XXVIII.Medley.

If there were beings who lived in the depths of the earth, in dwellings adorned with statues and paintings, and every thing which is possessed in rich abundance by those whom we esteem fortunate; and if these beings could receive tidings of the power and might of the gods, and could then emerge from their hidden dwellings through the open fissures of the earth, to the places which we inhabit; if they could suddenly behold the earth, and the sea, and the vault of heaven; could recognize the expanse of the cloudy firmament, and the might of the winds of heaven, and admire the sun in its majesty, beauty, and radiant effulgence; and, lastly, when night vailed the earth in darkness, they could behold the starry heavens, the changing moon, and the stars rising and setting in the unvarying course ordained from eternity, they would surely exclaim, “There are gods, and such great things must be the work of their hands.”

Translation fromHumboldt’s“Cosmos.”

THE CREATION OF THE EARTH.

God said,Be gather’d now, ye waters under heav’n,Into one place, and let dry land appear.Immediately the mountains huge appearEmergent, and their broad backs upheaveInto the clouds, their tops ascend the sky.So high as heav’d the tumid hills, so lowDown sunk a hollow bottom, broad and deep,Capacious bed of waters: thither theyHasted with glad precipitance, uproll’dAs drops on dust conglobing from the dry:Part rise in crystal wall, or ridge direct,For haste; such flight the great command imprestOn the swift floods; as armies at the callOf trumpet (for of armies thou hast heard)Troop to their standard, so the wat’ry throng,Wave rolling after wave, where way they found;If steep, with torrent rapture, if through plain,Soft-ebbing; nor withstood them rock or hill,But they, or under ground, or circuit wideWith serpent error wand’ring, found their way,And on the washy ooze deep channels wore,Easy, ere God had bid the ground be dry,All but within those banks, where rivers nowStream, and perpetual draw their humid train.The dry land Earth, and the great receptacleOf congregated waters he call’d Seas;And saw that it was good, and said, Let th’ earthPut forth the verdant grass, herb yielding seed,And fruit-tree yielding fruit after her kind;Whose seed is in herself upon the earth.He scarce had said, when the bare earth, till thenDesert and bare, unsightly, unadorn’d,Brought forth the tender grass, whose verdure cladHer universal face with pleasant green;Then herbs of every leaf, that sudden flower’d,Op’ning their various colors, and made gayHer bosom smelling sweet; and these scarce blown,Forth flourish’d thick the clust’ring vine, forth creptThe swelling gourd, up stood the corny reedEmbattl’d in her field; and th’ humble shrub,And bush with frizzled hair implicit: lastRose, as in dance, the stately trees, and spreadTheir branches hung with copious fruit, or gemm’dTheir blossoms: with high wood the hills were crown’d;With tufts the valleys and each fountain side,With borders 'long the rivers: that earth nowSeem’d like to heav’n, a seat where Gods might dwellOr wander with delight, and love to hauntHer sacred shades. * * * *John Milton, 1608–1674.

God said,

Be gather’d now, ye waters under heav’n,

Into one place, and let dry land appear.

Immediately the mountains huge appear

Emergent, and their broad backs upheave

Into the clouds, their tops ascend the sky.

So high as heav’d the tumid hills, so low

Down sunk a hollow bottom, broad and deep,

Capacious bed of waters: thither they

Hasted with glad precipitance, uproll’d

As drops on dust conglobing from the dry:

Part rise in crystal wall, or ridge direct,

For haste; such flight the great command imprest

On the swift floods; as armies at the call

Of trumpet (for of armies thou hast heard)

Troop to their standard, so the wat’ry throng,

Wave rolling after wave, where way they found;

If steep, with torrent rapture, if through plain,

Soft-ebbing; nor withstood them rock or hill,

But they, or under ground, or circuit wide

With serpent error wand’ring, found their way,

And on the washy ooze deep channels wore,

Easy, ere God had bid the ground be dry,

All but within those banks, where rivers now

Stream, and perpetual draw their humid train.

The dry land Earth, and the great receptacle

Of congregated waters he call’d Seas;

And saw that it was good, and said, Let th’ earth

Put forth the verdant grass, herb yielding seed,

And fruit-tree yielding fruit after her kind;

Whose seed is in herself upon the earth.

He scarce had said, when the bare earth, till then

Desert and bare, unsightly, unadorn’d,

Brought forth the tender grass, whose verdure clad

Her universal face with pleasant green;

Then herbs of every leaf, that sudden flower’d,

Op’ning their various colors, and made gay

Her bosom smelling sweet; and these scarce blown,

Forth flourish’d thick the clust’ring vine, forth crept

The swelling gourd, up stood the corny reed

Embattl’d in her field; and th’ humble shrub,

And bush with frizzled hair implicit: last

Rose, as in dance, the stately trees, and spread

Their branches hung with copious fruit, or gemm’d

Their blossoms: with high wood the hills were crown’d;

With tufts the valleys and each fountain side,

With borders 'long the rivers: that earth now

Seem’d like to heav’n, a seat where Gods might dwell

Or wander with delight, and love to haunt

Her sacred shades. * * * *

John Milton, 1608–1674.

