CHORUS. FROM "ATALANTA IN CALYDON." BEFORE the beginning of years There came to the making of man Time, with a gift of tears; Grief, with a glass that ran; Pleasure, with pain for leaven; Summer, with flowers that fell; Remembrance, fallen from heaven; And madness risen from hell; Strength, without hands to smite; Love, that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light, And life, the shadow of death. And the high gods took in hand Fire, and the falling of tears, And a measure of sliding sand From under the feet of the years; And froth and drift of the sea; And dust of the laboring earth; And bodies of things to be In the houses of death and of birth; And death beneath and above, That his strength might endure for a span The holy spirit of man. QUA CURSUM VENTUS. As ships becalm'd at eve, that lay Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried; Astounded, soul from soul estranged? Or wist, what first with dawn appear'd! To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, Brave barks! In light, in darkness too, Through winds and tides one compass guides, To that, and your own selves, be true. But, O blithe breeze, and O great seas, Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again, Together lead them home at last! One port, methought, alike they sought, From the winds of the north and the south O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, They gather'd as unto strife; They breathed upon his mouth, And night, and sleep in the night. With his lips he travaileth; In his heart is a blind desire, In his eyes foreknowledge of death; He weaves, and is clothed with derision; His life is a watch or a vision ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. At last, at last, unite them there. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BEL AND thou hast walk'd about (how strange a story!) In Thebes' streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory, dous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous? Speak for thou long enough hast acted dummy; Thou hast a tongue-come-let us hear its tune; Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, | How the world look'd when it was fresh But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, Contain'd no record of its early ages? To whom should we assign the Sphinx's But prythee tell us something of thyself fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect Of either pyramid that bears his name? Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer? Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden By oath to tell the secrets of thy tradeThen say what secret melody was hidden Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumber'd What hast thou seen-what strange adventures number'd? Since first thy form was in this box extended We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations; In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise The Roman empire has begun and ended— play'd? Perhaps thou wert a priest-if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. New worlds have risen-we have lost old nations; And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Perhaps that very hand, now pinion'd flat, Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh, glass head When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis; And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd, The nature of thy private life unfold: A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast, And tears adown that dusty cheek have roll'd; Have children climb'd those knees and kiss'd that face? What was thy name and station, age and race? Might tell us what those sightless orbs Statue of flesh-Immortal of the dead! have seen Imperishable type of evanescence! Posthumous man-who quitt'st thy nar- Though winning near the goal; yet do not row bed, And standest undecay'd within our presence! Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. Why should this worthless tegument endure, If its undying guest be lost for ever? Oh! let us keep the soul embalm'd and pure In living virtue-that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame con sume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom! HORACE SMITH. ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness! Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time! Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme! Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What leaf-fringed legend haunts about What little town by river or sea-shore, thy shape Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought, As doth eternity. Cold pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 66 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty," that is | And what if Nature's fearful wound. Ye know on earth, and all ye need to For that their spirits never swoon'd To watch the misery there,For that their love but flow'd more fast, Their charities more free, Not conscious what mere drops they cast Into the evil sea. A man's best things are nearest him, It is the distant and the dim That we are sick to greet; For flowers that grow our hands beneath We struggle and aspire,— Our hearts must die, except they breathe The air of fresh desire. Yet, brothers, who up reason's hill Remembering distance leaves a haze RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES OH! THE PLEASANT DAYS OF OLD. OH! the pleasant days of old, which so of ten people praise! True, they wanted all the luxuries that grace our modern days: Bare floors were strew'd with rushes-the walls let in the cold; Oh! how they must have shiver'd in those pleasant days of old! Oh! those ancient lords of old, how magnificent they were! They threw down and imprison'd kings to thwart them who might dare? They ruled their serfs right sternly; they took from Jews their gold Great thoughts, great feelings, came to Above both law and equity were those them Like instincts unawares; Blending their souls' sublimest needs With tasks of every day, They went about their gravest deeds As noble boys at play. great lords of old! Oh! the gallant knights of old, for their valor so renown'd! With sword and lance, and armor strong, they scour'd the country round; |