In vain those Shepherds call; they cannot wake
The echoes on this wide and cultured plain,
Where spreads the river now into a lake,

Now curves through walnut meads its golden chain,

In-isling here and there some spot
With orchard, hive, and one fair cot:
Or children dragging from their boat
Into the flood some reverend goat-
O happy valley! cradle soft and deep
For blissful life, calm sleep,

And leisure, and affections free and wide,
Give me yon plough, that I with thee may bide!

Or climb those stages, cot-bestrown,

Vast steps of Summer's mountain-throne,

Terrace o'er terrace rising, line o'er line,

Swathed in the light wreaths of the elaborate vine.

On yonder loftiest steep, the last

From whose green base the gray rocks rise,

In random circle idly cast

A happy household lies.

There rests the grandsire: round his feet
The children some old tale entreat,
And while he speaks supply each word
Forgotten, altered, or ill heard.

In yonder brake reclines a maid,
Her locks a lover's fingers braid—

Fair, fearless maiden! cause for fear Is none, though he alone were near: Indulge at will thy sweet security!

He doth but that bold front incline

And all those wind-tossed curls on thine

To catch from thy fresh lips their mountain purity!

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY

Born 1816

FROM "FESTUS”

Oh for the young heart like a fountain playing,
Flinging its bright fresh feelings up to the skies
It loves and strives to reach; strives, loves in vain.
It is of earth, and never meant for heaven,
Let us love both and die. The sphinx-like heart
Loathes life the moment that life's riddle is read.
The knot of our existence solved, all things
Loose-ended lie, and useless. Life is had,
And lo! we sigh, and say, can this be all?

It is not what we thought; it is very well,
But we want something more. There is but death.
And when we have said and seen, done, had, enjoyed
And suffered, maybe, all we have wished, or feared,
From fame to ruin, and from love to loathing,
There can come but one more change-try it—death.
Oh it is great to feel that nought of earth,

Hope, love, nor dread, nor care for what 's to come,
Can check the royal lavishment of life;
But, like a streamer strown upon the wind,
We fling our souls to fate and to the future.
For to die young is youth's divinest gift;
To pass from one world fresh into another,
Ere change hath lost the charm of soft regret ;
And feel the immortal impulse from within
Which makes the coming, life, cry alway, on!
And follow it while strong, is heaven's last mercy.
There is a fire-fly in the south, but shines.

When on the wing. So is 't with mind. When once
We rest, we darken. On! saith God to the soul,

As unto the earth for ever.

On it goes,

A rejoicing native of the infinite,

As is a bird, of air; an orb, of heaven.

MATTHEW ARNOLD

Born 1822

TO MARGUERITE

Yes! in the sea of life enisled,

With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.

The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know,

But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;

And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour-

Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!