ON LANDOR'S “HELLENICS”

Come hither, who grow cloyed to surfeiting

With lyric draughts o'ersweet, from rills that rise

On Hybla not Parnassus mountain: come

With beakers rinsed of the dulcifluous wave

Hither, and see a magic miracle

Of happiest science, the bland Attic skies

True-mirrored by an English well;— no stream

Whose heaven-belying surface makes the stars

Reel, with its restless idiosyncrasy;

But well unstirred, save when at times it takes

Tribute of lover's eyelids, and at times

Bubbles with laughter of some sprite below.