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Till glimpses more sublime,

As, on the jag of a mountain crag Of things unseen before,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, Unto his wondering eyes reveal

An eagle, alit, one moment may sit The universe, as an immeasurable wheel In the light of its golden wings; Turning for evermore

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

sea beneath,
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Its ardors of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.
THE CLOUD.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, Whom mortals call the moon,
From the seas and the streams;

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

By the midnight breezes strewn; In their noon-day dreams.

And, wherever the beat of her unseen feet, From my wings are shaken the dews that

Which only the angels hear, waken

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin The sweet birds every one,

roof, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

The stars peep behind her and peer; As she dances about the sun.

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

Like a swarm of golden bees, And whiten the green plains under;

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, And then again I dissolve it in rain;

Till the calm river, lakes, and seas, And laugh as I pass in thunder.

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on

high, I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast;

Are each paved with the moon and these. And all the night, 'tis my pillow white, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and Lightning, my pilot, sits;

swim, In a cavern under, is fettered the thunder; When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. It struggles and howls at fits.

From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Over a torrent sea, This pilot is guiding me,

Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, Lured by the love of the genii that move

The mountains its columns be. In the depths of the purple sea; The triumphal arch, through which I march, Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, With hurricane, fire, and snow, Over the lakes and the plains,

When the powers of the air are chained to Wherever he dream, under mountain or

my chair, stream,

Is the million-colored bow; The spirit he loves, remains;

The sphere-fire above, its soft colors wove, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue While the moist earth was laughing besmile,

low. Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

I am the daughter of the earth and water, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And the nurseling of the sky;

And his burning plumes outspread, I pass through the pores of the ocean and Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

shores; When the morning star shines dead. I change, but I cannot die.

SUMMER WINDS.

81

For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their

convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of airI silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost

from the tomb,
I rise and upbuild it again.

PEROY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky

The mavis mends her lay ; The red-breast pours his sweetest strains,

To charm the lingʻring day;
While weary yeldrins seem to wail

Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den,

Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,

The foxglove shuts its bell ; The honey-suckle and the birk

Spread fragrance through the del.
Let others crowd the giddy court

Of mirth and revelry,
The simple joys that Nature yields
Are dearer far to me.

ROBERT TANNAHILL

DRINKING.

SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS.

Up the dale and down the bourne,

O’er the meadow swift we fly; Now we sing, and now we mourn,

Now we whistle, now we sigh.

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are,
With constant drinking, fresh and fair;
The sea itself, (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink,)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So filled that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun (and one would guess
By's drunken fiery face no less,)
Drinks up the sea, and, when he'as done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun:
They drink and dance by their own light;
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in nature's sober found,
But an eternal "health” goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high-
Fill all the glasses there; for why
Should every creature drink but I;
Why, man of morals, tell me why?

ANACREON. (Greek) Translation of ABBALAM COWLEY.

By the grassy-fringed river,

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep; Mid the lily-leaves we quiver,

To their very liearts we creep.

Now the maiden rose is blushing

At the frolic things we say, While aside her cheek we're rushing,

Like some truant bees at play.

Through the blooming groves we rustle,

Kissing every bud we pass, – As we did it in the bustle,

Scarcely knowing how it was.

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE

BURN.

Down the glen, across the mountain,

O'er the yellow heath we roam, Whirling round about the fountain,

Till its little breakers foam.

The midges dance aboon the burn;

The dews begin to fa’;
The pairtricks down the rushy holm

Set up their e'ening ca’.
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang

Rings through the briery shaw, While fitting gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'.

Bending down the weeping willows,

While our vesper hymn we sigh; Then unto our rosy pillows

On our weary wings we hie.

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I.

ODE TO THE WEST WIND.

Of vapors; from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh

hear! O WILD West Wind, thou breath of autumn's

being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves Thou who didst waken from his summer dead

dreams Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, fleeing

Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

III.

1

THE OCEAN,

83

Beside a pumice isle in Baia's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers,
Quivering within the waves' intenser day,

Drive

my

dead thoughts over the universe, Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth; And, by the incantation of this verse,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
So sweet the sense faints picturing them! Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Thou

Be through my lips to unawakened earth For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind, Cleave themselves into chasms, while, far be

If winter comes, can spring be far behind ?

PEROY BYSSHE SHELLEY, low, The sea-blooms, and the oozy woods which

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