--Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken:
Or like stout Cortez-when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.-J. Keats.

CCCXXX.

PAST AND PRESENT.

I REMEMBER, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups-
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,

And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,—
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember

The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.-T. Hood.

CCCXXXI.

LIFE'S MOCKERIES.

THE flower that smiles to-day,

To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay

Tempts, and then flies;
What is this world's delight?

Lightning that mocks the night,

Brief even as bright.

Virtue, how frail it is!

Friendship too rare!

Love, how it sells poor bliss

For proud despair!

But we, though soon they fall,

Survive their joy and all,

Which ours we call.

Whilst skies are blue and bright,

Whilst flowers are gay,

Whilst eyes that change ere night

Make glad the day;

Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou, and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.-P. B. Shelley.

CCCXXXII.

INVOCATION TO THE SPIRIT OF ACHILLES,

BEAUTIFUL shadow

Of Thetis's boy!

Who sleeps in the meadow

Where grass grows o'er Troy,
From the red earth, like Adam,
Thy likeness I shape
As the being who made him,
Whose actions I ape.
Thou clay, be all glowing,
Till the rose in his cheek
Be as fair as, when blowing,
It wears its first streak!
Ye violets, I scatter,
Now turn into eyes!
And thou, sunshiny water
Of blood take the guise!
Let these hyacinth boughs
Be his long flowing hair,
And wave o'er his brows

As thou wavest in air!
Let his heart be this marble
I tear from the rock!
But his voice as the warble
Of birds on yon oak!
Let his flesh be the purest

Of mould, in which grew
The lily root surest,

And drank the best dew!
Let his limbs be the lightest
Which clay can compound,
And his aspect the brightest
On earth to be found!

Elements, near me,

Be mingled and stirr'd,
Know me, and hear me,
And leap to my word!
Sunbeams, awaken

This earth's animation!

'Tis done! He hath taken

His stand in creation!-Lord Byron.

CCCXXXIII.

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

OFT, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me :
The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends, so link'd together,

I've seen around me fall,

Like leaves in wintry weather;

I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.-T. Moore.

CCCXXXIV.

TO THE POETS THAT HAVE PASSED,

BARDS of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new?

-Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon;
With the noise of fountains wond'rous
And the parle of voices thund'rous;
With the whisper of heaven's trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns

Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ;
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth;
Philosophic numbers smooth;
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again;