Harp! lift thy voice on high,And run in rapid numbers o’er the faceOf Nature’s scenery; and there were dayAnd night, and rising suns, and setting suns;And clouds that seemed like chariots of saints,By fiery coursers drawn—as brightly headAs if the glorious, lusty, golden locksOf thousand cherubims had been shorn off,And on the temples hung of morn and even;And there were moons, and stars, and darkness streakedWith light; and voice of tempest heard secure.And there were seasons coming evermore,And going still—all fair and always new,With bloom, and fruit, and fields of hoary grain.And there were hills of flocks, and groves of song;And flowery streams, and garden walks embowered,Where side by side the rose and lily bloomed.And sacred founts, wild hills, and moonlight glens;And forests vast, fair lawns, and lovely oaks,And little willows sipping at the brook;Old wizard haunts, and dancing seats of mirth;Gay, festive bowers, and palaces in dust;Dark owlet nooks, and caves, and belted rocks;And winding valleys, roofed with pendent shade;And tall and perilous cliffs, that overlookedThe breath of Ocean, sleeping on his waves.Sounds, sights, smells, tastes; the heaven and earth, profuseIn endless sweets, above all praise of song:For not to use alone did ProvidenceAbound, but large example gave to manOf grace, and ornament, and splendor rich;Suited abundantly to every tasteIn bird, beast, fish, winged and creeping thing;In herb and flower; and in the restless changeWhich on the many-colored seasons madeThe annual circuit of the fruitful earth.Robert Pollock, 1799–1827.

Harp! lift thy voice on high,

And run in rapid numbers o’er the face

Of Nature’s scenery; and there were day

And night, and rising suns, and setting suns;

And clouds that seemed like chariots of saints,

By fiery coursers drawn—as brightly head

As if the glorious, lusty, golden locks

Of thousand cherubims had been shorn off,

And on the temples hung of morn and even;

And there were moons, and stars, and darkness streaked

With light; and voice of tempest heard secure.

And there were seasons coming evermore,

And going still—all fair and always new,

With bloom, and fruit, and fields of hoary grain.

And there were hills of flocks, and groves of song;

And flowery streams, and garden walks embowered,

Where side by side the rose and lily bloomed.

And sacred founts, wild hills, and moonlight glens;

And forests vast, fair lawns, and lovely oaks,

And little willows sipping at the brook;

Old wizard haunts, and dancing seats of mirth;

Gay, festive bowers, and palaces in dust;

Dark owlet nooks, and caves, and belted rocks;

And winding valleys, roofed with pendent shade;

And tall and perilous cliffs, that overlooked

The breath of Ocean, sleeping on his waves.

Sounds, sights, smells, tastes; the heaven and earth, profuse

In endless sweets, above all praise of song:

For not to use alone did Providence

Abound, but large example gave to man

Of grace, and ornament, and splendor rich;

Suited abundantly to every taste

In bird, beast, fish, winged and creeping thing;

In herb and flower; and in the restless change

Which on the many-colored seasons made

The annual circuit of the fruitful earth.

Robert Pollock, 1799–1827.

FROM THE “ILIAD.”

* * * * *He also graved on it a fallow field,Rich, spacious, and well tilled. Plowers not few,There driving to and fro their sturdy teams,Labor’d the land; and oft as in their courseThey came to the field’s bourn, so oft a manMet them, who in their hands a goblet placed,Charged with delicious wine. They, turning, wroughtEach his own furrow, and impatient seem’dTo reach the border of the tilth, which blackAppear’d behind them as a glebe new-turn’d,Though golden, sight to be admired by all!There, too, he form’d the likeness of a field,Crowded with corn, in which the reapers toil’dEach with a sharp-tooth’d sickle in his hand.Along the furrow here the harvest fellIn frequent handfuls, there they bound the sheaves.Three binders of the sheaves their sultry taskAll plied industrious, and behind them boysAttended, filling with the corn their arms,And offering still their bundles to be bound.Amid them, staff in hand, the master stoodSilent exulting, while beneath an oakApart, his heralds busily preparedThe banquet, dressing a well-thriven ox,New slain, and the attendant maidens mix’dLarge supper for the hinds of whitest flour.There, also, laden with its fruit, he form’dA vineyard all of gold; purple he madeThe clusters, and the vines supported, stoodBy poles of silver set in even rows.The trench he color’d sable, and aroundFenced it with tin. One only path it show’dBy which the gatherers, when they stripp’d the vines,Pass’d and repass’d. There, youths and maidens blithe,In pails of wicker bore the luscious fruit,While in the midst a boy, on his shrill harp,Harmonious play’d; still as he struck the chord,Carolling to it with a slender voice,They smote the ground together, and with songAnd sprightly reed came dancing on behind.There, too, a herd he fashion’d of tall beeves,Part gold, part tin; they, lowing, from the stallsRush’d forth to pasture by a river-side,Rapid, sonorous, fringed with whispering reeds.Four golden herdsmen drove the kine a-field,By nine swift dogs attended. Dreadful sprangTwo lions forth, and of the foremost herd,Seized fast a bull. Him, bellowing, they dragg’d,While dogs and peasants all flew to his aid.The lions tore the hide of the huge prey,And lapp’d his entrails and his blood. MeantimeThe herdsmen, troubling them in vain, their houndsEncouraged; but no tooth for lion’s fleshFound they, and therefore stood aside and bark’d.There, also, the illustrious smith divineAmidst a pleasant grove a pasture foundSpacious, and sprinkled o’er with silver sheepNumerous, and stalls, and huts, and shepherds’ tents.Translation ofWilliam Cowper.Homer.

