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I MET a traveller from an antique land,

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

YE hasten to the dead! What seek ye there,
Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes
Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear?
O thou quick Heart, which pantest to possess
All that anticipation feigneth fair!
Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest guess
Whence thou didst come, and whither thou mayst go,
And that which never yet was known would know-
Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye press

Your heart, by some faint sympathy of hate.
O conquer what you cannot satiate!
For to your passion I am far more coy
Than ever yet was coldest maid or boy
In winter noon. Of your antipathy
If I am the Narcissus, you are free
To pine into a sound with hating me.

LIFT not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be painted there,
And it but mimic all we would believe

With colors idly spread :-behind, lurk Fear

And Hope, twin destinies; who ever weave

The shadows, which the world calls substance, there

I knew one who lifted it-he sought,

For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendor among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not,

TO WORDSWORTH.

POET of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return!
Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first glow,
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine
Which thou too feel'st; yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar:
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude.
In honor'd poverty thy voice did weave

With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path, Songs consecrate to truth and liberty,-
Seeking alike from happiness and woe

A refuge in the cavern of gray death?

O heart, and mind, and thoughts! What thing do ye
Hope to inherit in the grave below?

Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve.
Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.

POLITICAL GREATNESS.

NOR happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,

Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame;
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts,
History but the shadow of their shame,
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts,
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit
By force or custom? Man who man would be,
Must rule the empire of himself; in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquish'd will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.

ALAS! good friend, what profit can you see
In hating such a hateless thing as me?
There is no sport in hate where all the rage
Is on one side. In vain would you assuage
Your frowns upon an unresisting smile,
In which not even contempt lurks, to beguile

FEELINGS OF A REPUBLICAN ON THE FALL OF
BONAPARTE.

I HATED thee, fallen tyrant! I did groan
To think that a most ambitious slave,
Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the grave
Of Liberty. Thou mightst have built thy throne
Where it had stood even now: thou didst prefer
A frail and bloody pomp, which time has swept
In fragments towards oblivion. Massacre,
For this I pray'd, would on thy sleep have crept,
Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and Lust,
And stifled thee, their minister. I know
Too late, since thou and France are in the dust,
That Virtue owns a more eternal foe
Than force or fraud: old Custom, legal Crime,
And bloody Faith, the foulest birth of time.

DANTE ALIGHIERI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI

From the Italian of Dante.
GUIDO, I would that Lappo, thou, and I,
Led by some strong enchantment, might ascend

A magic ship, whose charmed sails should fly,
With winds at will, where'er our thoughts might wend,
And that no change, nor any evil chance,
Should mar our joyous voyage; but it might be,
That even satiety should still enhance
Between our hearts their strict community,
And that the bounteous wizard then would place
Vanna and Bice and my gentle love,
Companions of our wandering, and would grace
With passionate talk, wherever we might rove,
Our time, and each were as content and free
As I believe that thou and I should be.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.

-

Ταν άλα ταν γλαυκαν όταν άνεμος ατρεμαβαλλη, κ. τ. λ.

WHEN winds that move not its calm surface sweep
The azure sea, I love the land no more,
The smiles of the serene and tranquil deep
Tempt my unquiet mind.-But when the roar
Of ocean's gray abyss resounds, and foam
Gathers upon the sea, and vast waves burst,
I turn from the drear aspect to the home
Of earth and its deep woods, where, interspersed,
When winds blow loud, pines make sweet melody.
Whose house is some lone bark, whose toil the sea,
Whose prey the wandering fish, an evil lot
Has chosen.-But I my languid limbs will fling
Beneath the plane, where the brook's murmuring
Moves the calm spirit, but disturbs it not.

TRANSLATIONS.

HYMN TO MERCURY.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER.
I.

SING, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove,
The Herald-child, king of Arcadia
And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love
Having been interwoven, modest May
Bore Heaven's dread Supreme-an antique grove
Shadow'd the cavern where the lovers lay
In the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men,
And white-arm'd Juno slumber'd sweetly then.

II.

Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling,
And Heaven's tenth moon chronicled her relief,
She gave to light a babe all babes excelling,
A schemer subtle beyond all belief;
A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing,
A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief,
Who 'mongst the Gods was soon about to thieve,
And other glorious actions to achieve.

III.

The babe was born at the first peep of day;
He began playing on the lyre at noon,
And the same evening did he steal away
Apollo's herds;-the fourth day of the moon
On which him bore the venerable May,
From her immortal limbs he leap'd full soon,
Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep,
But out to seek Apollo's herds would creep.

