XXIV.

TO THE NILE.

(ON of the old moon-mountains African! Stream of the Pyramid and Crocodile! We call thee fruitful, and that very while A desert fills our seeing's inward span: Nurse of swart nations since the world began, Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou beguile Those men to honour thee, who, worn with toil, Rest them a space 'twixt Cairo and Decan? O may dark fancies err! They surely do; 'Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste Of all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew

Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste The pleasant sun-rise. Green isles hast thou too. And to the sea as happily dost haste.

Fair plumed Syren! Queen! if far away!
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden volume, and be mute.
Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute,
Betwixt hell torment and impassioned clay,
Must I burn through; once more assay
The bitter sweet of this Shakspearian fruit.
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,

Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
When I am through the old oak forest gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed with the Fire,
Give me new Phoenix-wings to fly at my desire.

XXVI.

EAD me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud

RUpon the top of Nevis, blind in mist!

I look into the chasms, and a shroud Vaporous doth hide them, just so much I wist Mankind do know of hell; I look o'erhead, And there is sullen mist, even so much Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread Before the earth, beneath me, even such, Even so vague is man's sight of himself! Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet, Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf, I tread on them, that all my eye doth meet Is mist and crag, not only on this height,

But in the world of thought and mental might!

PESOA S

POSTHUMOUS POEMS.

PESOA.SC

Not the wizard of the Dee
Ever such a dream could see;
Not St. John, in Patinos' isle,
In the passion of his toil,
When he saw the churches seven,
Golden aisled, built up in heaven,
Gazed at such a rugged wonder!-
As I stood its roofing under,
Lo! I saw one sleeping there,
On the marble cold and bare;
While the surges washed his feet,
And his garments white did beat,
Drenched about the sombre rocks;
On his neck his well-grown locks,
Lifted dry above the main,
Were upon the curl again.

"What is this? and what art thou?"
Whispered I, and touch'd his brow;
"What art thou? and what is this?"

Whispered I, and strove to kiss The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes; Up he started in a trice: "I am Lycidas," said he, “Fam❜d in funʼral minstrelsy! This was architectur'd thus

By the great Oceanus!

Here his mighty waters play
Hollow organs all the day;