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EVENING.

The moon is up, and yet it is not night-
Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea
Of glory streams along the alpine height
Of blue Friuli's mountains ; heaven is free
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be
Melted to one vast iris of the west,
Where the day joins the past eternity ;

While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest
Floats through the azure air—an island of the blest !

A single star is at her side, and reigns
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still

;
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains
Rolld o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill,
As day and night contending were, until
Nature reclaim'd her order :-gently flows
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil

The odorous purple of a new-born rose,
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it

glows.

Filld with the face of heaven, which from afar
Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues,
From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse:

THE HAPPY MAN.

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And now they change ; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang

imbues
With a new colour as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till—'tis gone—and all is grey.

BYRON.

THE HAPPY MAN.

CONTENT with poverty my soul I arm,
And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

What is't to me,
Who never sail on Fortune's faithless sea,

If storms arise, and clouds grow black;
If the mast split, and threaten wreck ?
Then let the greedy merchant fear

For his ill-gotten gain,
While the debating winds and billows bear

His wealth into the main.
For me, secure of Fortune's blows,
Secure of what I cannot lose,
In my small pinnace I can sail,

Contemning all the blust'ring roar;
And running with a merry gale,
With friendly stars my safety seek
Within some little winding creek,
And see the storm ashore !

DRYDEN

I

THE ALP HUNTER.

FROM SCHILLER.

“ Wilt thou not, thy lamblings heeding,

(Soft and innocent are they !) Watch them on the herbage feeding,

Or beside the brooklet play ?"
Mother, mother, let me go,
O'er the mount to chase the roe.”

“ Wilt thou not, around thee bringing,

Lure the herds with lively horn ? Gaily go the clear bells ringing,

Through the echoing forest borne !" “ Mother, mother, let me go,

O’er the wilds to chase the roe."

“ Wilt thou not (their blushes woo thee !)

In their sweet beds tend thy flowers; Smiles so fair a garden to thee,

Where the savage mountain lours ?” “ Leave the flowers in peace to blow ; "Mother, mother, let me go !"

.

On, and ever onwards bounding,

Scours the hunter to the chase ; On, and ever onwards bounding

To the mountain's wildest space.

THE ALP HUNTER.

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Swift, as footed by the wind,
Flies before, the trembling hind.

Light and limber, upwards driven,

On the hoar crag quivering,
Or, through gorges thunder-riven

Leaps she with her airy spring !
But behind her still the foe-
Near, and near the deadly bow!

Fast and faster on-unslackening;

Now she hangs above the brink,
Where the last rocks, grim and blackening,

Down the gulf abruptly sink.
Never pathway there may wind,
Chasms below-and death behind !

To the hard man-dumb lamenting,

Turns she, with her look of woe ;
Turns in vain-the unrelenting

Meets the look-and bends the bow.
Sudden, from the darksome deep,
Rose the Spirit of the Steep !

And his god-like hand extending,

From the hunter snatch'd the prey; 6 Wherefore, woe and slaughter sending,

To my solitary sway?-
Why should my herds before thee fall ?
There's room upon the Earth for all !”

BULWER.

THE FAVOUR OF PRINCES.

FAREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness !
This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him :
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And,—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening,—nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory ;
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye !
I feel my heart new open'd : 0, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours !
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More
pangs

and fears than wars or women have : And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again!

SHAKSPEARE

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