When thrilled by the touch that is sym

pathy-wise,

Bidding it rise.

Katherine Lee Bates.

TO LAURA, PLAYING

(Translated by Lord Lytton)

When o'er the chords thy fingers steal,
A soulless statue now I feel,

And now a soul set free!

Thou rulest over life and death,
Mighty as over souls the breath
Of some great Sorcery.

Then the vassal airs that woo thee,

Hush their low breath hearkening to thee:

In delight and in devotion,

Pausing from her whirling motion,

Nature in enchanted calm,

Silently drinks the floating balm,
Sorceress, her heart with thy tone
Claimingas thine eyes my own!

O'er the transport- tumult-driven,
Doth the music gliding swim;

From the strings, as from their heaven,
Burst the new-born Seraphim.

As when from Chaos' giant arms set free,
'Mid the creation-storm, exultingly

Sprang sparkling forth the Orbs of Light
So streams the rich tones in melodious might.

Soft-gliding now, as when o'er pebbles glancing,

The silver wave goes dancing,

Now with majestic swell, and strong,
As thunder peals in organ-tones along;
And now with stormy gush,

As down the rock, in foam, the whirling torrents rush;

To a whisper now,

Melts it amorously,

Like the breeze through the bough

Of the aspen-tree;

Heavily now, and with a mournful breath, Like midnight's wind along those wastes of death,

Where Awe the wail of ghosts lamenting

hears,

And slow Cocytus trails the stream whose waves are tears.

Speak, maiden, speak!-O, art thou one of

those

Spirits more lofty than our region knows? Should we in thine the mother-language seek, Souls in Elysium speak?

From the German of Schiller.

TO CONSTANTIA, SINGING

Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die, Perchance were death indeed! - Constantia, turn!

In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn

Between thy lips, are laid to sleep;

Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odor it is yet,

And from thy touch like fire doth leap.

Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet,

Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget!

A breathless awe, like the swift change
Unseen but felt in youthful slumbers,

Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange, Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers.

The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven
By the enchantment of thy strain,
And on my shoulders wings are woven,
To follow its sublime career,

Beyond the mighty moons that wane

Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disappear.

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul—it lingers

O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings,

The blood and life within those snowy fin

gers

Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. My brain is wild, my breath comes quick The blood is listening in my frame, And thronging shadows, fast and thick, Fall on my overflowing eyes;

My heart is quivering like a flame;

As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies,

I am dissolved in these consuming ecstasies.

I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song

Flows on, and fills all things with melody.-
Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong,
On which, like one in trance upborne,
Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep,
Rejoicing like a cloud of morn.

Now 'tis the breath of summer night,
Which, when the starry waters sleep,
Round western isles, with incense-blossoms
bright,

Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

THE SINGER

Before that crowd she stood, a flowerlike thing

That curious crowd that came to see her sing (See more than hear, her beauty's fame was such),

Unconscious as a child, save for a touch

Of happy fear like some wild bird was she, Instinct with light, and fire, and purity;