Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, And not alone to thee is given The homage of the pilgrim's knee, But oft the sweetest birds of heaven Glide down and sing to thee. Here daily from his beechen cell, The hermit squirrel steals to drink, And flocks, which cluster to their bell, Recline along thy brink. And here the wagoner blocks his wheels, To quaff the cooling, generous boon; llere, from the sultry harvest-fields, The reapers rest at noon. And oft the beggar, masked with tan, With rusty garments gray with dust, Here sits and dips his little can, And lulled beside thy whispering stream, Off drops to slumber unawares, And sees the angels of his dream Upon celestial stairs. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The livelong night; nor these alone, whose notes Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain, In still repeated circles, screaming loud, Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, reigns, And only there, please highly for their sakes. WILLIAM COWPER. THE WAYSIDE SPRING. AIR dweller by the dusty way, Bright saint within a mossy shrine, The tribute of a heart to-day, Weary and worn is thine. The earliest blossoms of the year, THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. Dear dweller by the dusty way, THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. And oft beneath the sun or moon, Their swift and eager falchions glow; While, like a storm-vexed wind, the rune Comes chafing through some beard of snow. And when the far North flashes up Yon looming phantom as we pass! And speak her well; for she might say, If from her heart the words could thaw, Might tell of channels yet untold, That sweep the pole from sea to sea; Of wonders which alone prevail Where day and darkness dimly meet, His anchor holds, his sails are furled; That Fame has named him on her scroll, "Columbus of the Polar World;" Or how his plunging barques wedge on, Through splintering fields, with battered shares, Lit only by that spectral dawn, The mask that mocking darkness wears; Or how, o'er embers black and few, In council with the norland stars. No answer but the sullen flow Of ocean heaving long and vast; An argosy of ice and snow, The voiceless North swings proudly past. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. FAIRY GOLD. N the lore that is known to our childhood, The beautiful story is told The fairies have hidden their gold, Forever eluding but tempting, The sunshine is bright on the rain, And over the hills and the valleys • We follow the glory-in vain. Though we stand where we thought it had rested, Yet distant it ever appears; For what seems the rainbow to others And bright, with a glory celestial, THE SEA. TTF sealt, the neth, the ever The blue, the fresh, the ever free; Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be; If a storm should come and awake the deep. I love, oh how I love to ride I never was on the dull, tame shore, The waves were white, and red the morn, 've lived since then, in calm and strife, With wealth to spend, and power to range, And death, whenever he comes to me, The waves were white and red the morn ontiry wild I've loved since then, in cabou and strife, S' FAIR WEATHER AND FOUL. PEAK naught, move not, but listen: the sky is full of gold; No ripple on the river, no stir in field or fold; All gleams, but naught doth glisten, save the far-off unseen sea. Look not, they will not heed thee; speak not, they will not hear; Pray not, they have no bounty; curse not, they may not fear; Cower down, they will not heed thee; longlived the world shall be. Forget days past, heart-broken, put all thy Hang down thine head and hearken, for the memory by! No grief on the green hill-side, no pity in the sky; bright eve mocks thee still; Night trippeth on the twilight, but the summer hath no will Joy that may not be spoken fills mead and For woes of thine to darken, and the moon flower and tree; hath left the sea. ANONYMOUS. |