_Cicada_--Now surely he of divers moods, which he exhibits in various ways, may cover himself with the branches of different plants, and may hold discourse worthily with the Muses; for they are his aura or comforter, his anchor or support, and his harbor, to which he retires in times of labor, of agitation, and of storm. Hence he cries:--"O Mountain of Parnassus, where I abide; Muses, with whom I converse; Fountain of Helicon, where I am nourished; Mountain, that affordest me a quiet dwelling-place; Muses, that inspire me with profound doctrines; Fountain, that cleansest me; Mountain, on whose ascent my heart uprises; Muses, that in discourse revive my spirits; Fountain, whose arbors cool my brows,--change my death into life, my cypress to laurels, and my hells into heavens: that is, give me immortality, make me a poet, render me illustrious!" _Tansillo_--Well; because to those whom Heaven favors, the greatest evils turn to greatest good; for needs or necessities bring forth labors and studies, and these most often bring the glory of immortal splendor. _Cicada_--For to die in one age makes us live in all the rest. CANTICLE OF THE SHINING ONES A Tribute to English Women, from 'The Nolan' "Nothing I envy, Jove, from this thy sky," Spake Neptune thus, and raised his lofty crest. "God of the waves," said Jove, "thy pride runs high; What more wouldst add to own thy stern behest?" "Thou," spake the god, "dost rule the fiery span, The circling spheres, the glittering shafts of day; Greater am I, who in the realm of man Rule Thames, with all his Nymphs in fair array. "In this my breast I hold the fruitful land, The vasty reaches of the trembling sea; And what in night's bright dome, or day's, shall stand Before these radiant maids who dwell with me?" "Not thine," said Jove, "god of the watery mount, To exceed my lot; but thou my lot shalt share: Thy heavenly maids among my stars I'll count, And thou shalt own the stars beyond compare!" THE SONG OF THE NINE SINGERS [_The first sings and plays the cithern_.] O cliffs and rocks! O thorny woods! O shore! O hills and dales! O valleys, rivers, seas! How do your new-discovered beauties please? O Nymph, 'tis yours the guerdon rare, If now the open skies shine fair; O happy wanderings, well spent and o'er! [_The second sings and plays to his mandolin_.] O happy wanderings, well spent and o'er! Say then, O Circe, these heroic tears, These griefs, endured through tedious months and years, Were as a grace divine bestowed If now our weary travail is no more. [_The third sings and plays to his lyre_.]