THE Wildgrave winds his bugle horn,

To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo! His fiery courser snuffs the morn,

And thronging serfs their lords pursue.

The eager pack, from couples freed,

Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake, While, answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake.

The beams of God's own hallowed day
Had painted yonder spire with gold,
And, calling sinful man to pray,

Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled:

But still the Wildgrave onward rides;
Halloo, halloo! and, hark again!
When, spurring from opposing sides,
Two stranger horsemen join the train.

Who was each stranger, left and right,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell;
The right-hand steed with silver white,
The left, the swarthy hue of hell.

The right-hand horseman, young and fair, His smile was like the morn of May; The left, from eye of tawny glare,

Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray.

He waved his huntsman's cap on high, Cried, 'Welcome, welcome, noble lord! What sport can earth, or sea, or sky,

To match the princely chase afford?'

'Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell,' Cried the fair youth with silver voice; 'And for Devotion's choral swell, Exchange the rude unhallowed noise.'

'Away, and sweep the glades along!' The Sable Hunter hoarse replies; 'To muttering monks leave matin-song, And bells, and books, and mysteries.'

The Wildgrave spurred his courser light, O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill; And on the left, and on the right,

Each stranger horseman followed still. Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn, A stag more white than mountain snow; And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn, 'Hark, forward, forward! holla, ho!'

Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads, The left still cheering to the prey; The impetuous Earl no warning heeds, But furious holds the onward way.

'Away, thou hound! so basely born, Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!'Then loudly rung his bugle-horn,

'Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!'

Again uproused, the timorous prey

Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill; Hard run, he feels his strength decay, And trusts for life his simple skill.

Too dangerous solitude appeared;
He seeks the shelter of the crowd;
Amid the flock's domestic herd

His harmless head he hopes to shroud.

O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill,
His track the steady blood-hounds trace;
O'er moss and moor, unwearied still,

The furious Earl pursues the chase.

Full lowly did the herdsman fall;'O spare, thou noble Baron, spare These herds, a widow's little all;

These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care!'—

Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads,
The left still cheering to the prey;
The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds,
But furious keeps the onward way.

Again he winds his bugle-horn,

Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!' And through the herd, in ruthless scorn, He cheers his furious hounds to go.

In heaps the throttled victims fall;
Down sinks their mangled herdsman near;
The murderous cries the stag appal,-
Again he starts, new-nerved by fear.

With blood besmeared and white with foam,
While big the tears of anguish pour,

He seeks, amid the forest's gloom,

The humble hermit's hallowed bower.

But man and horse, and horn and hound, Fast rattling on his traces go;

The sacred chapel rung around

With, Hark away! and, holla, ho!'

I WEEP for Adonais-he is dead!

O! weep for Adonais, though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!

And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,

And teach them thine own sorrow! Say:

'With me

Died Adonais! Till the future dares Forget the past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!'

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,

When thy Son lay pierced by the shaft which flies

In darkness? Where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,
'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise
Shesat, while one, with soft enamoured breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies

With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,

He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of Death.

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep

He hath awakened from the dream of life'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife,

And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife

Invulnerable nothings.-We decay

Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief Convulse us and consume us day by day, And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

He has outsoared the shadow of our night;
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again;
From the contagion of the world's slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in
vain;

Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.

He is a portion of the loveliness Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear

His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress Sweeps through the dull dense world, com

pelling there

All new successions to the forms they wear; Torturing the unwilling dross, that checks its flight,

To its own likeness, as each mass may bear; And bursting in its beauty and its might From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light.

The splendours of the firmament of time May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not; Like stars to their appointed height they climb, And death is a low mist which cannot blot

The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought

Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, And love and life contend in it, for what Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there, And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air.

Under the bowers

Where the Ocean Powers
Sit on their pearlèd thrones,
Through the coral woods
Of the weltering floods,
Over heaps of unvalued stones;
Through the dim beams
Which amid the streams

Weave a network of coloured light;
And under the caves,
Where the shadowy waves
Are as green as the forest's night:
Outspeeding the shark,
And the sword-fish dark,
Under the ocean foam,

And up through the rifts
Of the mountain clifts
They passed to their Dorian home.

And now from their fountains

In Enna's mountains,

Down one vale where the morning basks,
Like friends once parted
Grown single-hearted,
They ply their watery tasks.
At sunrise they leap
From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill:
At noontide they flow
Through the woods below,
And the meadows of asphodel;
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore;
Like spirits that lie
In the azure sky,

When they love but live no more.

The fleet, which, like a flock

Chased by the wind, flies the insurgent banner. Our winged castles from their merchant ships! Our myriads before their pirate bands!

Our arms before their chains! our years of empire

Before their centuries of servile fear!
Death is awake! Repulsed on the waters,
They own no more the thunder-bearing banner
Of Mahmud; but, like hounds of a base breed,
Gorge from a stranger's hand, and rend their

master.

Hassan. Latmos and Ampelos and Phanae saw The wreck

Mahmud. The caves of the Icarian isles Told each to the other in loud mockery, And with the tongue as of a thousand echoes, First of the sea-convulsing fight-and thenThou darest to speak ;-senseless are the mountains; Interpret thou their voice.

Hassan.

My presence bore

A part in that day's shame. The Grecian fleet Bore down at day-break from the north, and hung

As multitudinous on the ocean line

As cranes upon the cloudless Thracian wind. Our squadron, convoying ten thousand men, Was stretching towards Nauplia when the battle Was kindled.

First through the hail of our artillery

The agile Hydriote barks with press of sail
Dashed: ship to ship, cannon to cannon, man
To man, were grappled in the embrace of war,
Inextricable but by death or victory.
The tempest of the raging fight convulsed
To its crystalline depths that stainless sea,
And shook heaven's roof of golden morning
clouds

Poised on a hundred azure mountain-isles.
In the brief trances of the artillery,
One cry from the destroyed and the destroyer
Rose, and a crowd of desolation wrapped
The unforeseen event, till the north wind
Sprung from the sea, lifting the heavy veil
Of battle-smoke-then 'Victory-victory!'
For, as we thought, three frigates from Algiers
Bore down from Naxos to our aid: but soon
The abhorred Cross glimmered behind, before,
Among, around us: and that fatal sign
Dried with its beams the strength of Moslem
hearts,

As the sun drinks the dew. What more? We fled!

Our noonday path over the sanguine foam Was beaconed,-and the glare struck the sun

pale

By our consuming transports; the fierce light Made all the shadows of our sails blood-red, And every countenance blank. Some ships lay feeding

The ravening fire even to the water's level: Some were blown up; some, settling heavily, Sunk; and the shrieks of our companions died Upon the wind that bore us fast and far,