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Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors,
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow !

THE BROOK.—(Tennyson.)

I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges ; By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges ; Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river ; For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on for ever.

I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays,

I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret,

By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river,
For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on for ever.
I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake

Upon me as I travel,
With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel ;
And draw them all along, and flow

To join the brimming river;
For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on for ever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,

I slide by hazel covers,
I move the sweet forget-me-nots,

That grow for happy lovers;
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance

Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars,

In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars,

I loiter round my cresses; And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river, For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on for ever.

ARCHIMAGO'S HERMITAGE, AND THE

HOUSE OF MORPHEUS.-(Spenser.) A little lowly hermitage it was, Down in a dale, hard by a forest's side, Far from resort of people that did pass In travel to and fro; a little wide There was a holy chapel edified, Wherein the hermit duly wont to say His holy things each morn and eventide, Thereby a crystal stream did gently play, Which from a sacred fountain wellèd forth alway. Arrived there the little house they fill, Nor look for entertainment where none was; Rest is their feast, and all things at their will, The noblest mind the best contentment has. With fair discourse the evening so they pass, For that old man of pleasing words had store, And well could file his tongue as smooth as glass. He told of saints and popes, and evermore He strew'd an Ave Mary, after and before. The drooping night thus creepeth on them fast, And the sade humour, loading their eyelids, As messengers of Morpheus, on them cast Sweet slumbering dew; the which to sleep them bids. Unto their lodgings then his guests he rids; Where, when all drown'd in deadly sleep he finds, He to his study goes, and there amids' His magic books and arts of sundry kinds, He seeks out mighty charms to trouble sleepy minds. Then choosing out few words most horrible (Let none them read) thereof did verses frame, With which, and other spells like terrible, He bad awake black Pluto's grisly dame, And cursed heaven, and spake reproachful shame

Of highest God, the Lord of life and light,
A bold bad man, that dar'd to call by name
Great Gorgon, prince of darkness and dead night,
At which Cocytus quakes and Styx is put to flight.
And forth he call'd out of deep darkness dread
Legions of spirits, the which, like little flies,
Fluttering about his ever damnèd head,
Await where to their service he applies,
To aid his friends, or fray his enemies;
Of those he chose out two, the falsest two
And fittest for to forge true-seeming lies;
The one of them he gave a message to,
The other by himself stayed other work to do.
He making speedy way through spersèd air,
And through the world of waters wide and deep,
To Morpheus's house doth hastily repair,-
Amid the bowels of the earth full steep,
And low, where dawning day doth never peep,
His dwelling is; there Tethys his wet bed
Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steep
In silver dew his ever-drooping head,
While sad night over him her mantle black doth

spread.
Whose double gates he findeth locked fast;
The one fair fram'd of burnish’d ivory,
The other all with silver overcast;
And wakeful dogs before them far do lie,
Watching to banish care their enemy,
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle sleep.
By them the sprite doth pass in quietly,
And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deep
In drowsy fit he finds; of nothing he takes keep.
And more to lull him in his slumbers soft,
A trickling stream, from high rock tumbling down,
And ever drizzling rain upon the loft,
Mix'd with a murmuring wind, much like the soun'
Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swoun.
No other noise, nor people's troublous cries,
As still are wont t'annoy the wallèd town,
Might there be heard ; but careless quiet lies,
Wrapt in eternal silence, far from enemies.
The messenger approaching to him spake,
But his waste words return'd to him in vain :
So sound he slept, that nought might him awake.
Then rudely he him thrust and push'd with pain,
Whereat he 'gan to stretch : but he again
Shook him so hard, that forced him to speak
As one then in a dream, whose drier brain
Is tost with troubled sights and fancies weak;
He mumbled soft, but would not all his silence break.
The sprite then 'gan more boldly him to wake,
And threaten'd unto him the dreaded name
Of Hecaté, whereat he 'gan to quake,
And lifting up his lumpish head, with blame
Half angry asked him, for what he came.
“Hither," quoth he, "me Archimago sent :
He that the stubborn sprites can wisely tame;
He bids thee to him send for his intent
A fit false dream, that can delude the sleepers' sent.”
The god obey'd; and calling forth straightway
A diverse dream out of his prison dark,
Deliver'd it to him, and down he lay
His heavy head, devoid of careful cark,
Whose senses all were straight bennumb'd and stark.
He, back returning by the ivory door,
Remounted up as light as cheerful lark;
And on his little wings the dream he bore
In haste unto his lord, where he him left afore.

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