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Gleaming

on purple grapes, that, from

branches above them suspended,

Mingled their odorous breath with the balm

of the pine and the fir-tree,

Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in

the valley of Eshcol.

Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages,

Fresh with the youth of the world, and recall

ing Rebecca and Isaac,

Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,

Love immortal and young in the endless suc

cession of lovers.

So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession.

BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

come i gru van cantando lor lai,

Facendo in aer di sè lunga riga.

DANTE.

PROMETHEUS,

OR THE POET'S FORETHOUGHT.

OF Prometheus, how undaunted

On Olympus' shining bastions His audacious foot he planted, Myths are told and songs are chaunted,

Full of promptings and suggestions.

Beautiful is the tradition

Of that flight through heavenly portals,

The old classic superstition

Of the theft and the transmission

Of the fire of the Immortals!

First the deed of noble daring,

Born of heavenward aspiration,

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