'I spake.--Behold her o'er the broad lake flying, Like a great Angel missioned to bestow Some boon on men beneath in sadness lying: The waves are murmuring silver murmurs low: Over the waves are borne Those feeble lights which, ere the eyes of Morn Are lifted, through her lids and lashes flow. Beneath the curdling wind Green through the shades the waters rush and roll, (Or whitened only by the unfrequent shoal,) Till two dark hills, with darker yet behind, Confront them,--purple mountains almost black, Each behind each self-folded and withdrawn, Beneath the umbrage of yon cloudy rack.-- That orange-gleam! 't is dawn! Onward! the swan's flight with the eagle's blending, On, winged Muse! still forward and ascending!' "This sonnet on 'Sunrise,'" continued Landor, "is the noblest that ever was written:-- 'I saw the Master of the Sun. He stood High in his fiery car, himself more bright, An archer of immeasurable might. On his left shoulder hung his quivered load; Spurred by his steeds, the eastern mountain glowed; Forward 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--"