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In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
Thou dost float and run,
The pale, purple even
Melts around thy night
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
In the white dawn clear,
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not:
What is most like thee?
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Till the world is wrought
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soal in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden,
In a dell of dew,
Its aerial hue
Amongst the flowers and grass which screen It from the view.
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
All that ever was
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine;
Praise of love or wine
Or triumphal chant,
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What shapes of sky or plain?
With thy clear, keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Never came near thee:
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream. Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear;
Not to shed a tear,
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From thy lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
As if in his soul the bold animal smiled
To his friends of the sky, the joint-heirs of the wild.
Yes! fierce looks thy nature, e'en hush"d in repose —
In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes,
Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar.
With a haughty defiance to come to the war!
No outrage is war to a creature like thee!
The bugle-horn Alls thy wild spirit with glee.
As thou barest thy neck on the wings of the wind.
And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind.
In the beams of thy forehead that glitter with death—
In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath—
In the wide-raging torrent that lends thee its roar-
And his last cry of anger comes back from the
As Nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies.
John Wilson (Christopher North).
|HE very soul seems to be refreshed on the bare recollection of the pleasure i? which the senses receive in contemplating, on a fine vernal morning, the ^ charms of the pink, the violet, the rose, the honey-suckle, the hyacinth, the \ tulip, and a thousand other flowers, in every variety of figure, scent, and 1 hue; for Nature is no less remarkable for the accuracy and beauty of her works than for variety and profusion.
gorse is yellow on the heath,
The welcome guest of settled spring,
Just at sun-set, when thrushes sing,
I saw her dash with rapid wing,
Come, summer visitant, attach
To my reed-roof your nest of clay;
As fables tell, an Indian sage
The Hindostani woods among,
Translate the wild bird's song.
I wish I did his power possess,
That I might learn, fleet bird, from rhee, What our vain systems only guess,
And know from what wild wilderness You came across the sea.
I would a little while restrain
Your rapid wing, that I might hear Whether on clouds that bring the rain You sail'd above the western main, The wind your charioteer.
In Afric, does the sultry gale
Through spicy bower and palmy grove
Or the itinerant dove?
Were you in Asia? O relate
If there your fabled sister's woes
She seemed in sorrow to narrate;
Or sings she but to celebrate
"The welcome guest of settled spring,
Or if, by instinct taught to know
Approaching dearth of insect food, To isles and willowy aits you go, And, crowding on the pliant bough Sink in the dimpling flood;
How learn ye. while the cold waves boom
Your deep and oozy couch above,
Alas! how little can be known,
Her sacred veil where Nature draws;
Let baffled Science humbly own
Her mysteries, understood alone
fY heart is awed within me when I think Of the great miracle that still goes Op In silence round me — the perpetual wor.. Of Thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on Thy works I read The lesson of Thy own eternity.
)! all grow old and die—but, sec again! §Pi 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.
1 fragments of an uncompleted world. From bleak Alaska, bound in ice and spray, To where the peaks of Darien lie curled In clouds, the broken lands loom bold and gray; The seamen nearing S \ Francisco Bay Forget the compass here; with sturdy hand They seize the wheel, look up, then bravely lay The ship to shore by rugged peaks that stand The stern and proud patrician fathers of the land.
They stand white stairs of heaven—stand a line Of lifting, endless, and eternal white; They look upon the far and flashing brine, Upon the boundless plains, the broken height Of Kamiakin's battlements. The tlight Of time is underneath their untopped towers; They seem to push aside the moon at night, To jostle and to loose the stars. The flowers Of heaven fall about their brows in shining showers.
They stand a line of lifted snowy- isles, High held above a tossed and tumbled sea, — A sea of wood in wild unmeasured miles; White pyramids of Faith where man is free; White monuments of Hope that yet shall be The mounts of matchless and immortal song. I look far down the hollow days; I see The bearded prophets, simple-soul'd and strong, That strike the sounding harp and thrill the heeding throng.
Serene and satisfied! supreme! as lone As God, they loom like God's archangels churl'd: They look as cold as kings upon a throne; The mantling wings of night are crush'd and eiuTd As feathers curl. The elements are hurl'd From off their bosoms, and are bidden go, Like evil spirits, to an under-world; They stretch from Cariboo to Mexico, A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow.