Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,

Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are: Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;

And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,

Tickling a parson's nose as he lies asleep,

Then dreams he of another benefice:

Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,

Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon

Drums in his ear, at which he starts, and wakes,

And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,

And sleeps again. This is that very Mab

That plaits the manes of horses in the night,

And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,

Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes.

SHAKSPEARE: Romeo and Juliet.

Then to the noblest princes fellow might he be.

WARTON: Little Garden of Roses.

KUBLA KHAN.

IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran, Through caverns measureless to

man,

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled

round:

And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incensebearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Infolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demonlover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced:

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred

young,

While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,

Possessed beyond the Muse's painting:

By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined; Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,

Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round, They snatched her instruments of sound;

And as they oft had heard apart, Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each (for Madness ruled the hour) Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why,

E'en at the sound himself had made.

With woful measures, wan Despair Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled;

A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!

Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods,

the vale,

She called on Echo still, through all the song;

And, where her sweetest theme she chose.

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,

And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung; - but with a frown. Revenge impatient rose: He threw his blood-stained sword, in thunder down;

And with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full
of woe!

And, ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum, with furious

heat;