er Guest."

I thought that sublime setting of primeval forest and pouring canyon was
worthy of the lines; I am sure the dewless, crystalline air never
vibrated to strains of more solemn music. Certainly, our poet can never
be numbered among the great writers of all time. He has told no story;
he has never unpacked his heart in public; he has never thrown the reins
on the neck of the winged horse, and let his imagination carry him where
it listed. "Ah! the crowd must have emphatic warrant," as Browning sang.
Its suffrages are not for the cool, collected observer, whose eyes no
glitter can dazzle, no mist suffuse. The many cannot but resent that air
of lofty intelligence, that pale and subtle smile. But he will hold a
place forever among that limited number, who, like Lucretius and
Epicurus--without range or defiance, even without unbecoming mirth, look
deep into the tangled mysteries of things; refuse credence to the
absurd, and allegiance to arrogant authority; sufficiently conscious of
fallibility to be tolerant of all opinions; with a faith too wide for
doctrine and a benevolence untrammelled by creed; too wise to be wholly
poets, and yet too surely poets to be implacably wise.

THE RUBAIYAT

Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.

Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?"

And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."

Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jemshid's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows.

And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers to incarnadine.

Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a litt