With a woful agony.

Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,

That agony returns:

And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have strange power of speech;
That moment that his face I see,

I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale. I teach.

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585

590

And all together pray,

While each to his great Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay!

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.'

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest
Turned from the bridegroom's door.

595

600

605

610

The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou_piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal
shrine,

Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer,

I worshipp'd the Invisible alone.

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Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,

Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused
Into the mighty vision passing-there,
As in her natural form, swell'd vast to
heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart,
awake!

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn!

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale!

Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night,

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620

Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald! wake, oh wake, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely

40

glad! Who call'd you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, For ever shatter'd, and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,

45

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

snow,

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt th'eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 65

Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!

Ye signs and wonders of the element! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, hoar mount! with thy skypointing peaks, 70 Oft from whose feet the avalanche unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene

Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast,

Thou too, again, stupendous mountain!
thou,
That, as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused
with tears,

Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before me,-rise, oh, ever rise,
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth!

faith

In the might of stars and angels! 'Tis not merely The human being's pride that peoples space With life and mystical predominance; Since likewise for the stricken heart of

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love This visible nature, and this common world Is all too narrow: yea, a deeper import Lurks in the legend told my infant years Than lies upon that truth we live to learn. Far fable is love's world, his house, his birthplace;

10

Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talis

HEMANS Dorothea Browne) was

which is to be found all her works. She

her from producing in 1812 another volume, entitled The Domestic Affections, and other Poems.' In this year she married Captain Hemans, but the union proved an unhappy one, and in 1818 her husband left her and went to reside in Italy, after which they never met again. She published in 1820 The Sceptic; and in 1823 her tragedy, "The Vespers of Palermo," was brought out in London, but met with no approval.

THE BETTER LAND.

'I hear thee speak of the better land, Thou call'st its children a happy band; Mother! O where is that radiant shore, Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs?'

'Not there, not there, my child!'

Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or midst the green islands on glittering

Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange bright birds, on their starry wings,

Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?' 'Not there, not there, my child!'

Is it far away, in some region old, 15 Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?

Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine,

And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand,

Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?' 'Not there, not there, my child!'

'Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy! Dreams cannot picture a world so fairSorrow and death may not enter there: 25 Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,

For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,

It is there, it is there, my child!'

And music in the southern wind, and sunshine on the vines. The breathings of the myrtle-flowers have floated o'er ny way; The pilgrim's voice, at vesper-hours, hath soothed me with its lay.

The Isles of Greece, the Hills of Spain, the purple Heavens of Rome, Yes, all are glorious;-yet again I bless thee, Land of Home!

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And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day,

Bids rock and cairn reply,

Wakening the spirits of the North,
Like a chieftain's gathering cry;

While its deep master-tones hold sway,

As a king's o'er every breast,

Home of the Legend and the Lay,
A blessing on thee rest!

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old Are bathed in a flood as of burning gold. And thou turnest not from the humblest, grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may