That blend whatever odours make the gale
Of evening sweet, whatever melody

Charms the wood-traveller. In their high-roofed halls,

There, with the chiefs of other days, feel they
The mingled joy pervade them ?-Or beneath
The mid-sea waters, did that crystal ark
Down to the secret depths of ocean plunge
Its fated crew? Dwell they in coral bowers
With mermaid loves, teaching their paramours
The songs that stir the sea, or make the winds
Hush, and the waves be still? In fields of joy
Have they their home, where central fires maintain
Perpetual summer, where one emerald light
Through the green element for ever flows?

SOUTHEY.

SORROW. (Deep Female Sorrow Described)

Pelayo stood confused: he had not seen
Count Julian's daughter, since, in Roderick's court,
Glittering in beauty and in innocence,

A radiant vision, in her joy she moved :
More like a poet's dream, in form divine,
Heaven's prototype of perfect womanhood,
So lovely was the presence,-than a thing.
Of earth and perishable elements.

Now, had he seen her in her winding sheet,
Less painful would that spectacle have proved;
For peace is with the dead, and piety
Bringeth a patient hope to those who mourn
O'er the departed; but this alter'd face,
Bearing its deadly sorrow character'd,

Came like a ghost, which in the grave

Could find no rest. He taking her cold hand,

Raised her, and would have spoken; but his tongue Fail'd in its office; and could only speak

In under-tone compassionate her name.

The voice of pity sooth'd, and melted her,
And when the prince bade her be comforted,
Proffering his zealous aid in whatsoe❜er
Might please her to appoint, a feeble smile
Past slowly over her pale countenance
Like moonlight on a marble statue.

SOUNDS. (Rural)

SOUTHEY.

Nor rural sights, alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

The tone of languid nature.

Mighty winds, That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood Of ancient growth, make music not unlike The dash of ocean on his winding shore, And lull the spirit while they fill the mind; Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast, And all their leaves fast flutt'ring, all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In matted grass, that with a livelier green Betrays the secret of their silent course.

SOUNDS. (From the Village)

COWPER.

Sweet was the sound, when oft at ev'ning's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came softened from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school;

L

The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring

wind,

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.

GOLDSMITH.

SPIRITS. (Their Nature)

For Spirits, when they please,

Can either sex assume, or both; so soft
And uncompounded is their essence pure,
Not ty'd or manacled with joint or limb,
Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones,
Like cumbrous flesh; but in what shape they
choose,

Dilated or condens'd, bright or obscure,

Can execute their airy purposes,

And works of love or enmity fulfil.

SPIRITS.

(Animal)

MILTON.

There is, I grant, a triumph of the pulse;
A dance of spirits, a mere froth of joy,
That mantles high, that sparkles and expires,
Leaving the soul more vapid than before;
An animal ovation! such as holds

No commerce with our reason, but subsists
On juices thro' the well-ton'd tubes, well-strain'd;
A nice machine! scarce ever tun'd aright;
But when it jars, the syrens sing no more.

SPLEEN. (Acts in various ways)

Hail, way-ward queen

!

YOUNG.

Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen :
Parent of vapours, and of female wit,
Who gives th' hysteric or poetic fit;
On various tempers act, by various ways,
Make some take physic, others scribble plays;

Who cause the proud their visits to delay,
And send the godly in a pet to pray.

SPLEEN. (Rare in the Country)

POPE.

The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns;
The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown,
And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort,
And mar the face of beauty, when no cause
For such immeasurable wo appears,
These Flora banishes, and gives the fair

Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own.
It is the constant revolution, stale

And tasteless, of the same repeated joys,
That palls and satiates, and makes languid life
A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down.
Health suffers, and the spirits ebb, the heart
Recoils from its own choice-at the full feast
Is famish'd-finds no music in the song,
No smartness in the jest; and wonders why.
COWPER.

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd hours,

Fair Venus' train, appear;

Disclose the long-expected flow'rs,
And wake the purple year!

The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring;
While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch

A broader, browner shade;

Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade;

Beside some water's rushy brink

With me the muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclin'd in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of care;
The panting herds repose:
Yet, hark, how thro' the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!

The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honey'd spring,
And float amid the liquid noon :
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.

To contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of man ;

And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.

Alike the busy and the gay

But flutter thro' life's little day,

In fortune's varying colours drest:

Brush'd by the hand of rough mischance,

Or chill'd by age, their airy dance,
They leave, in dust to rest.

GRAY.

SPRING. (Melancholy Reflections on)

Few are thy days, and full of wo,

O man, of woman born!

Thy doom is written, "Dust thou art,

And shalt to dust return."

Behold the emblem of thy state

In flow'rs that bloom and die, Or in the shadow's fleeting form, That mocks the gazer's eye.