* * * * *

He also graved on it a fallow field,Rich, spacious, and well tilled. Plowers not few,There driving to and fro their sturdy teams,Labor’d the land; and oft as in their courseThey came to the field’s bourn, so oft a manMet them, who in their hands a goblet placed,Charged with delicious wine. They, turning, wroughtEach his own furrow, and impatient seem’dTo reach the border of the tilth, which blackAppear’d behind them as a glebe new-turn’d,Though golden, sight to be admired by all!There, too, he form’d the likeness of a field,Crowded with corn, in which the reapers toil’dEach with a sharp-tooth’d sickle in his hand.Along the furrow here the harvest fellIn frequent handfuls, there they bound the sheaves.Three binders of the sheaves their sultry taskAll plied industrious, and behind them boysAttended, filling with the corn their arms,And offering still their bundles to be bound.Amid them, staff in hand, the master stoodSilent exulting, while beneath an oakApart, his heralds busily preparedThe banquet, dressing a well-thriven ox,New slain, and the attendant maidens mix’dLarge supper for the hinds of whitest flour.There, also, laden with its fruit, he form’dA vineyard all of gold; purple he madeThe clusters, and the vines supported, stoodBy poles of silver set in even rows.The trench he color’d sable, and aroundFenced it with tin. One only path it show’dBy which the gatherers, when they stripp’d the vines,Pass’d and repass’d. There, youths and maidens blithe,In pails of wicker bore the luscious fruit,While in the midst a boy, on his shrill harp,Harmonious play’d; still as he struck the chord,Carolling to it with a slender voice,They smote the ground together, and with songAnd sprightly reed came dancing on behind.There, too, a herd he fashion’d of tall beeves,Part gold, part tin; they, lowing, from the stallsRush’d forth to pasture by a river-side,Rapid, sonorous, fringed with whispering reeds.Four golden herdsmen drove the kine a-field,By nine swift dogs attended. Dreadful sprangTwo lions forth, and of the foremost herd,Seized fast a bull. Him, bellowing, they dragg’d,While dogs and peasants all flew to his aid.The lions tore the hide of the huge prey,And lapp’d his entrails and his blood. MeantimeThe herdsmen, troubling them in vain, their houndsEncouraged; but no tooth for lion’s fleshFound they, and therefore stood aside and bark’d.There, also, the illustrious smith divineAmidst a pleasant grove a pasture foundSpacious, and sprinkled o’er with silver sheepNumerous, and stalls, and huts, and shepherds’ tents.Translation ofWilliam Cowper.Homer.

He also graved on it a fallow field,

Rich, spacious, and well tilled. Plowers not few,

There driving to and fro their sturdy teams,

Labor’d the land; and oft as in their course

They came to the field’s bourn, so oft a man

Met them, who in their hands a goblet placed,

Charged with delicious wine. They, turning, wrought

Each his own furrow, and impatient seem’d

To reach the border of the tilth, which black

Appear’d behind them as a glebe new-turn’d,

Though golden, sight to be admired by all!

There, too, he form’d the likeness of a field,

Crowded with corn, in which the reapers toil’d

Each with a sharp-tooth’d sickle in his hand.

Along the furrow here the harvest fell

In frequent handfuls, there they bound the sheaves.

Three binders of the sheaves their sultry task

All plied industrious, and behind them boys

Attended, filling with the corn their arms,

And offering still their bundles to be bound.

Amid them, staff in hand, the master stood

Silent exulting, while beneath an oak

Apart, his heralds busily prepared

The banquet, dressing a well-thriven ox,

New slain, and the attendant maidens mix’d

Large supper for the hinds of whitest flour.

There, also, laden with its fruit, he form’d

A vineyard all of gold; purple he made

The clusters, and the vines supported, stood

By poles of silver set in even rows.

The trench he color’d sable, and around

Fenced it with tin. One only path it show’d

By which the gatherers, when they stripp’d the vines,

Pass’d and repass’d. There, youths and maidens blithe,

In pails of wicker bore the luscious fruit,

While in the midst a boy, on his shrill harp,

Harmonious play’d; still as he struck the chord,

Carolling to it with a slender voice,

They smote the ground together, and with song

And sprightly reed came dancing on behind.

There, too, a herd he fashion’d of tall beeves,

Part gold, part tin; they, lowing, from the stalls

Rush’d forth to pasture by a river-side,

Rapid, sonorous, fringed with whispering reeds.

Four golden herdsmen drove the kine a-field,

By nine swift dogs attended. Dreadful sprang

Two lions forth, and of the foremost herd,

Seized fast a bull. Him, bellowing, they dragg’d,

While dogs and peasants all flew to his aid.

The lions tore the hide of the huge prey,

And lapp’d his entrails and his blood. Meantime

The herdsmen, troubling them in vain, their hounds

Encouraged; but no tooth for lion’s flesh

Found they, and therefore stood aside and bark’d.

There, also, the illustrious smith divine

Amidst a pleasant grove a pasture found

Spacious, and sprinkled o’er with silver sheep

Numerous, and stalls, and huts, and shepherds’ tents.

Translation ofWilliam Cowper.Homer.

FROM “CHILDE HAROLD.”

