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From th’unseen land
Frozen inland,
Down from Greenland

Winter glides, Shedding lightness Like the brightness When moon-whiteness

Fills the tides.

The latter rain,-it falls in anxious haste Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, Loosening with searching drops the rigid

waste As if it would each root's lost strength repair; But not a blade grows green as in the Spring; No swelling twig puts forth its thickening

leaves; The robins only mid the harvests sing, Pecking the grain that scatters from the

sheaves; The rain falls still,—the fruit all ripened

drops, It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell ; The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops ; Each bursting pod of talents used can tell; And all that once received the early rain Declare to man it was not sent in vain.


Now bright Pleasure's Sparkling measures With rare treasures

Overflow! With this gladness Comes what sadness! Oh, what madness!

Oh, what woe!

Even merit
May inherit
Some bare garret,

Or the ground;

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Or, a worse ill,

The brave old plant in its lonely days
Beg a morsel

Shall fatten upon the past;
At some door sill,

For the stateliest building man can raise
Like a hound!

Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping where no life is seen,
Storms are trailing;

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Winds are wailing,

Howling, railing

At each door.
'Midst this trailing,
Howling, railing,

List the wailing
Of the poor!

The mellow year is hasting to its close ;

The little birds have almost sung their last,

Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast-
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;
The patient beauty of the scentless rose,
Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly


Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past,

And makes a little summer where it grows. On! a dainty plant is the Ivy green,

In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day That creepeth o'er ruins old!

The dusky waters shudder as they shine; Of right choice food are his meals I ween,

The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones de- And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,

Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define; cayed,

Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. To pleasure his dainty whim;

HARTLEY COLERIDGE And the mould ’ring dust that years have

Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.


SILENT nymph, with curious eye ! Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no

Who, the purple evening, lie wings,

On the mountain's lonely van, And a staunch old heart has he !

Beyond the noise of busy manHow closely he twineth, how tight he clings Painting fair the form of things, To his friend, the huge oak tree!

While the yellow linnet sings, And slyly he traileth along the ground,

Or the tuneful nightingale And his leaves he gently waves,

Charms the forest with her taleAnd he joyously twines and hugs around

Come, with all thy various hues,
The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Come, and aid thy sister Muse.
Creeping where no life is seen,

Now, while Phoebus, riding high,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Gives lustre to the land and sky,

Grongar Hill invites my songWhole ages have fled, and their works de- Draw the landscape bright and strong; cayed,

Grongar, in whose mossy cells And nations scattered been ;

Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; But the stont old Ivy shall never fade Grongar, in whose silent shade, From its hale and hearty green.

For the modest Muses made,

So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sat upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his checkered sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves and grottoes where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on smooth canal.
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise.
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly-risen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapors intervene;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show
In all the hues of heaven's bow !
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly tow’ring in the skies;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires;
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.

Below me trees unnumbered rise,
Beautiful in various dyes :
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs ;
And beyond, the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye;
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood:

His sides are clothed with waving wood;
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps;
So both, a safety from the wind
On mutual dependence find.
'T is now the raven's bleak abode;
'Tis now th’apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there fall
Huge heaps of ary, mouldered wall.
Yet Time has seen-that lifts the low
And level lays the lofty brow-
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state.
But transient is the smile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers, how they run
Through woods and meads, in shade and sub
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow-
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought
To instruct our wandering thought;
Thus she dresses green and gay
To disperse our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view !
The fountain's fall, the river's flow;
The woody valleys, warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky;
The pleasant seat, the ruined tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower;
The town and village, dome and farm-
Each gives each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How close and small the hedges lie;
What streaks of meadow cross the eye!
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem;


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So we mistake the Future's face,
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass;
As yon summits, soft and fair,
Clad in colors of the air,
Which to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear ;
Still we tread the same coarse way-
The present's still a cloudy day.

O may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see;
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tamed, my wishes laid ;
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul.
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.

Now, even now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain turf I lie ;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,
Now, even now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts; be great who will ;
Search for Peace with all your skill;
Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor.
In vain you search ; she is not here!
In vain you search the domes of Care !
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure—close allied,
Ever by each other's side;
And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.


Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a string of crystal beads.
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from under ground;
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapors, fly apace,
And hover o'er the smiling face
Of these pastures; where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom.
Therefore from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;
And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain, and ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;
Or the crafty, thievish fox,
Break upon your simple flocks.
To secure yourself from these,
Be not too secure in ease;
So shall you good shepherds prove,
And deserve your master's love.
Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers
And soft silence fall in numbers
On your eyelids. So farewell:
Thus I end my evening knell.



The splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes fly

ing: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes-dying, dying,



SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks

up; for the air 'Gins to thicken, and the sun Already his great course hath run. See the dew-drops, how they kiss Every little flower that is;

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, further going ! O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow! let us hear the purple glens reply.

ing: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes-dying, dying,


O love, they die in yon rich sky;

Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway They faint on hill or field or river: The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone; Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

That they who near the churchyard willowa And grow for ever and for ever.

stray, Blow, bugle, blowl set the wild echoes flying, And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, And answer, echoes, answer-dying, dying, May think of gentle souls that passed away, dying!

Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, ALFRED TEXXysox.

Sent forth from heaven among the sons of

men, And gone into the boundless heaven again.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head THE EVENING WIND.

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child

asleep, Spirit that breathest through my lattice! thou And dry the moistened curls that overspread That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day!

His temples, while his breathing grows Gratefully flows thy freshness round

more deep;

my brow;

And they who stand about the sick man's bed Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,

Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, Riding all day the wild blue waves till

And softly part his curtains to allow

now, Roughening their crests, and scattering Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee Go—but the circle of eternal change, To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the Which is the life of Nature, shall restore, sea!

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty


Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;

Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange, And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound

Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;

shore; And languishing to hear thy welcome sound, And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. sight.

WILLIAM CULLEN BEFANT. Go forth into the gathering shade; go forthGod's blessing breathed upon the fainting




Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest;

Curl the still waters, bright with stars; and
The wide, old wood from his majestic rest,

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air,

That rollest from the gorgeous gloom Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange deep harmonies that haunt his

Of evening over brake and bloom

And meadow, slowly breathing bare breast. Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows

The round of space, and rapt below, The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, Through all the dewy-tasselled wood, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep And shadowing down the horned flood

In ripples-fan my brows and blow

the grass.

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