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Nought! But the effluence of Thy light divine,
Thou art, directing, guiding all, Thou art!
The chain of being is complete in me;
Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word
O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest!
God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar;
THE BANIAN TREE.
'twas a fair scene wherein they stood,
Of gentle motion swung;
THE STORMY PETEREL.
A Thousand miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast:
The sails are scatter'd abroad, like weeds,
The strong masts shake like quivering reeds,
The mighty cables, and iron chains,
The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,
They strain and they crack, and hearts like stone,
Their natural, hard, proud strength disown.
Up and down! up and down!
From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,
And amidst the flashing and feathery foam,
The stormy peterel finds a home,—
A home, if such a place may be,
For her who lives on the wide, wide sea,
On the crag«y ice, in the frozen air,
And only seeketh her rocky lair
To warm her young, and to teach them spring
At once o'er the waves on the stormy wing.
O'er the deep! o'er the deep!
Win re the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep,
Outflying the blast and the driving rain,
The peterel telleth her tale, in vain—
For the mariner curseth the warning bird,
That bringeth him news of the storm unheard.
Ah! thus doth the prophet of good or ill,
Meet hate from the creature he serveth still;
Yet he ne'er falters—so, Peterel, spring
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!
THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
By Mrs. Humans.
Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing!
We have swept o'er cities, in song renown'd—
Silent they lie, with the deserts round!
We have cross'd proud rivers, whose tide hath roll'd
All dark with the warrior blood of old;
And each worn wing hath regain'd its home,
Under peasant's roof tree, or monarch's dome."
And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Oh, joyous bird", it hath still been so!
"A change we have found there, and many a change!
Faces and footsteps and all things strange!
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,
And the young that were, have a brow of care,
And the place is hush'd where the children play'd—
Nought looks the same, save the nest we made!"
Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,
Yet, through the wastes of the trackless air,
Poor and content is rich, and rich enough;
Shakspere. Moonlight Night.
How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude
That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault,
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a ranopy which love hath spread
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow:
Yon darksome walls, whence icicles depend
So stainless, that their white and glittering spears
Tinge not the moon's pure beam: yon castled steep,
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that wrapt fancy deemeth it
A metaphor of peace—all form a scene
Where musing solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness:
Where silence undisturb'd might watch alone,
So cold, so bright, so still.
Shelley, The Sylvan Scene. Over head up grew Insuperable height of loftiest shade, Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, A sylvan scene; and as the ranks ascend Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view. Milton.