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,With the wild world I dwell in, is a thingWhich warns me, with its stillness, to forsakeEarth’s troubled waters for a purer spring.His quiet sail is as a noiseless wingTo waft me from distraction; once I lovedTorn Ocean’s roar, but thy soft murmuringSounds sweet as if a sister’s voice reproved,That I with stern delights should e’er have been so moved.It is the hush of night, and all betweenThy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,Mellow’d and mingling, yet distinctly seen,Save darken’d Jura, whose capt heights appearPrecipitously steep; and, drawing near,There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the earDrops the light drip of the suspended oar,Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more:He is an evening reveler, who makesHis life an infancy, and sings his fill;At intervals, some bird from out the brakesStarts into voice a moment, then is still.There seems a floating whisper on the hill;But that is fancy, for the starlight dewsAll silently their tears of love instill,Weeping themselves away, till they infuseDeep into Nature’s breast the spirit of her hues.Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven,If in your bright leaves we would read the fateOf men and empires—’tis to be forgiven,That in our aspirations to be great,Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state,And claim a kindred with you; for ye areA beauty and a mystery, and createIn us such love and reverence from afar,That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep,But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:All heaven and earth are still: from the high hostOf stars, and to the lull’d lake and mountain coast,All is concenter’d in a life intense,Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,But hath a part of being, and a senseOf that which is of all Creator, and defense.Then stirs the feeling infinite, so feltIn solitude, where we are least alone:A truth which through our being then doth melt,And purifies from self; it is a toneThe soul and source of music, which makes knownEternal harmony, and sheds a charmLike to the fabled Cytherea’s zone,Binding all things with beauty; ’twould disarmThe specter Death, had he substantial power to harm.Not vainly did the early Persian makeHis altar the high places and the peakOf earth o’ergazing mountains, and thus takeA fit and unwall’d temple, there to seekThe spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak,Unrear’d of human hands. Come and compareColumns, and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,With Nature’s realms of worship, earth and air,Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer.The sky is changed! and such a change! Oh night,And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,Yet lovely in your strength, as is the lightOf a dark eye in woman! Far along,From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,But every mountain now hath found a tongue,And Jura answers through her misty shroud,Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!And this is in the night: most glorious night!Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me beA sharer in thy fierce and far delight—A portion of the tempest, and of thee!How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!And now again ’tis black—and now the gleeOf the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way betweenHeights which appear as lovers who have partedIn hate, whose mining depths so intervene,That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,Love was the very root of the fond rage,Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed;Itself expired, but leaving them an ageOf years all winters—war within themselves to rage.Now, where the quick Rhone thus has cleft his way,The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand,For here not one, but many, make their play,And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,The brightest through these parted hills hath fork’dHis lightnings—as if he did understandThat in such gaps as desolation work’d,There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk’d.Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye!With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soulTo make these felt, and feeling, well may be,Things that have made me watchful; the far rollOf your departing voices is the knollOf what in me is sleepless—if I rest.But where, of ye, O tempests! is the goal?Are ye like those within the human breast?Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?Lord Byron, 1788–1824.

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,

With the wild world I dwell in, is a thing

Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake

Earth’s troubled waters for a purer spring.

His quiet sail is as a noiseless wing

To waft me from distraction; once I loved

Torn Ocean’s roar, but thy soft murmuring

Sounds sweet as if a sister’s voice reproved,

That I with stern delights should e’er have been so moved.

It is the hush of night, and all betweenThy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,Mellow’d and mingling, yet distinctly seen,Save darken’d Jura, whose capt heights appearPrecipitously steep; and, drawing near,There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the earDrops the light drip of the suspended oar,Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more:

It is the hush of night, and all between

Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,

Mellow’d and mingling, yet distinctly seen,

Save darken’d Jura, whose capt heights appear

Precipitously steep; and, drawing near,

There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,

Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear

Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,

Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more:

He is an evening reveler, who makesHis life an infancy, and sings his fill;At intervals, some bird from out the brakesStarts into voice a moment, then is still.There seems a floating whisper on the hill;But that is fancy, for the starlight dewsAll silently their tears of love instill,Weeping themselves away, till they infuseDeep into Nature’s breast the spirit of her hues.

He is an evening reveler, who makes

His life an infancy, and sings his fill;

At intervals, some bird from out the brakes

Starts into voice a moment, then is still.

There seems a floating whisper on the hill;

But that is fancy, for the starlight dews

All silently their tears of love instill,

Weeping themselves away, till they infuse

Deep into Nature’s breast the spirit of her hues.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven,If in your bright leaves we would read the fateOf men and empires—’tis to be forgiven,That in our aspirations to be great,Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state,And claim a kindred with you; for ye areA beauty and a mystery, and createIn us such love and reverence from afar,That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven,

If in your bright leaves we would read the fate

Of men and empires—’tis to be forgiven,

That in our aspirations to be great,

Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state,

And claim a kindred with you; for ye are

A beauty and a mystery, and create

In us such love and reverence from afar,

That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.

All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep,But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:All heaven and earth are still: from the high hostOf stars, and to the lull’d lake and mountain coast,All is concenter’d in a life intense,Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,But hath a part of being, and a senseOf that which is of all Creator, and defense.

All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep,

But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;

And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:

All heaven and earth are still: from the high host

Of stars, and to the lull’d lake and mountain coast,

All is concenter’d in a life intense,

Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,

But hath a part of being, and a sense

Of that which is of all Creator, and defense.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so feltIn solitude, where we are least alone:A truth which through our being then doth melt,And purifies from self; it is a toneThe soul and source of music, which makes knownEternal harmony, and sheds a charmLike to the fabled Cytherea’s zone,Binding all things with beauty; ’twould disarmThe specter Death, had he substantial power to harm.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt

In solitude, where we are least alone:

A truth which through our being then doth melt,

And purifies from self; it is a tone

The soul and source of music, which makes known

Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm

Like to the fabled Cytherea’s zone,

Binding all things with beauty; ’twould disarm

The specter Death, had he substantial power to harm.

Not vainly did the early Persian makeHis altar the high places and the peakOf earth o’ergazing mountains, and thus takeA fit and unwall’d temple, there to seekThe spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak,Unrear’d of human hands. Come and compareColumns, and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,With Nature’s realms of worship, earth and air,Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer.

Not vainly did the early Persian make

His altar the high places and the peak

Of earth o’ergazing mountains, and thus take

A fit and unwall’d temple, there to seek

The spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak,

Unrear’d of human hands. Come and compare

Columns, and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,

With Nature’s realms of worship, earth and air,

Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer.