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XI.

Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat,
He in his sacred crib deposited

The hollow lyre, and from the cavern sweet
Rush'd with great leaps up to the mountain's head,
Revolving in his mind some subtle feat

Of thievish craft, such as a swindler might
Devise in the lone season of dun night.

XII.

Lo! the great Sun under the ocean's bed has
Driven steeds and chariot-the child meanwhile strode
O'er the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows,
Where the immortal oxen of the God

Are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows,
And safely stall'd in a remote abode-
The archer Argicide, elate and proud,
Drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud.

XIII.

He drove them wandering o'er the sandy way,
But, being ever mindful of his craft,
Backward and forward drove he them astray,
So that the tracks which seem'd before, were aft:
His sandals then he threw to the ocean spray,
And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft
Of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs,
And bound them in a lump with withy twigs.

XIV.

And on his feet he tied these sandals light,
The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray
His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight,
Like a man hastening on some distant way,
He from Pieria's mountain bent his flight;
But an old man perceived the infant pass

XVIII.

A mighty pile of wood the God then heap'd,
And having soon conceived the mystery
Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches stript
The bark, and rubb'd them in his palms,-on high
Suddenly forth the burning vapor leapt,
And the divine child saw delightedly-
Mercury first found out for human weal
Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint and steel.

XIX.

And fine dry logs and roots innumerous
He gather'd in a delve upon the ground-
And kindled them-and instantaneous

The strength of the fierce flame was breathed around
And whilst the might of glorious Vulcan thus
Wrapt the great pile with glare and roaring sound,
Hermes dragg'd forth two heifers, lowing loud,
Close to the fire-such might was in the God

XX.

And on the earth upon their backs he threw
The panting beasts, and roll'd them o'er and o'er
And bored their lives out. Without more ado
He cut up fat and flesh, and down before
The fire, on spits of wood he placed the two,
Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the gore
Pursed in the bowels; and while this was done,
He stretch'd their hides over a craggy stone.

XXI.

We mortals let an ox grow old, and then
Cut it up after long consideration,——
But joyous-minded Hermes from the glen
Drew the fat spoils to the more open station

Of a flat smooth space, and portioned them; and
when

Down green Onchestus, heap'd like beds with grass. He had by lot assign'd to each a ration

XV.

The old man stood dressing his sunny vine:
"Halloo! old fellow with the crooked shoulder!
You grub those stumps? before they will bear wine
Methinks even you must grow a little older:
Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine,

Of the twelve Gods, his mind became aware
Of all the joys which in religion are.

XXII.

For the sweet savor of the roasted meat
Tempted him, though immortal. Natheless,
He check'd his haughty will and did not eat,

As you would 'scape what might appal a bolder-Though what it cost him words can scarce express,

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Had pastured been, the great God made them move Now he obliquely through the key-hole past
Towards the stall in a collected drove.
Like a thin mist, or an autumnal blast.

XXV.

Right through the temple of the spacious cave
He went with soft light feet-as if his tread
Fell not on earth; no sound their falling gave;
Then to his cradle he crept quick, and spread
The swaddling-clothes about him; and the knave
Lay playing with the covering of the bed
With his left hand about his knees-the right
Held his beloved tortoise-lyre tight.

XXVI.

There he lay innocent as a new-born child,
As gossips say; but though he was a god,
The goddess, his fair mother, unbeguiled,
Knew all that he had done being abroad:
"Whence come you, and from what adventure wild,
You cunning rogue, and where have you abode
All the long night, clothed in your impudence?
What have you done since you departed hence?
XXVII.

'Apollo soon will pass within this gate,
And bind your tender body in a chain
Inextricably tight, and fast as fate,
Unless you can delude the God again,
Even when within his arms-ah, runagate!
A pretty torment both of gods and men

Your father made when he made you!"-"Dear mother,"

Replied sly Hermes, "Wherefore scold and bother?

XXVIII.

"As if I were like other babes as old,
And understood nothing of what is what;
And cared at all to hear my mother scold.
I in my subtle brain a scheme have got,
Which whilst the sacred stars round Heaven are.

roll'd

Will profit you and me-nor shall our lot Be as you counsel, without gifts or food To spend our lives in this obscure abode.

XXIX.

"But we will leave this shadow-peopled cave
And live among the Gods, and pass each day
In high communion, sharing what they have
Of profuse wealth and unexhausted prey;
And from the portion which my father gave
To Phœbus, I will snatch my share away,
Which if my father will not-natheless I,
Who am the king of robbers, can but try
XXX.

