TURNER.

He works in rings, in magic rings of chance;

He knows that grand effects oft run askance,

And so he prays to Nature, colorqueen.

He works in chaoses, you are no artist, You medium-man who power to write impartest;

Suffice to know he loveth Chaos old, Because than aught created she's more bold:

And so he worketh ruleless, not to fix, And freeze and stiffen, but to weld and mix,

That many elements thus got together May struggle into light.

And she loves possibility, and hence He goes far back into Confusion's dance.

So the old Temeraire, (ah England! long

That happiness shall live within thy song.)

Lets natural ways rush through him; so may you,

If you have brain and strength and dare to do.

Believe me, there are ways of paint

LEANING with parted lips, some words she spake

In solemn tenor and deep organ tone:

Some mourning words, which, in our feeble tongue,

Would come in these like accents; O how frail

To that large utterance of the early Gods!

KEATS.

And was embarked to cross to Burgundy;

And in my company, my brother Gloster:

Who from my cabin, tempted me to walk

Upon the hatches: thence we looked toward England,

And cited up a thousand heavy times,

During the wars of York and Lan

caster

That had befallen us. As we paced along

Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling,

Struck me. that thought to stay him, overboard,

Into the tumbling billows of the main. O heaven! methought what pain it was to drown!

What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!

What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!

Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;

A thousand men, that fishes gnawed

upon;

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scattered in the bottom of the

sea.

Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those holes

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept

(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting genis,

That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep,

And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.

Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death

To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?

Clar. Methought I had: and often did I strive

To yield the ghost: but still the envious flood

Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth

To seek the empty, vast, and wandering air;

universe,

That openest over all, and unto all Art a delight, -thou shinest not on my heart.

And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge

I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath

Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs

In dizziness of distance; when a leap,

A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring

My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed

To rest forever, - wherefore do I pause?

I feel the impulse-yet I do not plunge;

I see the peril — yet do not recede;