XLIV.

THE CLOUD.

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I

pass

in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning my pilot sits,

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;

Over earth and ocean with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills and the crags and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The Spirit he loves, remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, While he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead.
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings.

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath

Its ardours 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.

That orbéd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen thro' me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch thro' which I march,
With hurricane, fire and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;

The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nurseling of the sky:

I pass thro' the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.

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 air,

I 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 arise and unbuild it again.

F

Shelley.

XLV.

SPRING MEMORIES.

When I hear the the waters fretting,

When I see the chesnut letting

All her lovely blossom falter down, I think, “ Alas the day !” Once with magical sweet singing,

Blackbirds set the woodland ringing,

That awakes no more while April hours wear themselves away.

In our hearts fair hope lay smiling

Sweet as air and all beguiling,

And there hung a mist of blue bells on the slope and down the dell, And we talked of joy and splendour

That the years unborn would render,

And the blackbirds helped us with the song, for they knew it well.

Piping, fluting, "Bees are humming,

April's here, and summer's coming,

Don't forget us when you walk a man with men in pride and joy; Think on us in alleys shady

When you step a graceful lady;

For no fairer days have we to hope for, little girl and boy.

"Laugh and play, O lisping waters,

Lull our downy sons and daughters,

Come, O wind and rock their leafy cradles in thy wanderings coy, When they wake, we'll end the measure

With a wild sweet cry of pleasure,

And a 'Hey down derry, let's be merry, little girl and boy!”

Miss Ingelow.

XLVI.

THE HOLIDAY OF SPRING.

I love to saunter out
Where lusty throstles shout,
And list the happy twitter
Of the sparrows in the eaves,
And watch the orb of day
Chase the lingering clouds away,
And mark the sunbeams smiling
Thro' the young green of the leaves.

And minstrels of the air,
Making merry everywhere,
Sing glory, glory, glory,

As they mount upon the breeze :
And rooks caw out their loves
As tenderly as doves,

In all the joy of indolence,

On old baronial trees.

When a brightly glowing gleam,
Of sunshine on the stream,
Turns each wavelet into silver

In its journey to the main;

When the zenith is so blue,

That the heavens look down to view

The image of their beauty

In the mirror of the plain.

O delicious is the bliss
Of the morning's early kiss,
As the zephyrs flit about me
On their ever-busy wing;
When the orchis glows with pride,
And the violet as his bride
Invites me to her banquet
In the holiday of Spring.

Edward Capern.