The sky is changed! and such a change! Oh night,And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,Yet lovely in your strength, as is the lightOf a dark eye in woman! Far along,From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,But every mountain now hath found a tongue,And Jura answers through her misty shroud,Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

The sky is changed! and such a change! Oh night,

And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,

Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light

Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,

From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,

Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,

But every mountain now hath found a tongue,

And Jura answers through her misty shroud,

Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

And this is in the night: most glorious night!Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me beA sharer in thy fierce and far delight—A portion of the tempest, and of thee!How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!And now again ’tis black—and now the gleeOf the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.

And this is in the night: most glorious night!

Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be

A sharer in thy fierce and far delight—

A portion of the tempest, and of thee!

How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,

And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!

And now again ’tis black—and now the glee

Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,

As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way betweenHeights which appear as lovers who have partedIn hate, whose mining depths so intervene,That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,Love was the very root of the fond rage,Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed;Itself expired, but leaving them an ageOf years all winters—war within themselves to rage.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between

Heights which appear as lovers who have parted

In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,

That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;

Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,

Love was the very root of the fond rage,

Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed;

Itself expired, but leaving them an age

Of years all winters—war within themselves to rage.

Now, where the quick Rhone thus has cleft his way,The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand,For here not one, but many, make their play,And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,The brightest through these parted hills hath fork’dHis lightnings—as if he did understandThat in such gaps as desolation work’d,There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk’d.

Now, where the quick Rhone thus has cleft his way,

The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand,

For here not one, but many, make their play,

And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,

The brightest through these parted hills hath fork’d

His lightnings—as if he did understand

That in such gaps as desolation work’d,

There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk’d.

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye!With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soulTo make these felt, and feeling, well may be,Things that have made me watchful; the far rollOf your departing voices is the knollOf what in me is sleepless—if I rest.But where, of ye, O tempests! is the goal?Are ye like those within the human breast?Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?Lord Byron, 1788–1824.

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye!

With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul

To make these felt, and feeling, well may be,

Things that have made me watchful; the far roll

Of your departing voices is the knoll

Of what in me is sleepless—if I rest.

But where, of ye, O tempests! is the goal?

Are ye like those within the human breast?

Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?

Lord Byron, 1788–1824.

LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS, OCTOBER, 1818.

* * * * *Noon descends around me now;’Tis the noon of autumn’s glow,When a soft and purple mist,Lake a vaporous amethyst,Or an air-dissolved star,Mingling light and fragrance, farFrom the curved horizon’s bound,To the point of heaven’s profound,Fills the overflowing sky,And the plains that silent lieUnderneath, the leaves unsoddenWhere the infant frost has troddenWith his morning-winged feet,Whose bright print is gleaming yet;And the red and golden vines,Piercing with their trellis’d linesThe rough, dark-skirted wilderness;The dim and bladed grass no lessPointing from this hoary towerIn the windless air; the flowerGlimmering at my feet; the lineOf the olive-sandaled Apennine,In the south dimly islanded;And the Alps, whose snows are spreadHigh between the clouds and sun;And of living things each one;And my spirit, which so longDarken’d this swift stream of song,Interpenetrated lieBy the glory of the sky;Be it love, light, harmony,Odor, or the soul of allWhich from Heaven like dew doth fall,Or the mind which feeds this verse,Peopling the lone universe.P. B. Shelley.

* * * * *

Noon descends around me now;’Tis the noon of autumn’s glow,When a soft and purple mist,Lake a vaporous amethyst,Or an air-dissolved star,Mingling light and fragrance, farFrom the curved horizon’s bound,To the point of heaven’s profound,Fills the overflowing sky,And the plains that silent lieUnderneath, the leaves unsoddenWhere the infant frost has troddenWith his morning-winged feet,Whose bright print is gleaming yet;And the red and golden vines,Piercing with their trellis’d linesThe rough, dark-skirted wilderness;The dim and bladed grass no lessPointing from this hoary towerIn the windless air; the flowerGlimmering at my feet; the lineOf the olive-sandaled Apennine,In the south dimly islanded;And the Alps, whose snows are spreadHigh between the clouds and sun;And of living things each one;And my spirit, which so longDarken’d this swift stream of song,Interpenetrated lieBy the glory of the sky;Be it love, light, harmony,Odor, or the soul of allWhich from Heaven like dew doth fall,Or the mind which feeds this verse,Peopling the lone universe.P. B. Shelley.

Noon descends around me now;

’Tis the noon of autumn’s glow,

When a soft and purple mist,

Lake a vaporous amethyst,

Or an air-dissolved star,

Mingling light and fragrance, far

From the curved horizon’s bound,

To the point of heaven’s profound,

Fills the overflowing sky,

And the plains that silent lie

Underneath, the leaves unsodden

Where the infant frost has trodden

With his morning-winged feet,

Whose bright print is gleaming yet;

And the red and golden vines,

Piercing with their trellis’d lines

The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;

The dim and bladed grass no less

Pointing from this hoary tower

In the windless air; the flower

Glimmering at my feet; the line

Of the olive-sandaled Apennine,

In the south dimly islanded;

And the Alps, whose snows are spread

High between the clouds and sun;

And of living things each one;

And my spirit, which so long

Darken’d this swift stream of song,

Interpenetrated lie

By the glory of the sky;

Be it love, light, harmony,

Odor, or the soul of all

Which from Heaven like dew doth fall,

Or the mind which feeds this verse,

Peopling the lone universe.

P. B. Shelley.

Dear is my little native vale;The ring-dove builds and warbles there;Close by my cot she tells her taleTo every passing villager.The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,And shells his nuts at liberty.In orange grove and myrtle bowers,That breathe a gale of fragrance round,I charm the fairy-footed hoursWith my lov’d lute’s romantic sound;Or crowns of living laurel weaveFor those that win the race at eve.The shepherd’s horn, at break of day,The ballet danc’d 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.

Dear is my little native vale;The ring-dove builds and warbles there;Close by my cot she tells her taleTo every passing villager.The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,And shells his nuts at liberty.

Dear is my little native vale;

The ring-dove builds and warbles 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 grove and myrtle bowers,That breathe a gale of fragrance round,I charm the fairy-footed hoursWith my lov’d lute’s romantic sound;Or crowns of living laurel weaveFor those that win the race at eve.

In orange grove and myrtle bowers,

That breathe a gale of fragrance round,

I charm the fairy-footed hours

With my lov’d lute’s romantic sound;

Or crowns of living laurel weave

For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd’s horn, at break of day,The ballet danc’d 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.

The shepherd’s horn, at break of day,

The ballet danc’d 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.

FROM A LETTER OF W. BECKFORD, ESQ.

October 19, 1797.

The valley of Collares affords me a source of perpetual amusement. I have discovered a variety of paths which lead through chestnut copses and orchards to irregular green spots, where self-sown bays and citronbusheshang wild over the rocky margin of a little river, and drop their fruit and blossoms into the stream. You may ride for miles along the banks of this delightful water, catching endless perspectives of flowery thickets, between the stems of poplar and walnut. The scenery is truly Elysian, and exactly such as poets assign for the resort of happy spirits. The mossy fragments of rocks, grotesque pollards, and rustic bridges you meet with at every step, recall Savoy and Switzerland to the imagination; but the exotic cast of the vegetation, the vivid green of the citron, the golden fruitage of the orange, the blossoming myrtle, and the rich fragrance of a turf embroidered with the brightest-colored and most aromatic flowers, allow me, without a stretch of fancy, to believe myself in the garden of the Hesperides, and to expect the dragon under every tree. I by no means like the thought of abandoning these smiling regions, and have been twenty times on the point, this very day, of revoking the orders I have given for my journey. Whatever objections I may have had to Portugal seem to vanish since I have determined to leave it; for such is the perversity of human nature, that objects appear the most estimable precisely at the moment when we are going to leave them.

There was this morning a mild radiance in the sunbeams, and a balsamic serenity in the air, which infused that voluptuous listlessness—that desire of remaining imparadised in one delightful spot, which, in classical fictions, was supposed to render those who had tasted of the lotus, forgetful of friends and of every tie. My feelings were not dissimilar; I loathed the idea of moving away.

Though I had entered these beautiful orchards soon after sunrise, the clocks of some distant conventual churches had chimed hour after hour, before I could prevail upon myself to quit the spreading odoriferous baytrees under which I had been lying. If shades so cool and fragrant invited to repose, I must observe, that never were paths better calculated to tempt the laziest of beings to a walk, than those that opened on all sides, and are formed of a smooth, dry sand, bound firmly together, composing a surface as hard as gravel. These level paths wind about among a labyrinth of light, elegant fruit-trees: almond, plum, and cherry, something like the groves of Tongo-Taboo, as represented in Cook’s voyages; and to increase the resemblance, neat, clean fences and low, open sheds, thatched with reeds, appear at intervals, breaking the horizontal line of the perspective. I had now lingered and loitered away pretty nearly the whole morning, and though, as far as scenery could authorize and climate inspire, I might fancy myself an inhabitant of Polynesia, I could not pretend to be sufficiently ethereal to exist without nourishment. In plain English, I was extremely hungry. The pears, quinces, and oranges, which dangled above my head, although fair to the eye, were neither so juicy nor so gratifying to the palate, as might have been expected from their promising appearance.

Being considerably

“More than a mile within the wood,”

and not recollecting by which clue of a path I could get out of it, I remained at least half an hour deliberating which way to turn myself. The sheds and inclosures I have mentioned were put together with care, and even nicety, it is true, but seemed to have no other inhabitants than flocks of bantams, strutting about and destroying the eggs and hopes of many an insect family. These glistening fowls, like their brethren described in Anson’s voyages, as ruminating the profound solitudes of the island of Tinian, appeared to have no master. At length, just as I was beginning to wish myself very heartily in a less romantic region, I heard the loud, though not unmusical tones of a powerful female voice, echoing through the arched green avenues; presently a stout, ruddy young peasant, very picturesquely attired in brown and scarlet, came hoydening along, driving a mule before her laden with two enormous panniers of grapes. To ask for a share of this luxurious load, and to compliment the fair driver, was instantaneous on my part—but to no purpose. I was answered by a sly wink: “We all belong to Senhor José Dias, whose coreal (farm-yard) is half a league distant. There, Senhor, if you follow that road and don’t puzzle yourself by a straying to the right or left, you will soon reach it, and the bailiff, I dare say, will be proud to give you as many grapes as you please. Good-morning; happy days to you! I must mind my business.”

Seating herself between the tantalizing panniers, she was gone in an instant, and I had the good luck to arrive at the wicket of a rude, dry well, winding up several bushy slopes in a wild, irregular manner. If the outside of this inclosure was rough and unpromising, the interior presented a most cheerful scene of rural opulence: droves of cows and goats milking; ovens, out of which huge savory cakes of bread had just been taken; ranges of bee-hives and long pillared sheds, entirely tapestried with purple and yellow muscadine grapes half candied, which were hung up to dry. A very good-natured, classical-lookingmagister pecorum, followed by two well-disciplined, though savage-eyed dogs, whom the least glance of their master prevented from barking, gave me a hearty welcome, and with genuine hospitality not only allowed me the free range of his domain, but set whatever it produced in the greatest perfection before me. A contest took place between two or three curly-haired, chubby-faced children, who should be first to bring me walnuts fresh from the shell, bowls of milk, and cream cheeses, made after the best of fashions, that of the province of Alemtejo.

