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In lofty lines,

Mid palms and pines, And olives, aloes, elms, and vines,

Sorrento swings

On sunset wings, Where Tasso's spirit soars and sings.

Here Ischia smiles

O'er liquid miles;
And yonder, bluest of the isles,

Calm Capri waits,

Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if

My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls

Where swells and falls The Bay's deep breast at intervals,

At peace I lie,

Blown softly by, —
A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild,

Is heaven's own child, With earth and ocean reconciled;

The airs I feel

Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail

My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail;

A joy intense,

The cooling sense
Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies;

O’erveiled with vines,

She glows and shines
Among her future oil and wines.

Her children, hid

The cliffs amid,
Are gambolling with the gambolling kid;

Or down the walls,

With tipsy calls,
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher's child,

With tresses wild,
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,

With glowing lips

Sings as she skips,
Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes

Where Traffic blows,
From lands of sun to lands of snows;

This happier one,

Its course is run
From lands of snow to lands of sun.

O happy ship,

To rise and dip,
With the blue crystal at your lip!

O happy crew,

My heart with you
Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more

The worldly shore
Upbraids me with its loud uproar:

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise !

SHERIDAN'S RIDE. Up from the south at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,

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The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,

And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled ;
Making the blood of the listener cold,
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,

And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good broad highway leading down :
And there, through the flush of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,
As if he knew the terrible need;
He stretched away with his utmost speed :
Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay,

With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south,
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth,
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,

With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire.
But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,

With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the general saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops :
What was done? what to do? a glance told him both.

Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath,

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