LXXXIII.

Into ELEGIACS.

Away, Time, hasten, speed on a lighter course; array your feathers now in more rapid flight. Until the fleeter wing of the hours brings to us the day wished for with hope and prayers. Then the sun will dawn forth, to yield comfort; although for a while a shade may withdraw its beam. There may be sadness in the shade; now the darkness has dispersed; the day now is illumined with its proper light. If by changed vicissitude the gloomy night of death brood (over us), and the cheerless rest of the tomb hide us. No more shall anguish press down our ravished senses; the lasting light of heaven shall bring joy. Hence neither the envious care of friends can sever us, nor Libitina strike us again by her power. There will not longer remain anything to tear asunder us lovers, when faithful love has united our breasts.

LXXXIV.

There was a stirring in the air, the sun
Prevail'd, and gradually the brightening mist
Began to rise and melt. A jutting crag
Upon the right projected o'er the stream,
Not farther from the cave than a strong hand
Expert, with deadly aim, might cast the spear,
Or a strong voice, pitch'd to full compass, make
Its clear articulation heard distinct.

Southey.

LXXXIV.

Into HEXAMETERS.

And now the blasts of the winds were whispering, in the light of the rising sun the darkness fled gradually, and carried the mists dispersed to the light ether. From above on the right a horrid crag threatening downfall hung upon the edge of the river placed beneath. As far from the cave as either a sturdy hand could cast an arrow with sure impulse, or hurl a spear. Or as far as the voice of a man sent from the bottom of the breast could utter words to be heard through the upper air.

LXXXV.

"But what are we to do ?" exclaims the practical man, impatiently on every side: "Descend from speculation and the safe pulpit down into the rough market-place, and say what can be done?" O practical man, there seem very many things which practice and true manlike effort, in Parliament and out of it, might actually avail to do. But the first of all things, as already said, is to gird thyself up for actual doing; to know that thou actually either must do, or, as the Irish say, "Come out of that!"

Carlyle.

LXXXV.

Into PROSE, literally rendered.

Yet what can we do? he exclaims, utterly impatient, 'who refers every thing to practice. I would (that you) would

descend from your cogitations and secure rostrums, and approach the rough forum, and then perhaps you may tell us what may be done. O man, devoted to practice, there seems to be very many things, which that practice of yours and manly efforts, whether within the senate or without, may be able to do. In the first place, however, and before all things, as I said before, you must gird yourself for the doing, and know that that must in reality be done by you, or, as they speak Hibernically, "(You) must come out thence."

LXXXVI.

Past was the day of festal mirth;

The monarch stood beside the hearth,
Whose flickering brands cast changeful glow
On his bright eye and stately brow.
Upon that calm and noble face

Deep thoughts had left their living trace,—
Thoughts, such as press, with giant power,
A common life into an hour;

Each line of lofty meaning there
Was graven by the hand of Care;
And the flash of that triumphant eye,
That arching lip's stern majesty,
Told of full many a foe withstood,-
Without, disdain'd-within, subdued!

Lays and Ballads.

LXXXVI.

Into ELEGIACS.

The splendid banquets had ceased, the festival was still; the King was alone with himself before his own Lares. The ardour of his eye, the dignity of his open brow, the lurid flame of the smouldering hearth reveals. Beneath the tranquil majesty of his serene countenance counsels and the signs of care remain marked; but in these counsels there is an imperious power, as though life might become a brief hour in its flight. The wrinkles which the loftier beauty of his face puts forth, each line is graven by the hand of Care. His flashing eyes gleam with pure fervour, majesty and command sit upon his lips. By these proofs he is manifest a conqueror from a vanquished foe; despising outward things, he subdues those within.

LXXXVII.

Thus saying, from her husband's hand her hand
Soft she withdrew; and like a wood-nymph light
Oread, or Dryad, or of Delia's train,

Betook her to the groves; but Delia's self
In gait surpass'd, and goddess-like deport,
Though not as she with bow and quiver arm'd;
But with such gard'ning tools as art, yet rude,
Guiltless of fire, had form'd, or angels brought.
To Pales, or Pomona, thus adorn'd,
Likest she seem'd Pomona, when she fled
Vertumnus, or to Ceres in her prime,
Yet virgin of Proserpina from Jove.

Her long with ardent look his eye pursued
Delighted, but desiring more her stay:
Oft he to her his charge of quick return
Repeated, she to him as oft engaged
To be return'd by noon amid the bow'r,
And all things in best order to invite
Noon-tide repast, or afternoon's repose.

Milton.

LXXXVII.

Into HEXAMETERS.

She had said-after, with the fall of her voice, she gently untwined her hand from her companion's hand, and through the shades of the wood, without delay, and the coverts of the grove she cast herself; as a light nymph among the Dryads or Oreads, or such bands as Diana leads, but herself too was by her gait revealed more clearly a Goddess than Diana. But the bow was wanting, the shafts were wanting, the badges of the woodland Deity. Nor bore she, except the weapons which might suffice for the garden, which rude art had forged for her with no fire, or ministers, to whom she went a care, had brought from heaven. Thus adorned, Pales or another Pomona, she seeks the woods; to the chaste Pomona she is more akin, when she fled from Vertumnus; or to Ceres in the flower of her youth, when Proserpine bore her from Jove a virgin daughter. He followed her retreating with ardent look, since he cannot stay her. Oft he admonished her, lest perchance she delay her return; oft she too promised that she would return to the familiar shrubberies before the sun should accomplish his mid course—then she would prepare all things in accustomed order, either in the heat of the sun at its height to persuade repast, or sleep at the evening hour.