Rhymes a la Mode. Lang Andrew

      Thepainted Briton built his mound,

      And left his celts and clay,

      On yon fair slope of sunlit ground

      That fronts your garden gay;

      The Roman came, he bore the sway,

      He bullied, bought, and sold,

      Your fountain sweeps his works away

      Beside your manor old!

      But still his crumbling urns are found

      Within the window-bay,

      Where once he listened to the sound

      That lulls you day by day; —

      The sound of summer winds at play,

      The noise of waters cold

      To Yarty wandering on their way,

      Beside your manor old!

      The Roman fell: his firm-set bound

      Became the Saxon’s stay;

      The bells made music all around

      For monks in cloisters grey,

      Till fled the monks in disarray

      From their warm chantry’s fold,

      Old Abbots slumber as they may,

      Beside your manor old!

      Creeds, empires, peoples, all decay,

      Down into darkness, rolled;

      May life that’s fleet be sweet, I pray,

      Beside your manor old.

      In twilight of the longest day

         I lingered over Lucian,

      Till ere the dawn a dreamy way

         My spirit found, untrod of man,

      Between the green sky and the grey.

      Amid the soft dusk suddenly

         More light than air I seemed to sail,

      Afloat upon the ocean sky,

         While through the faint blue, clear and pale,

      I saw the mountain clouds go by:

         My barque had thought for helm and sail,

      And one mist wreath for canopy.

      Like torches on a marble floor

         Reflected, so the wild stars shone,

      Within the abysmal hyaline,

         Till the day widened more and more,

      And sank to sunset, and was gone,

      And then, as burning beacons shine

         On summits of a mountain isle,

            A light to folk on sea that fare,

         So the sky’s beacons for a while

            Burned in these islands of the air.

      Then from a starry island set

         Where one swift tide of wind there flows,

      Came scent of lily and violet,

         Narcissus, hyacinth, and rose,

      Laurel, and myrtle buds, and vine,

      So delicate is the air and fine:

      And forests of all fragrant trees

         Sloped seaward from the central hill,

      And ever clamorous were these

      With singing of glad birds; and still

         Such music came as in the woods

      Most lonely, consecrate to Pan,

         The Wind makes, in his many moods,

      Upon the pipes some shepherd Man,

         Hangs up, in thanks for victory!

      On these shall mortals play no more,

         But the Wind doth touch them, over and o’er,

      And the Wind’s breath in the reeds will sigh.

      Between the daylight and the dark

         That island lies in silver air,

      And suddenly my magic barque

         Wheeled, and ran in, and grounded there;

      And by me stood the sentinel

         Of them who in the island dwell;

            All smiling did he bind my hands,

            With rushes green and rosy bands,

      They have no harsher bonds than these

         The people of the pleasant lands

      Within the wash of the airy seas!

      Then was I to their city led:

         Now all of ivory and gold

      The great walls were that garlanded

      The temples in their shining fold,

         (Each fane of beryl built, and each

         Girt with its grove of shadowy beech,)

      And all about the town, and through,

      There flowed a River fed with dew,

         As sweet as roses, and as clear

            As mountain crystals pure and cold,

      And with his waves that water kissed

      The gleaming altars of amethyst

         That smoke with victims all the year,

      And sacred are to the Gods of old.

      There sat three Judges by the Gate,

         And I was led before the Three,

      And they but looked on me, and straight

         The rosy bonds fell down from me

         Who, being innocent, was free;

      And I might wander at my will

      About that City on the hill,

         Among the happy people clad

            In purple weeds of woven air

      Hued like the webs that Twilight weaves

      At shut of languid summer eves

         So light their raiment seemed; and glad

      Was every face I looked on there!

      There was no heavy heat, no cold,

         The dwellers there wax never old,

            Nor wither with the waning time,

      But each man keeps that age he had

            When first he won the fairy clime.

      The Night falls never from on high,

         Nor ever burns the heat of noon.

      But such soft light eternally

         Shines, as in silver dawns of June

      Before the Sun hath climbed the sky!

      Within these pleasant streets and wide,

         The souls of Heroes go and come,

      Even they that fell on either side

         Beneath the