"And, if Latona's son should find me out,
I'll countermine him by a deeper plan;
I'll pierce the Pythian temple-walls, though stout,
And sack the fane of every thing I can-
Caldrons and tripods of great worth no doubt,
Each golden cup and polish'd brazen pan,
All the wrought tapestries and garments gay."
So they together talk'd ;-meanwhile the Day
XXXI.

Ethereal born arose out of the flood

Of flowing Ocean, bearing light to men. Apollo past toward the sacred wood,

Which from the inmost depths of its green glen Echoes the voice of Neptune,-and there stood On the same spot in green Onchestus then That same old animal, the vine-dresser, Who was employ'd hedging his vineyard there.

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XXXIX.

And Phoebus stoop'd under the craggy roof
Arch'd over the dark cavern:-Maia's child
Perceived that he came angry, far aloof,

About the cows of which he had been beguiled, And over him the fine and fragrant woof

Of his ambrosial swaddling-clothes he piledAs among fire-brands lies a burning spark, Cover'd beneath the ashes cold and dark.

XL.

There, like an infant who had suck'd his fill,
And now was newly wash'd and put to bed,
Awake, but courting sleep with weary will,
And gather'd in a lump hands, feet, and head,
He lay, and his beloved tortoise still

He grasp'd and held under his shoulder-blade.
Phoebus the lovely mountain-goddess knew,
Not less her subtle, swindling baby, who

XLI.

Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round every crook
Of the ample cavern, for his kine, Apollo
Look'd sharp; and when he saw them not, he took
The glittering key, and open'd three great hollow
Recesses in the rock-where many a nook

Was fill'd with the sweet food immortals swallow,
And mighty heaps of silver and of gold
Were piled within-a wonder to behold!

XLII.

And white and silver robes, all overwrought With cunning workmanship of tracery sweetExcept among the Gods, there can be naught

In the wide world to be compared with it. Latona's offspring, after having sought

His herds in every corner, thus did greet Great Hermes:-"Little cradled rogue, declare Of my illustrious heifers, where they are!

XLIII.

"Speak quickly! or a quarrel between us
Must rise, and the event will be, that I
Shall hawl you into dismal Tartarus,

In fiery gloom to dwell eternally;
Nor shall your father nor your mother loose
The bars of that black dungeon-utterly
You shall be cast out from the light of day,
To rule the ghosts of men, unblest as they."
XLIV.

To whom thus Hermes slyly answer'd :-"Son
Of great Latona, what a speech is this!
Why come you here to ask me what is done

With the wild oxen which it seems you miss? I have not seen them, nor from any one

Have heard a word of the whole business; If you should promise an immense reward,

I could not tell more than you now have heard.

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"I swear a great oath, by my father's head,

That I stole not your cows, and that I know Of no one else, who might, or could, or did.Whatever things cows are, I do not know, For I have only heard the name."-This said,

He wink'd as fast as could be, and his brow Was wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave he, Like one who hears some strange absurdity XLVIII.

Apollo gently smiled, and said :-" Ay, ay,—
You cunning little rascal, you will bore
Many a rich man's house, and your array

Of thieves will lay their siege before his door Silent as night, in night; and many a day

In the wild glens rough shepherds will deplore That you or yours, having an appetite, Met with their cattle, comrade of the night!

XLIX.

"And this among the Gods shall be your gift,
To be consider'd as the lord of those
Who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, and shop-lift-
But now if you would not your last sleep dose,
Crawl out!"-Thus saying, Phoebus did uplift
The subtle infant in his swaddling-clothes,
And in his arms, according to his wont,
A scheme devised the illustrious Argiphont.

L.

And sneezed and shudder'd-Phoebus on the grass
Him threw, and whilst all that he had design'd
He did perform-eager although to pass,
Apollo darted from his mighty mind
Towards the subtle babe the following scoff:
"Do not imagine this will get you off,

LI.

"You little swaddled child of Jove and May."
And seized him:-"By this omen I shall trace
My noble herds, and you shall lead the way."—
Cyllenian Hermes from the grassy place,
Like one in earnest haste to get away,

Rose, and with hands lifted towards his face Roused both his ears-up from his shoulders drew His swaddling-clothes, and-" What mean you to do

LII.

"With me, you unkind God?" said Mercury: "Is it about these cows you tease me so?

I wish the race of cows were perish'd!—I
Stole not your cows-I do not even know
What things cows are. Alas! I well may sigh,
That since I came into this world of woe,

I should have ever heard the name of one-
But I appeal to the Saturnian's throne"

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