rward his eager eye and brow of light
He bent; and while both hands that arch embowed,
Shaft after shaft pursued the flying Night,
No wings profaned that godlike form: around
His polished neck an ever-moving crowd
Of locks hung glistening; while each perfect sound
Fell from his bow-string, _that th' ethereal dome
Thrilled as a dew-drop_; while each passing cloud
Expanded, whitening like the ocean foam.'

"Is not this line grand?--

'Peals the strong, voluminous thunder!'

And how incomparable is the termination of this song!--

'Bright was her soul as Dian's crest
Showering on Vesta's fane its sheen:
Cold looked she as the waveless breast
Of some stone Dian at thirteen.
Men loved: but hope they deemed to be
A sweet Impossibility!'

Here are two beautiful lines from the Grecian Ode:--

'Those sinuous streams that blushing wander
Through labyrinthine oleander.'

This is like Shakespeare:--

'Yea, and the Queen of Love, as fame reports,
Was caught,--no doubt in Bacchic wreaths,--for Bacchus
Such puissance hath, that he old oaks will twine
Into true-lovers' knots, and laughing stand
Until the sun goes down.'

And an admirable passage is this, too, from the same poem,--'The Search
after Proserpine':--

'Yea, and the motions of her trees and harvests
Resemble those of slaves, reluctant, cumbered,
By outward force compelled; _not like our billows,
Springing elastic in impetuous joy,
Or indolently swayed_.'

"There!" exclaimed Landor, closing the book, "I want you to have this.
It will be none the less valuable because I have scribbled in it," he
added with a smile.

"But, Mr. Landor--"

"Now don't say a word. I am an old man, and if both my legs are not in
the grave, they ought to be. I cannot lay up such treasures in heaven,
you know,--saving of course in my memory,--and De Vere had rather you
should have it than the rats. There's a compliment for you! so put the
book in your pocket."

This little volume is marked throughout by Landor with notes of
admiration, and if I here transcribe a few of his favorite poems, it
will be with the hope of benefiting many readers to whom De Vere is a
sealed book.

"Greece never produced anything so exquisite," wrote Landor beneath the
following song:--

"Give me back my heart, fair child;
To you as yet 't is worth but little.
Half beguiler, hal