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The beetle forgot to wind his horn,
All rose to do the task He set to each,
And many rose Whose woe was such that fear became desire ; Melchior and Lionel were not among those : They from the throng of men had stepped aside, And made their home under the green hill side, It was that hill, whose intervening brow Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye, Which the circumfluous plain waving below, Like a wide lake of green fertility, With streams and fields and marshes bare, Divides from the far Apennines—which lie Islanded in the immeasurable air.
" What think you, as she lies in her green cove,
- Never mind,” said Lionel, • Give care to the winds, they can bear it well About yon poplar tops ; and see The white clouds are driving merrily, And the stars we miss this morn will light More willingly our return to-night.List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair ; How it scatters Dominic's long black hair, Singing of us, and our lazy motions, If I can guess a boat's emotions."
The chain is loosed, the sails are spread,
The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasın
The wave that died the death which lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling, But the clear stream in full enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, until wandering, Down one clear path of effluence chrystalline Sends its clear waves, that they may fling At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine, Then, thronigh the pestilential desarts wild Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted fire, It rushes to the Ocean.
SUMMER was dead and Autumn was expiring,
And infant Winter laughed upon the land All cloudlessly and cold ;-when I, desiring
More in this world than any understand, Wept o'er the beauty, which like sea retiring,
Had left the earth bare as the wave-worn sand Of my poor heart, and o'er the grass and flowers Pale for the falsehood of the flattering hours.
Summer was dead, but I yet lived to weep
The instability of all but weeping;
I woke, and envied her as she was sleeping.
The wakening vernal airs, until thou, leaping From unremembered dreams, shalt [ ] see No death divide thy immortality.
I loved-O no, I mean not one of ye,
Or any earthly one, though ye are dear As human heart to human heart may be ;
I loved, I know not what – but this low sphere
And all that it contaiós, contains not thee,
Thou, whom seen no where, I feel every where, Dim object of my soul's idolatry.
Veiled art thou like
By heaven and Earth, from all whose shapes thou flowest,
Neither to be contained, delayed, or hidden, Making divine the loftiest and the lowest,
When for a moment thou art not forbidden
And leaving noblest things vacant and chidden,
V. In winds, and trees, and streams, and all things common,
In music and the sweet unconscious tone Of animals, and voices which are human,
Meant to express some feelings of their own; In the soft motions and rare smile of woman,
In flowers and leaves, and in the fresh grass shewn, Or dying in the autumn, I the most Adore thee present or lament thee lost.
And thus I went, lamenting when I saw
A plant upon the river's margin lie,