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 spersed 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 lockèd 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 drownèd 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.

L'ALLEGRO.-(John Milton).

Hence loathed melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born,
In Stygian cave forlorn

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy,

Find out some uncouth cell,

Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings,

And the night-raven sings;

There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

But come thou goddess fair and free,
In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth,
With two sister graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore.

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful jollity,

Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles;
Nods and becks; and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as you go
On the light fantastic toe;

And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprovèd pleasures free;

To hear the lark begin his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:
While the cock with lively din
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack, or the barn-door,
Stoutly struts his dames before:
Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Clearly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill :
Some time walking not unseen
By hedge-row elms, or hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate,
Where the great sun begins his state
Robed in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
While the ploughman near at hand
Whistles o'er the furrowed land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, Whilst the landskip round it measures,

Russet lawns and fallows gray,

Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim with daisies pied,