Hardly we breathe, although the air be free: How massively doth awful Nature pile The living rock, like some cathedral aisle, Sacred to Silence and the solemn Sea. How that clear pool lies sleeping tranquilly, 5 And under its glassed waters seems to smile, With many hues, a mimic grove the while Of foliage submarine, shrub, flower, and tree. Beautiful scene! and fitted to allure The printless footsteps of some sea-born maid, 10 Who here, with her green tresses disarrayed, ’Mid the clear bath, unfearing and secure, May sport at noontide in the caverned shade-- Cold as the shadow--as the waters pure. _Thomas Doubleday._ CLXXXIII _HOLY THURSDAY._ ’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green; Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul’s, they like Thames’ waters flow. O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town, 5 Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own: The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, 9 Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. _William Blake._ CLXXXIV _ON AN ANTIQUE GEM BEARING THE HEADS OF PERICLES AND ASPASIA._ This was the ruler of the land, When Athens was the land of fame; This was the light that led the band, When each was like a living flame; The centre of earth’s noblest ring-- 5 Of more than men the more than king! Yet not by fetter, nor by spear, His sovereignty was held or won: Feared--but alone as freemen fear, Loved--but as freemen love alone, 10 He waved the sceptre o’er his kind By nature’s first great title--mind! Resistless words were on his tongue-- Then eloquence first flashed below; Full armed to life the portent sprung-- 15 Minerva from the Thunderer’s brow! And his the sole, the sacred hand That shook her ægis o’er the land. And throned immortal by his side, A woman sits with eye sublime,-- 20 Aspasia, all his spirit’s bride; But, if their solemn love were crime, Pity the Beauty and the Sage-- Their crime was in their darkened age.