And one, a full-fed river winding slow

By herds upon an endless plain,

The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,
With shadow-streaks of rain.

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.
In front they bound the sheaves. Behind
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,
And hoary to the wind.

And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, Beyond a line of heights, and higher

All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags,

And highest, snow and fire.

And one, an English home-gray twilight pour'd On dewy pastures, dewy trees,

Softer than sleep-all things in order stored,

A haunt of ancient Peace.

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair,

As fit for every mood of mind,

Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, Not less than truth design'd.

*

*

Or the maid-mother by a crucifix,

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx Sat smiling, babe in arm.

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea,
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily;
An angel look'd at her.

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise,

A

group

of Houris bow'd to see

The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes

That said, We wait for thee.

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son
In some fair space of sloping greens

Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon,

And watch'd by weeping queens.

Or hollowing one hand against his ear,

To list a footfall, ere he saw

The wood-nymph, stay'd the Tuscan king to hear

Of wisdom and of law.

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd,
And many a tract of palm and rice,
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd
A summer fann'd with spice.

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd
From off her shoulder backward borne:

From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd
The mild bull's golden horn.

Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh

Half-buried in the Eagle's down,

Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky
Above the pillar'd town.

Nor these alone but every legend fair
Which the supreme Caucasian mind

Carved out of Nature for itself, was there,

Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung,

Moved of themselves, with silver sound;

And with choice paintings of wise men I hung
The royal dais round.

For there was Milton like a seraph strong,
Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild;
And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song,
And somewhat grimly smiled.

And there the Ionian father of the rest;

A million wrinkles carved his skin;

A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast,
From cheek and throat and chin.

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set
Many an arch high up did lift,

And angels rising and descending met
With interchange of gift.

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd
With cycles of the human tale

Of this wide world, the times of

every land

So wrought, they will not fail.

The people here, a beast of burden slow,

Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings;

Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro

The heads and crowns of kings;