mong

And whetting, jars with sharp and tinkling sound;

Then sweeps again ’mong corn and crackling beans,

And swath by swath flops lengthening o’er the ground;

Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,

Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:

That I should never hear Apollo's song,

** O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles

Passion their voices cooingly *mong myrtles.

What time tliou wanderest at eventide

As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float

'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted,

Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted:

Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely,

Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:

That I should never hear Apollo's song,

The wondering spirits of heaven were mute,

And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened.

That ought to frighten into hooded shame

A money mong'ring, pitiable brood.

How glorious this affection for the cause

As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;

And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,

And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,