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THE RETURN OF THE GOLDEN AGE.
All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail,
Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow, and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between, Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down-steering, And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
ECHO AND NARCISSUS.
Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy aery shell,
By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale,
Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
O, if thou have
Tell me but where,
Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere, So mayst thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies.
[Milton has imitated the story of Narcissus in the account which he makes Eve give of the first sight of herself, reflected in the fountain.]
That day I oft remember when from sleep
I first awaked, and found myself reposed
Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how.
Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound
Of waters issued from a cave, and spread
Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved,
Pure as the expanse of heaven; I thither went
With unexperienced thought, and laid me down
On the green bank, to look into the clear
Smooth lake that to me seemed another sky.
As I bent down to look, just opposite
A shape within the watery gleam appeared,
Bending to look on me. I started back;
It started back: but pleased I soon returned;
Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks
Of sympathy and love. There had I fixed
Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,
Had not a voice thus warned me: "What thou seest,
What there thou scest, fair creature, is thyself;" &c.
[The author, Thomas Blacklock, was blind from tho ago of six months, in consequence of small pox. Yet he paints flowers with artist-like precision.]
Let long-lived pansies here their scents bestow,
TO A MIRROR.
FROM GARCILA8O OE LA VEOA.
Since still my passion-pleading strains
Show, mirror, to that lovely maid,
Reflect on her the thrilling beam
Of magic from her eye;
And, self-enamoured, die.
And round about the same her yellow hair, Having through stirring loosed their wonted band, Like to a golden border did appear, Framed in goldsmith's forge with cunning hand. Yet goldsmiths' cunning could not understand To frame such subtle wire, so shiny clear; For it did glisten like the golden sand, The which Pactolus, with his waters sheer, Throws forth upon the rivage round about him near.
ON THE STATUE OF THESEUS IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM.
Ay, this is he,
A proud and mighty spirit; how fine his form