TURNER.

He works in rings, in magic rings of chance;

He knows that grand effects oft run askance,

And so he prays to Nature, colorqueen.

He works in chaoses, artist,

you are no

You medium-man who power to write impartest;

Suffice to know he loveth Chaos old, Because than aught created she's more bold:

And so he worketh ruleless, not to fix, And freeze and stiffen, but to weld and mix,

That many elements thus got together May struggle into light.

And she loves possibility, and hence He goes far back into Confusion's dance.

So the old Temeraire, (ah England! long

That happiness shall live within thy song,)

Lets natural ways rush through him; so may you,

If you have brain and strength and dare to do.

Believe me, there are ways of paint

ing things

That are allied to the great Morning's wings.

J. J. G. WILKINSON.

THE TIGER.

TIGER! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burned the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thine heart?

And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their

spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did He, Who made the Lamb, make
thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
WILLIAM BLAKE.

THEA.

LEANING with parted lips, some words she spake

In solemn tenor and deep organ tone:

Some mourning words, which, in our feeble tongue,

Would come in these like accents; O how frail

To that large utterance of the early Gods!

KEATS.

"The Gods be your terror, Ye children of men!

They hold the dominion

In hands everlasting,
All free to exert it
As listeth their will.

"Let him fear them doubly
Whome'er they've exalted!
On crags and on cloud-piles
The couches are planted
Around the gold tables.

"Dissension arises;
Then tumble the feasters,
Reviled and dishonored,
In gulfs of deep midnight;
And look ever vainly
In fetters of darkness
For judgment that's just.

"But they remain seated
At feasts never failing
Around the gold tables.
They stride at a footstep
From mountain to mountain;
Through jaws of abysses

Steams towards them the breathing
Of suffocate Titans,

Like offerings of incense,
A light-rising vapor.

Macbeth doth murder sleep," — the innocent sleep,

Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care,

The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,

Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,

Chief nourisher in life's feast, Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house:

"Glamis hath murdered sleep; and therefore Cawdor

Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more!"

SHAKSPEARE: Macbeth.