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Heav'n but the vision of fulfill'd desire,
And Hell the shadow of a soul on fire,
Cast on the darkness into which our-
selves,

So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

We are no other than a moving row
Of magic shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with this sun-illumin'd lantern
held

In midnight by the Master of the Show;

Impotent pieces of the game He plays Upon this checker-board of nights and days;

Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,

And one by one back in the closet lays.

The ball no question makes of ayes and noes But right or left as strikes the Player goes ; And He that toss'd you down into the field,

He knows about it all HE knows-HE knows!

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on nor all your piety nor wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.

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Το

grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,

Would not we shatter it to bits-and

then

Re-mould it nearer to the heart's desire!

Yon rising moon that looks for us again How oft hereafter will she wax and wane ; How oft hereafter rising look for us Through this same garden- and for one

in vain!

And when like her, oh Sáki, you shall pass Among the guests star-scatter'd on the grass,

And in your blissful errand reach the

spot Where I made one- - turn down an empty glass!

Robert Browning

SONG FROM "PARACELSUS"

OVER the sea our galleys went,
With cleaving prows in order brave,
To a speeding wind and a bounding wave
A gallant armament:

Each bark built out of a forest-tree,

Left leafy and rough as first it grew, And nail'd all over the gaping sides, Within and without, with black-bull hides, Seeth'd in fat and suppled in flame, To bear the playful billow's game; So each good ship was rude to see, Rude and bare to the outward view,

But each upbore a stately tent; Where cedar-pales in scented row Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine: And an awning droop'd the mast below, In fold on fold of the purple fine, That neither noontide, nor star-shine, Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, Might pierce the regal tenement. When the sun dawn'd, oh, gay and glad We set the sail and plied the oar; But when the night-wind blew like breath, For joy of one day's voyage more, We sang together on the wide sea, Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; Each sail was loos'd to the wind so free, Each helm made sure by the twilight star, And in a sleep as calm as death, We, the strangers from afar,

Lay stretch'd along, each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent, Whence gleam'd soft light and curl'd rich scent,

And, with light and perfume, music too : So the stars wheel'd round, and the darkness

past,

And at morn we started beside the mast, And still each ship was sailing fast!

One morn, the land appear'd! - a speck Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky Avoid it, cried our pilot, check

The shout, restrain the longing eye! But the heaving sea was black behind For many a night and many a day, And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; So we broke the cedar pales away, Let the purple awning flap in the wind,

And a statue bright was on every deck!

We shouted, every man of us,
And steer'd right into the harbor thus,
With pomp and pæan glorious.

An hundred shapes of lucid stone!

All day we built a shrine for eachA shrine of rock for every oneNor paus'd we till in the westering sun We sate together on the beach To sing, because our task was done ; When lo! what shouts and merry songs! What laughter all the distance stirs ! What raft comes loaded with its throngs Of gentle islanders?

66

The isles are just at hand," they cried; "Like cloudlets faint at even sleeping, Our temple-gates are open'd wide,

Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping

For the lucid shapes you bring" - they cried.

Oh, then we awoke with sudden start
From our deep dream; we knew, too late,
How bare the rock, how desolate,
To which we had flung our precious freight:
Yet we call'd out Depart!

Our gifts, once given, must here abide :

Our work is done; we have no heart To mar our work, though vain" — we cried.

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And seem'd as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was

not

Her husband's presence only, call'd that spot

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps

Over my lady's wrist too much," or 66 Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat :” such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart-how shall I say? - too soon made glad,

Too easily impress'd; she lik'd whate'er She look'd on, and her looks went every

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