Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great,
And Venus who brings everything that's fair!

THEKLA.

And if this be the science of the stars,
I too, with glad and zealous industry,
Will learn acquaintance with this cheerful faith.
It is a gentle and affectionate thought,
That in immeasurable heights above us,
At our first birth, the wreath of love was woven,
With sparkling stars for flowers.

BRITAIN.

Он, my mother isle!

Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend,

A husband, and a father! who revere
All bonds of natural love, and find them all
Within the limits of thy rocky shores.

Oh, native Britain! Oh, my mother isle!

How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy
To me, who, from thy lakes and mountain-hills,
Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas,
Have drunk in all my intellectual life,

All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts,
All adoration of the God in nature,
All lovely and all honourable things,
Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel
The joy and greatness of its future being?
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul
Unborrow'd from my country. Oh divine
And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole
And most magnificent temple, in the which
I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs,
Loving the God that made me!

KUBLA KHAN, OR A VISION IN A DREAM.

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 blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Infolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic 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 demon-lover!

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 river.

Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion,
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices phrophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she play'd,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That, with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drank the milk of Paradise.

FELICIA HEMANS. 1793-1835.

ENGLAND'S DEAD.

SON of the ocean isle !

Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is reared o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,
By the Pyramid o'erswayed,
With fearful power the noonday reigns,

And the palm-trees yield no shade.

But let the angry sun

From heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done-
There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far, by Ganges' banks at night
Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on!

It hath no tone of dread

For those that from their toils are gone-
There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods
The western wilds among,

And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung.

But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow's flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done?There slumber England's dead!

The mountain-storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,

Ana toss the pine-boughs through the sky,
Like rose-leaves on the breeze.

But let the storm rage on!
Let the forest-wreaths be shed!
For the Roncesvalles' field is won-
There slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deep's repose
"Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the icefields close,
To chain her with their power.

VOL. II.-Q

But let the ice drift on!

Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done There slumber England's dead.

The warlike of the isles,

The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

THE breaking waves dash'd high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods, against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
On the wild New-England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted came;

Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear;

They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amid the storm they sang,

And the stars heard and the sea!

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!