STANZAS. By JOHN LOCKE. LOWLY she droop'd upon the harp Unbraided o'er the yellow wires First came murmurs, slow and fitful, When storm, uprising from his lair, Rapt, and controll'd, the minstrel woke Then changeful song-bursts, symbolling Methought she smiled-'twas gloomy joy; She ceased the founts of weeping fill'd And long-imprison'd woe gush'd forth THE RECLUSE. Translated from the French of LAMARTINE. THE rock is tipp'd with light: night's clouds depart, Than to mine eyes the morn's fresh kindled rays. 'Twas erst, "What chase to-day shall I pursue?" Glory and love and thoughts supremely vain, For my mad hours my waking powers would strain: Yet said my heart, to Him all days are due. All days I give to Him, the Only Wise, What is 't they mean?-I have almost forgot! Oh! when a thought from Heaven's bright radiance glances, It lessens distance! as the soul advances, How beam the thoughts 'lumed by one ray of light! Bright day less differs from the shades of night, The west is nearer to the eastern skies, Than is the soul that from Thee flies, From his that on Thy Love relies. Since I the busy haunts of men forsook, Their heart's-food have I never ta'en I trow, My days are writ in wrinkles on my brow, How oft since I this rock have made my bed, VOL. V. G 73 To him whose ONE desire is bound in Thee By silence and long solitude, My senses are grown dull and rude; My ears unskill'd in human sounds remain; As senseless to the cold or heat And yet the soul of prayer is vaster grown, More swift my flight as I ascend to Thee, WINE OF CYPRUS. A brilliant joyous poem, by ELIZABETH BARRETT Browning. Ir old Bacchus were the speaker Of the Cyprus in this beaker, Like a fly or gnat on Ida At the hour of goblet pledge, By Queen Juno brush'd aside, a Full white arm-sweep, from the edge! Sooth, the drinking should be ampler, And some deep-mouth'd Greek exampler Nor too large were mouth of Titan, Drinking rivers down his beard. But for me, I am not worthy Has learnt silence at the tombs. Ah! my friend! the antique drinkers Crown'd the cup, and crown'd the brow! Can I answer the old thinkers In the forms they thought of, now? Do not mock me! with my mortal, Which Anacreon used to feed; I may touch the brim of this. Go!-let others praise the Chian !— This is soft as Muses' string This is tawny as Rhea's lion, This is rapid as its spring,- Very copious are my praises, Ah!-but sipping,-times and places Drew the ghosts from every part, And I think of those long mornings Which my thought goes far to seek, When, betwixt the folio's turnings, Solemn flow'd the rhythmic Greek. Past the pane, the mountain spreading, Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling noise, While a girlish voice was reading Somewhat low for ai's and oi's! Then what golden hours were for us! Curl'd, like vapour over shrines! Oh! our Eschylus, the thundrous! Who was born to monarch's place- Our Euripides, the human With his droppings of warm tears, And his touches of things common, Till they rose to touch the spheres! Our Theocritus, our Bion, And our Pindar's shining goals! These were cup-bearers undying Of the wine that's meant for souls. And my Plato, the divine one,- |