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Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,
Maiden most perfect, lady of light,
With a clamour of waters and with might;
Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.
Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,
Fold our hands round her knees, and cling?
Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!
And the south west wind and the west-wind sing.
For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snow and sins ; The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins ; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
A. C. Swinburne.
A MAYTIME WISH.
I would the world could see thee as I behold thee, May
I would all eyes could see thee, as I belold thee now,
I would all ears could listen to thy merry-making, May,
A form of life and beauty, I see thee, lovely May,
spray; From the lilac and the hawthorn, and the furze upon the down, And the wall-flower by the wayside in its dress of cottage-brown.
Would you see her as I see her, you must be where I have been, Where the oak-tree and the elm-tree and the beechen tree are
seen; Where the bright and silvery poplars in their leafy beauty shine, And the bees are quaffing deeply from their chalices of wine.
You must linger as I linger, in the shadow of each nook,
SPRING IN ENGLAND.
Oh, to be in England
And after April when May follows,
Robert Browning. XLII.
THE MAGIC LAND.
By woodland belt, by ocean bar,
The full south breeze our foreheads fann'd, And, under many a yellow star,
We dropped into the Magic Land.
There, every sound and every sight
Means more than sight or sound elsewhere; Each twilight star a two-fold light;
Each rose a double redness, there.
By ocean bar, by woodland belt,
Our silent course a syren led, Till dark in dawn began to melt,
Through the wild wizard-work o'er head.
We watched, toward the land of dreams,
The fair moon draw the murmuring main ; A single thread of silver beams
Was made the monster’s rippling chain.
We heard far off the syren's song;
We caught the gleam of sea-maid's hair. The glimmering isles and rocks among,
We moved thro' sparkling purple air.
Then morning rose, and smote from far,
Her elfin harps o'er land and sea; And woodland belt, and ocean bar,
To one sweet note, sighed—“Italy.!"
Robert Bulwer Lytton. (Owen Meredith.)
Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall-
Thou art walking the billow, and ocean smiles ;
To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Thou tak'st thro' the dim church aisle thy way,
And thou turnest not from the humblest grave,
Sunbeam of summer! oh, what is like thee?