Or things inanimate might seem to say;

The strain of gondolier slow streaming by;
The lively barks that o'er the waters bound;
The trees that shake their foliage to the sky;
The wailing voice that fills the cots around;

And man, who studies with an aching heart--
For now, when smiles are rarely deemed sincere,
In vain the sceptic bids his doubts depart--
Those doubts at length will arguments appear!

Hence, reader, know the subject of my song--
A mystic age, resembling twilight gloom,
Wherein we smile at birth, or bear along,
With noiseless steps, a victim to the tomb!

G.W.M. REYNOLDS



THE LAND OF FABLE.

_("L'Orient! qu'y voyez-vous, poetes?")_

[PRELUDE, b.]


Now, vot'ries of the Muses, turn your eyes,
Unto the East, and say what there appears!