William Beckford.

[Pastoral Scene]

FROM “THE LUSIAD.”

With graceful pride three hills of softest greenRear their fair bosoms o’er the sylvan scene;Their sides embroider’d boast the rich arrayOf flowery shrubs in all the pride of May;The purple lotus and the snowy thorn,And yellow pod-flowers every slope adorn.From the green summits of the leafy hillsDescend with murmuring lapse three limpid rills;Beneath the rose-trees loitering slow they glide,Now tumbles o’er some rock their crystal pride;Sonorous now they roll adown the glade,Now plaintive tinkle in the secret shade;Now from the darkling grove, beneath the beamOf ruddy morn, like melted silver stream,Edging the painted margins of the bowers,And breathing liquid freshness on the flowers.Here bright reflected in the pool belowThe vermil apples tremble on the bough;Where o’er the yellow sands the waters sleep,The primrosed banks inverted, dew-drops weep;Where murmuring o’er the pebbles purls the stream,The silver trouts in playful curvings gleam.Long thus and various every riv’let strays,Till closing now their long meand’ring maze,Where in a sinking vale the mountains end,Form’d in a crystal lake the waters blend;Fring’d was the border with a woodland shade,In every leaf of various green array’d,Each yellow-ting’d, each mingling tint betweenThe dark ash verdure and the silvery green.The trees now bending forward, slowly shakeTheir lofty honors o’er the crystal lake;Now from the flood the graceful boughs retire,With coy reserve, and now again admireTheir various liveries by the summer dress’d,Smooth-gloss’d and soften’d in the mirror’s breast.So by her glass the wishful virgin strays,And oft retiring steals the lingering gaze.* * * * *Wild forest-trees the mountain sides array’d:With curling foliage and romantic shade;Here spreads the poplar, to Alcides dear;And dear to Phœbus, ever verdant here,The laurel joins the bowers for ever green,The myrtle bowers belov’d of beauty’s queen.To Jove the oak his wide-spread branches rears;And high to heaven the fragrant cedar bears;Where through the glades appear the cavern’d rocks,The lofty pine-tree waves her sable locks;Sacred to Cybele, the whispering pineLoves the wild grottoes where the white cliffs shine;Here towers the cypress, preacher to the wise,Less’ning, from earth, her spiral honors rise,Till, as a spear-point rear’d, the topmost sprayPoints to the Eden of eternal day.Translation ofW. J. Mickle.Luis de Camoens, 1517–1579.

With graceful pride three hills of softest green

Rear their fair bosoms o’er the sylvan scene;

Their sides embroider’d boast the rich array

Of flowery shrubs in all the pride of May;

The purple lotus and the snowy thorn,

And yellow pod-flowers every slope adorn.

From the green summits of the leafy hills

Descend with murmuring lapse three limpid rills;

Beneath the rose-trees loitering slow they glide,

Now tumbles o’er some rock their crystal pride;

Sonorous now they roll adown the glade,

Now plaintive tinkle in the secret shade;

Now from the darkling grove, beneath the beam

Of ruddy morn, like melted silver stream,

Edging the painted margins of the bowers,

And breathing liquid freshness on the flowers.

Here bright reflected in the pool below

The vermil apples tremble on the bough;

Where o’er the yellow sands the waters sleep,

The primrosed banks inverted, dew-drops weep;

Where murmuring o’er the pebbles purls the stream,

The silver trouts in playful curvings gleam.

Long thus and various every riv’let strays,

Till closing now their long meand’ring maze,

Where in a sinking vale the mountains end,

Form’d in a crystal lake the waters blend;

Fring’d was the border with a woodland shade,

In every leaf of various green array’d,

Each yellow-ting’d, each mingling tint between

The dark ash verdure and the silvery green.

The trees now bending forward, slowly shake

Their lofty honors o’er the crystal lake;

Now from the flood the graceful boughs retire,

With coy reserve, and now again admire

Their various liveries by the summer dress’d,

Smooth-gloss’d and soften’d in the mirror’s breast.

So by her glass the wishful virgin strays,

And oft retiring steals the lingering gaze.

* * * * *

Wild forest-trees the mountain sides array’d:With curling foliage and romantic shade;Here spreads the poplar, to Alcides dear;And dear to Phœbus, ever verdant here,The laurel joins the bowers for ever green,The myrtle bowers belov’d of beauty’s queen.To Jove the oak his wide-spread branches rears;And high to heaven the fragrant cedar bears;Where through the glades appear the cavern’d rocks,The lofty pine-tree waves her sable locks;Sacred to Cybele, the whispering pineLoves the wild grottoes where the white cliffs shine;Here towers the cypress, preacher to the wise,Less’ning, from earth, her spiral honors rise,Till, as a spear-point rear’d, the topmost sprayPoints to the Eden of eternal day.Translation ofW. J. Mickle.Luis de Camoens, 1517–1579.

Wild forest-trees the mountain sides array’d:

With curling foliage and romantic shade;

Here spreads the poplar, to Alcides dear;

And dear to Phœbus, ever verdant here,

The laurel joins the bowers for ever green,

The myrtle bowers belov’d of beauty’s queen.

