A virgin scene! A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the heart
As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet; or beneath the trees I sate

Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down,
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplications. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,

Among the flowers, and with the flowers I And from the gray old trunks that high in

played,

A tempter known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blest
With sudden happiness beyond all hope;
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
The violets of five seasons re-appear
And fade, unseen by any human eye:
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
Forever; and I saw thę sparkling foam,
And with my cheek on one of those green

stones

That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady
trees,

Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep,
I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to

And merciless ravage; and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being, and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the past,
Even then, when from the bower I turned

away

Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees and the intruding sky.
Then, dearest Maiden! move along these

shades

In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand
Touch, for there is a spirit in the woods.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, ere framed

heaven

Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the

sound

Of the invisible breath that swayed at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bow-
ed

His spirit with the thought of boundless power
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at
least,

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn, thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in his ear.

Father, thy hand
Hath reared these venerable columns, thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst
look down

Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy
breeze

And shot towards heaven. The century-liv

ing crow,

Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and

died

Among their branches, till at last they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold
Communion with his Maker. These dim
vaults,

These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride
Report not. No fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art here; thou
fill'st

The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summit of these trees
In music; thou art in the cooler breath
That from the inmost darkness of the place
Ere Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the
ground,

he

The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,

The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with
thee.

Here is continual worship; nature here,
In the tranquility that thou dost love,
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around,

From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Of his arch enemy, Death; yea, seats himself
Passes; and yon clear spring, that midst its Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulcher,
herbs
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe

Wells softly forth, and, wandering, steeps the Makes his own nourishment. For he came

roots

Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and
grace

Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak,
By whose immovable stem I stand and seem
Almost annihilated-not a prince,

In all that proud old world beyond the deep,
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower
With scented breath, and look so like a smile,
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
An emanation of the indwelling Life,
A visible token of the upholding Love,
That are the soul of this wide universe.

My heart is awed within me when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on,
In silence, round me; the perpetual work
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed
Forever. Written on thy works I read
The lesson of thy own eternity.
Lo! all grow old and die, but see again
How on the faltering footsteps of decay
Youth presses, ever gay and beautiful youth,
In all its beautiful forms, These lofty trees
Wave not less proudly than their ancestors
Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost
One of earth's charms upon her bosom yet;
After the flight of untold centuries,
The freshness of her far beginning lies
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate

forth

From thine own bosom, and shall have an end.

There have been holy men who hid themselves

Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they
outlived

The generation born with them, nor seemed
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks
Around them;-and there have been holy

men

But let me often to these solitudes
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.
Retire, and in thy presence reassure
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,

The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink

And tremble and are still. Oh, God! when thou

Dost scare the world with tempests, set on
fire

The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill
With all the waters of the firmament,
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the
woods

And drowns the villages; when, at thy call,
Uprises the great deep and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Its cities who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad unchained elements to teach
Who rulest them. Be it ours to meditate,
And to the beautiful order of thy works
Learn to conform the order of our lives.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE ALHAMBRA BY MOONLIGHT.
(From "The Alhambra.")

HAVE given a picture of my apartment on my first taking possession of it; a few evenings have produced a thorough change in the scene and in my feelings. The moon, which was then invisible, has gradually gained upon the nights, and now rolls in full splendor above the towers, pouring a flood of tempered light into every court and hall. The garden beneath my window is gently lighted up; the orange and citron trees are tipped with silver; the fountain sparkles in the moonbeams, and even the blush of the rose is faintly visible.

I have sat for hours at my window inhaling the sweetness of the garden, and musing on the chequered features of those whose history is dimly shadowed out in the elegant memorials around. Sometimes I have issued forth at midnight when everything was quiet, and have wandered over the whole building. Who can do justice to a moonlight night in such a climate, and in such a place! The temperature of an Andalusian midnight in summer is perfectly ethereal. We seem lifted up into a purer atmosphere; there is a serenity of soul, a buoyancy of spirits, an elasticity of frame that render mere existence enjoyment. The effect of moonlight, too, on the Alhambra has something like enchantment. Every rent and chasm of time, every mouldering tint and weather stain disappears; the marble resumes its original whiteness; the long colonnades brighten in the moonbeams; the halls arc illumined with a softened radiance, until the whole edifice reminds one of the enchanted palace of an Arabian tale.

At such time I have ascended to the little pavillion called the Queen's Toilette, to enjoy its varied and extensive prospect. To the right, the snowy summits of the Sierra Nevada

would gleam like silver clouds against the darker firmament, and all the outlines of the mountain would be softened, yet delicately defined. My delight, however, would be to lean over the parapet of the tocador, and gaze down upon Granada, spread out like a map before me, alı buried in deep repose, and its white palaces and convents sleeping as it were in the moonshine.

Sometimes I would hear the faint sounds of castanets from some party of dancers lingering in the Alameda ; at other times I have heard the dubious tones of a guitar, and the notes of a single voice rising from some solitary street, and have pictured to myself some youthful cavalier serenading his lady's window; a gallant custom of former days, but now sadly on the decline except in the remote towns and villages of Spain.

Such are the scenes that have detained me for many an hour loitering about the courts and balconies of the castle, enjoying the mixture of reverie and sensation which steal away

existence in a southern climate, and it has been almost morning before I have retired to my bed, and been lulled to sleep by the falling waters of the fountain of Lindaraxa.

· ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

"E distant spires! ye antique towers!