The rush of wings, and, rising there twain

Like many a lake-surrounded flute, Have passed, by cedar, pine, and Sounds overflow the listener's brain yew,

So sweet that joy is almost pain. * And each dark tree that ever grew, Is curtained out from heaven's wide

blue. Nor sun nor moon nor wind nor rain

[From the same.] Can pierce its interwoven bowers;

VOICE in the air, singing. Nor aught save where some cloud of dew,

ACT II., SCENE V. Drifted along the earth-creeping | Life of Life! thy lips enkindle breeze

With their love the breath between Between the trunks of the hoar

them; trees,

And thy smiles, before they dwindle, Hangs each a pearl in the pale flowers Make the cold air fire, then screen Of the green laurel blown anew,

them
And bends, and then fades silently, In those looks where whoso gazes
One frail and fair anemone.

Faints, entangled in their mazes.
Or, when some star, of many a one
That climbs and wanders through Child of Light! thy limbs are burning
steep night,

Through the vest which seems to hide
Has found the cleft through which

them, alone

As the radiant lines of morning

Through the clouds, ere they divide

them; And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest.

And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, - as you now,

Apollo,
With
envy

of my sweet pipings.

Fair are others; none beholds thee

(But thy voice sounds low and tender, Like the fairest), for it folds thee From the sight — that liquid splen

dor; And all feel, yet see thee never, As I feel now, lost for ever!

Lamp of Earth! where'er thou movest, Its dim shapes are clad with bright

ness, And the souls of whom thou lovest

Walk upon the winds with lightness, Till they fail, as I am failing, Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing!

I sang of the dancing stars,

I sang of the dædal earth, And of heaven, and the Giant wars,

And love, and death, and birth. And then I changed my pipings, Singing how down the vale of

Mænalus
I pursued a maiden, and clasped

a reed : Gods and men, we are all deluded

thus; It breaks in our bosom, and then

we bleed. All wept

- as I think both ye now

would, If envy or age had not frozen your

blood At the sorrow of my sweet

pipings.

WAR.

HYMN OF PAN.
FROM the forests and highlands

We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,

Where loud waves are dumb
Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the

rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle-bushes,

The cicale above in the lime, And the lizards below in the

grass, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,

Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing,

And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing

The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni and Sylvans and

Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods

and waves,
To the edge of the moist river-

lawns, And the brink of the dewy

caves,

War is the statesman's game, the priest's

delight, The lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's

trade, And to those royal murderers whose

mean thrones Are bought by crimes of treachery and

gore, The bread they eat, the staff on which

they lean. Guards, garbed in blood-red livery, sur

round Their palaces, participate the crimes That force defends, and from a nation's

rage Secure the crown, which all the curses

reach That famine, frenzy, woe, and penury

breathe. These are the hired bravos who defend The tyrant's throne.

ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED. ONE word is too often profaned

I can give not what men call love;
For me to profane it,

But wilt thou accept not
One feeling too falsely disdain'd The worship the heart lifts above
For thee to disdain it.

And the Heavens reject not:
One hope is too like despair

The desire of the moth for the star, For prudence to smother,

Of the night for the morrow, And Pity from thee more dear

The devotion to something afar Than that from another.

From the sphere of our sorrow?

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FELICIA HEMANS.

1793–1835. [Felicia DOROTHEA BROWNE was born in Liverpool, Sept. 25, 1793, and published her first poems in 1803. She married Captain Hemans, 1812, and died in Dublin, May 16, 1835. Her principal works are: Tales and Historic Scenes, 1816; The Forest Sanctuary, 1826; Lays of Many Lands, 1826; Records of Woman, 1828; Songs of the Affections, 1830; Scenes and Hymns of Life, 1834. She also published various dramas and translations.)

And the reindeer bounds through the THE VOICE OF SPRING.

pasture free, I COME, come! ye have called me

And the pine has a fringe of softer green, long,

And the moss looks bright where my I come o'er the mountains with light and

step has been. song; Ye may trace my step o'er the waken- I have sent through the wood-paths a ing earth,

gentle sigh, By the winds which tell of the violet's And called out each voice of the deepbirth,

blue sky, By the primrose stars in the shadowy From the night-bird's lay through the grass,

starry time, By the green leaves opening as I pass.

In the groves of the soft Hesperian

clime, I have breathed on the South, and the To the swan's wild note by the Iceland chestnut-flowers

lakes, By thousands have burst from the forest- When the dark fir-bough into verdure bowers :

breaks. And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,

From the streams and founts I have Are veiled with wreaths on Italian

loosed the chain; plains.

They are sweeping on to the silvery - But it is not for me, in my hour of

main, bloom,

They are flashing down from the moun. To speak of the ruin or the tomb !

tain-brows,

They are flinging spray on the forestI have passed o'er the hills of the stormy boughs, North,

They are bursting fresh from their sparry And the larch has hung all his tassels

caves, forth,

And the earth resounds with the joy of The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

waves.

woods rang

I may

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Come forth, Oye children of gladness, And the sounding aisles of the dim

come! Where the violets lie may now be your To the anthem of the free.

home. Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright The ocean-eagle soar'd eye,

From his nest, by the white ware's And the bounding footstep, to meet me

foam, fly,

And the rocking pines of the forest With the lyre, and the wreath, and the

roar'd: joyous lay,

Such was their welcome home. Come forth to the sunshine, not stay.

There were men with hoary hair

Amidst that pilgrim band: Away from the dwellings of care-worn

Why had they come to wither there, men,

Away from their childhood's land? The waters are sparkling in wood and glen;

There was woman's fearless eye, Away from the chamber and dusky Lit by her deep love's truth; hearth,

There was manhood's brow serenely The young leaves are dancing in breezy high, mirth,

And the fiery heart of youth. Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,

What sought they thus afar? And Youth is abroad in my green do

Bright jewels of the mine? mains.

The wealth of seas? che spoils of

war? –

No— 'twas a faith's pure shrine.
THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

Yes, call that holy ground,
The breaking waves dash'd high

Which first their brave feet trod! On a stern and rock-bound coast;

They have left unstain'd what there they And the woods, against a stormy sky,

found Their giant branches toss'd;

Freedom to worship God! And the heavy night hung dark,

The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

bark On the wild New England shore.

The stately homes of England,

How beautiful they stand, Not as the conqueror comes,

Amidst their tall ancestral trees, They, the true-hearted, came;

O’er all the pleasant land ! Not with the roll of the stirring drums, The deer across their greensward bound And the trumpet that sings of fame; Through shade and sunny gleam,

And the swan glides past them with the Not as the flying come,

sound In silence, and in fear;

Of some rejoicing stream. They shook the depths of the desert's gloom

The merry homes of England With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household Amidst the storm they sang :

love Till the stars heard, and the sea; Meet in the ruddy light!

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