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

Lure 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,
Whilst 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 jg of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An cagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings.

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea br. neath,

Its ardors 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 orbed 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 through 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,
Junbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,-
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored bow;

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

I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through 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.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. — Tennyson.

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea,
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy

That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To the haven under the hill;

But, O, for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea,

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. — Burns.

A DIRGE.

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;

His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

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Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? Began the reverend sage;

"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage?

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.

"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labor to support

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A haughty lordling's pride,-
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return,
And every time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.

"O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force gives Nature's law
That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime,

Or manhood's active might;

Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn;

Then age and want — O ill-matched pair!— Show man was made to mourn.

"A few seem favorites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest;

Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.

But, O, what crowds in every land,
All wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn, -
That man was made to mourn.

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"Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame!

More pointed still, we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame!

And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,

Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

"See yonder poor o'erlabored wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

"If I'm designed yon lordling's slave,— By Nature's law designed,

Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?

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