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In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are brightening.

Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale, purple even

Melts around thy night
Like a star of heaven,
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,
"Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

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?
From rainbow-clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

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,
Scattering unbeholden

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,
Rain-awakened flowers,—

All that ever was
Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine;
I have never heard

Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal,

Or triumphal chant,
Matched with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt, —
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain?
What fields of waves or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear, keen joyance

Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

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;
If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

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.

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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-
In the cliff that, once trod, must be trodden no more—
Thy trust, 'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign!
But what if the stag on the mountain be slain?
On the brink of the rock — lo! he staudeth at bay,
Like a victor that falls at the close of the day:
While hunter and hound in their terror retreat
From the death that is spuru'd from his furious
feet;

And his last cry of anger comes back from the

skies,

As Nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies.

John Wilson (Christopher North).

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|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.

THE SWALLOW.

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gorse is yellow on the heath,
The banks with speedwell (lowers are gay,
The oaks are budding; and beneath,
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,
The silver wreath of May.

The welcome guest of settled spring,
The Swallow too is come at last;

Just at sun-set, when thrushes sing,

I saw her dash with rapid wing,
And hail'd her as she pass'd.

Come, summer visitant, attach

To my reed-roof your nest of clay;
And let my ear your music catch,
Low twittering underneath the thatch,
At the grey dawn of day.

As fables tell, an Indian sage

The Hindostani woods among,
Could, in his distant hermitage,
As if 'twere marked in written page,

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
Bear the repeated cuckoo's tale?
Dwells there a time the wandering rail,

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
Her nuptials with the rose?

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"The welcome guest of settled spring,
The Swallow too is come at last.

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,
The time when flowers of promise bloom,
And call you from your transient tomb,
To light, and life, and love?

Alas! how little can be known,

Her sacred veil where Nature draws;

Let baffled Science humbly own

Her mysteries, understood alone
By Him who gives her laws.

Charlotte Smith.

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.

THE SIERRAS.

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.

Joaquin Miller.

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