grace of scenery, or the last for its fresh breath and light, shed on softer places than the fiery cone of Etna—for its sweetness and calm, subduing, after all, the force of flames and darkness with the serenity of stars and song; but how fine in each one alike is the touch which relieves the scenery with personal life, Chiron's or Typho's or the sleeping shepherds' and passing Muses'. We have no word but the coarse and insufficient word taste to express that noble sense of harmony and high poetic propriety shown in the arrangement and composition of these lyrics; the first, full of the bright moist breath of wellwatered glen and well-wooded ford, serving as prelude with its clear soft notes to the high monotone of Empedocles; the second, when that has ceased upon the still keen air, rising with fuller sweetness from below. Nothing can be more deep and exquisite in poetical tact than this succession of harmonies, diverse without a discord. For the absolute loveliness of sound and colour in this and the next song there are no adequate words that would not seem violent; and violence is too far from this poetry to invade even the outlying province of commentary. It must be accepted as the "warm bay among the green Illyrian hills" accepts the sunlight, as the frame of maiden flowers and enclosure of gentle grass accept the quiet presence of the sacred snakes. No ear can forget the cadence, no eye the colour; I am half shaken in my old preference of the next ode until I recall it from end to end: