In the storm, in the smoke, in the fight, I come
To bring thee strength with my bugle and drum.
My name is Music, — and when the bell
Rings for the dead man, I rule the knell;
And when the wrecked mariner hears in the blast
The fog-bell sound, — it was I who passed.
The poets have told you how I, a young maid,
Came fresh from the gods to the myrtle shade,
And thence by a power divine I stole
To where the waters of Mineius roll;
Then down by Clitumnus and Arno's vale
I wandered, passionate and pale,
Until I found me at sacred Rome,

I watch'd a withered Figure at the keys
Pause, with a smile, in the great galleries,
And heard his tender fingers, as he went,
Muse on the heart of each blind instrument.

SPINET .

" Shoaling through twilight to my silver tinglings
The great-ruff'd ladies beset with pearl
Come out with the gallants in gems of Cadiz
In lofty capriols, with loud spur-jinglings,
In Roman galliard and in blithe coranto
Learnt in far Otranto
Brought home in the galleys of the Earl —

A country squire, of greater wealth than wit
(For fools are often blessed with fortune's smile),
Had built a splendid house, and furnished it
In splendid style.

" One thing is wanting," said a friend; " for, though
The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse,
You lack a library, dear sir, for show,
If not for use."

" 'Tis true; but 'zounds!" replied the squire with glee,
" The lumber-room in yonder northern wing

Our house, that long in darkness dwelt,
And long in silence, day by day,
Before the mountain snows could melt,
While yet the world was bleak and gray,
Received an impulse from the play
Of sudden fingers on the strings,
That made the new-born meadows gay
With magic touch, as 't were the Spring's.

The melancholy frog no more
Shall pipe his burden, twanging shrill;
The oriole gives his matins o'er,
No song-bird now hath any skill;
Even that reproachful whippoorwill
That stirred such memories in my heart

Draw me not! Let your laurels round me wreathe—
You that have kept, since you began to breathe,
The soul within you ready to unsheathe!

The Cupid child tired of the winter day
Wept and lamented for the skies of blue
Till, foolish child! he cried his eyes away—
And violets grew.

'Mid Cambrian heights around Dolgelly vale,
What time we scaled great Cader's rugged pile,
Or loitered idly where still meadows smile
Beside the Mawddach-stream, or far Cynfael—
Nor tome, nor rhythmic page, nor pastoral tale,
Our summer-sated senses would beguile;
Or lull our ears to melody, the while
The voiceful rill ran lilting down the dale.
In London town once more—behold, once more
The old delight returns! 'Mid heights how vast,
In Milton's verse, through what dim paths we wind;
How Keats's canvas glows, and Wordsworth's lore,

A man unknown this volume gave,
So long since, to his unknown friend,
Ages ago, their lives had end,
And each in some obscurest grave
Lies mixt with earth: none now would care
To ask or who or what they were.
But, though these two are underground,
Their book is here, all safe and sound;
And he who wrote it (yea, and more
Than a whole hundred years before)
He, the trim courtier, old Carew,
And all the loves he feign'd or knew,
Have won from Aphrodite's eye
Some show of immortality.
'Tis ever thus; by Nature's will

Through the Autumn afternoon — I sat before the fire in the Library — and read — almost a little wildly.
I wanted to drug myself with books — drown my thoughts in a great violet sea of Oblivion.
I read about Youth — how the Young and the Strong had gone forth into battle — with banners of golden and blue and crimson.
Of the sunshine that turned their processions into a river of colour — and the songs that — mellow and sweet — rose in their round throats —

HALF-HIDDEN

Your blinding beauty half conceals
Your spirit, as its radiance hides a star;
And only dimly, partially reveals
How bright and radiant inwardly you are.

W ITCHERY

Thy lips bewitch the waves of light,
And make a red rose of a white,
And silent tides of air transform
Into a surgent music-storm.

Thunder AND L IGHTNING

God sowed the lightning, and there grew a soul.
That soul was thou.