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Then is the Age of Admiration-- Then Gods walk the earth, or beings more than men; Who breathe the soul of Inspiration round, Whose very shadows consecrate the ground ! Ah, then comes thronging many a wild desire, And high imagining and thought of fire ! Then from within a voice exclaims “ Aspire !" Phantoms, that upward point, before him pass, , As in the Cave athwart the Wizard's glass; They, that on Youth a grace, a lustre shed, Of every Age—the living and the dead ! Thou, all-accomplished SURREY, thou art known; The flower of Knighthood, nipt as soon as blown! Melting all hearts but Geraldine's alone! And, with his beaver up, discovering there One who loved less to conquer than to spare, Lo, the Black Warrior, he, who, battle-spent, Bare-headed served the Captive in his tent! Young Bin the groves of Academe, Or where Ilyssus winds his whispering stream; Or where the wild bees swarm with ceaseless hum, Dreaming old dreams—a joy for years to come; Or on the Rock within the sacred Fane ;Scenes such as Milton sought, but sought in vain: *

He had arrived at Naples; and was preparing to visit Sicily and Greece, when, hearing of the troubles in England, he thought it proper to hasten home.


And Milton's self (at that thrice-honoured name
Well may we glow—as men, we share his fame)
And Milton's self, apart with beaming eye,
Planning he knows not what—that shall not die!

Oh in thy truth secure, thy virtue bold, Beware the poison in the cup of gold, The asp among the flowers. Thy heart beats high, As bright and brighter breaks the distant sky! But every step is on enchanted ground. Danger thou lov'st, and Danger haunts thee round.

Who spurs his horse against the mountain-side; Then, plunging, slakes his fury in the tide ? Draws, and cries ho; and, where the sun-beams fall, At his own shadow thrusts along the wall? Who dances without music; and anon Sings like the lark—then sighs as woe begone, And folds his arms, and, where the willows wave, Glides in the moon-shine by a maiden's grave? Come hither, boy, and clear thy open brow. Yon summer-clouds, now like the Alps, and now A ship, a whale, change not so fast as thou.

He hears me not-Those sighs were from the heart. Too, too well taught, he plays the lover's part. He who at masques, nor feigning nor sincere, With sweet discourse would win a lady's ear, Lie at her feet and on her slipper swear That none were half so faultless, half so fair,

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