A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore.
Oh, write no more the tale of Troy,
If earth Death's scroll must be!

Nor mix with Laian rage the joy

Which dawns upon the free: Although a subtler Sphinx renew Riddles of death Thebes never knew. Another Athens shall arise, And to remoter time Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, The splendor of its prime;

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And leave, if naught so bright may live, All earth can take or Heaven can give. 30 Saturn and Love their long repose

Shall burst, more bright and good Than all who fell, than One who rose, Than many unsubdued:

Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers, 35 But votive tears and symbol flowers.

Oh, cease! must hate and death return? Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn

Of bitter prophecy.

The world is weary of the past,
Oh, might it die or rest at last!

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WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED

When the lamp is shattered, The light in the dust lies dead; When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken,

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Loved accents are soon forgot.

ΙΟ

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O Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here,

Why choose you the frailest

Now, in humbler, happier lot,
This is all remembered not;
And now, alas! the poor sprite is

Its passions will rock thee

As the storms rock the ravens on high:

Bright reason will mock thee,

Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter

Will rot, and thine eagle home

Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.

WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE

Ariel to Miranda:-Take

This slave of Music, for the sake
Of him who is the slave of thee,
And teach it all the harmony
In which thou canst, and only thou,
Make the delighted spirit glow,
Till joy denies itself again,
And, too intense, is turned to pain;
For by permission and command
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken;
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who,
From life to life, must still pursue
Your happiness; for thus alone
Can Ariel ever find his own.
From Prospero's enchanted cell,
As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples, he
Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor.

When you die, the silent Moon,
In her interlunar swoon,

Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel.

When you live again on earth,
Like an unseen star of birth,
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity.

Many changes have been run,

In a body like a grave;-
From you he only dares to crave,
For his service and his sorrow,
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.

The artist who this idol wrought,
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine;
And dreaming, some of Autumn past,
And some of Spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love; and so this tree,-
Oh, that such our death may be!-
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,

To live in happier form again:

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From which, beneath Heaven's fairest

star,

The artist wrought this loved Guitar,
And taught it justly to reply,
To all who question skilfully,
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamored tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells;
For it had learned all harmonies

Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,
The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,

And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew

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That seldom-heard mysterious sound, 75
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way-

All this it knows, but will not tell

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Since Ferdinand and you begun
Your course of love, and Ariel still
Has tracked your steps, and served your
will;

The winds of heaven blew, the ocean rolled

Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew

Of summer nights collected still to make 30 The morning precious: beauty was awake!

clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest

brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose

blooms:

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; 21 All lovely tales that we have heard or read:

An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences 25 For one short hour; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 31 That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,

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They alway must be with us, or we die.
Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din; 40
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the
year

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Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

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White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets covered up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

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