To Jove the oak his wide-spread branches rears;

And high to heaven the fragrant cedar bears;

Where through the glades appear the cavern’d rocks,

The lofty pine-tree waves her sable locks;

Sacred to Cybele, the whispering pine

Loves the wild grottoes where the white cliffs shine;

Here towers the cypress, preacher to the wise,

Less’ning, from earth, her spiral honors rise,

Till, as a spear-point rear’d, the topmost spray

Points to the Eden of eternal day.

Translation ofW. J. Mickle.Luis de Camoens, 1517–1579.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF DANTE.

Longing already to search in and roundThe heavenly forest, dense and living-green,Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day,Withouten more delay I left the bank,Crossing the level country slowly, slowly,Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance.A gently breathing air, that no mutationHad in itself, smote me upon the forehead—No heavier blow than of a pleasant breeze;Whereat the tremulous branches readilyDid all of them bow downward toward that sideWhere its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;Yet not from their upright direction bent,So that the little birds upon their topsShould cease the practice of their tuneful art;But, with full-throated joy, the hours of primeSinging received they in the midst of foliage,That made monotonous burden to their rhymes;Even as from branch to branch it gathering swellsThrough the pine forests on the shore of ChiassiWhen Æolus unlooses the sirocco.Already my slow steps had led me onInto the ancient wood so far, that ICould see no more the place where I had entered;And, lo! my farther course cut off a river,Which, toward the left hand, with its little waves,Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang.All waters that on earth most limpid are,Would seem to have within themselves some mixture,Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal,Although it moves with a brown, brown current,Under the shade perpetual, that neverRay of sun let in, nor of the moon.Translation ofH. W. Longfellow.Dante Alighieri, 1265–1321.

Longing already to search in and round

The heavenly forest, dense and living-green,

Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day,

Withouten more delay I left the bank,

Crossing the level country slowly, slowly,

Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance.

A gently breathing air, that no mutation

Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead—

No heavier blow than of a pleasant breeze;

Whereat the tremulous branches readily

Did all of them bow downward toward that side

Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;

Yet not from their upright direction bent,

So that the little birds upon their tops

Should cease the practice of their tuneful art;

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime

Singing received they in the midst of foliage,

That made monotonous burden to their rhymes;

Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells

Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi

When Æolus unlooses the sirocco.

Already my slow steps had led me on

Into the ancient wood so far, that I

Could see no more the place where I had entered;

And, lo! my farther course cut off a river,

Which, toward the left hand, with its little waves,

Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang.

All waters that on earth most limpid are,

Would seem to have within themselves some mixture,

Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal,

Although it moves with a brown, brown current,

Under the shade perpetual, that never

Ray of sun let in, nor of the moon.

Translation ofH. W. Longfellow.Dante Alighieri, 1265–1321.

Nature, thy daughter, ever-changing birthOf thee, the great Immutable, to manSpeaks wisdom; is his oracle supreme;And he who most consults her is most wise.Look nature through, ’tis revolution all.All change, no death. Day follows night, and nightThe dying day; stars rise, and set, and rise;Earth takes th’ example. See the summer gay,With her green chaplet, and ambrosial flow’rs,Droops into pallid autumn; winter gray,Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm,Blows autumn and his golden fruits away,Then melts into the spring; soft spring, with breathFavonian, from warm chambers of the south,Recalls the first. All to re-flourish fades,As in a wheel all sinks to reascend;Emblems of man, who passes, not expires.With this minute distinction, emblems just,Nature revolves, but man advances; bothEternal, that a circle, this a line;That gravitates, this soars. Th’ aspiring soul,Ardent and tremulous, like flame ascends,Zeal and humility her wings, to heaven.The world of matter, with its various forms,All dies into new life. Life, born from death,Rolls the vast mass, and shall for ever roll.No single atom, once in being lost,With change of counsel charges the Most High.Matter immortal, and shall spirit die?Above the nobler shall less noble rise?Shall man alone, for whom all else revives,Now resurrection know! shall man alone,Imperial man! be sown in barren ground,Less privileg’d than grain on which he feeds?Is man, in whom alone is power to prizeThe bliss of being, or with previous painDeplore its period, by the spleen of fate,Severely doom’d, death’s single unredeem’d?Edward Young, 1681–1765.

Nature, thy daughter, ever-changing birth

Of thee, the great Immutable, to man

Speaks wisdom; is his oracle supreme;

And he who most consults her is most wise.

Look nature through, ’tis revolution all.

All change, no death. Day follows night, and night

The dying day; stars rise, and set, and rise;

Earth takes th’ example. See the summer gay,

With her green chaplet, and ambrosial flow’rs,

Droops into pallid autumn; winter gray,

Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm,

Blows autumn and his golden fruits away,

Then melts into the spring; soft spring, with breath

Favonian, from warm chambers of the south,

Recalls the first. All to re-flourish fades,

As in a wheel all sinks to reascend;

Emblems of man, who passes, not expires.

With this minute distinction, emblems just,

Nature revolves, but man advances; both

Eternal, that a circle, this a line;

That gravitates, this soars. Th’ aspiring soul,

Ardent and tremulous, like flame ascends,

Zeal and humility her wings, to heaven.

The world of matter, with its various forms,

All dies into new life. Life, born from death,

Rolls the vast mass, and shall for ever roll.

No single atom, once in being lost,

With change of counsel charges the Most High.

Matter immortal, and shall spirit die?

Above the nobler shall less noble rise?

Shall man alone, for whom all else revives,

Now resurrection know! shall man alone,

Imperial man! be sown in barren ground,

Less privileg’d than grain on which he feeds?

Is man, in whom alone is power to prize

The bliss of being, or with previous pain

Deplore its period, by the spleen of fate,

Severely doom’d, death’s single unredeem’d?

Edward Young, 1681–1765.

Evening

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