How finely dost thou times and seasons spin,
And make a twist checkered with night and day!
Which, as it lengthens, winds, and winds us in,
As bowls go on, but turning all the way.

Each creature hath a wisdom for his good :
The pigeons feed their tender offspring, crying,
When they are callow; but withdraw their food,
When they are fledged, that need may teach 'en
flying.

Bees work for man, and yet they never bruise
Their master's flower, but leave it, having done,
As fair as ever, and as fit to use:

So both the flower doth stay, and honey run.

Who hath the virtue to express the rare
And curious virtues both of herbs and stones?
Is there an herb for that? O, that thy care
Would show a root that gives expressions!

E'en poisons. praise thee. Should a thing be lost?
Should creatures want, for want of heed, their due?
Since where are poisons, antidotes are most;
The help stands close, and keeps the fear in view.

The sea, which seems to stop the traveller,
Is by a ship the speedier passage made;
The winds, who think they rule the mariner,
Are ruled by him, and taught to serve his trade.

And as thy house is full, so I adore

Thy curious art in marshalling thy goods.

The hills with health abound; the vales, with store; The south, with marble; north, with furs and woods.

All countries have enough to serve their need:
If they seek fine things, thou dost make them run
For their offence; and then dost turn their speed
To be commerce and trade from sun to sun.

Sometimes thou dost divide thy gifts to man,
Sometimes unite. The Indian nut alone
Is clothing, meat and trencher, drink and can,
Boat, cable, sail and needle, all in one.

But who hath praise enough? Nay, who hath any ?
None can express thy works, but he that knows ther;
And none can know thy works, which are so many
And so completc, but only he that owns them.

All things that are, though they have several ways,
Yet in their being join with one advice
To honor thee; and so I give thee praise
In all my other hymns, but in this twice.

Each thing that is, although in use and name
go for one, hath many ways in store

It

To honor thee: and so each hymn thy fame
Extolleth many ways; yet this, one more.

ARETHUSA. - Shelley.

ARETHUSA arose

From her couch of snows,

In the Acroceraunian mountains,

From cloud and from crag,
With many a jag,

Shepherding her bright fountains.

Y

She leapt down the rocks With her rainbow locks Streaming among the streams; Her steps paved with green The downward ravine, Which slopes to the western gleam3 : And gliding and springing She went, ever singing

In murmurs as soft as sleep;

The Earth seemed to love her, And Heaven smiled above her, As she lingered towards the deep. Then Alpheus bold,

On his glacier cold,

With his trident the mountains strook;

And opened a chasm

In the rocks; with the spasm

All Erymanthus shook.

And the black south wind

It concealed behind

The urns of the silent snow,

And earthquake and thunder

Did rend in sunder
The bars of the springs below:
The beard and the hair
Of the river-god were
Seen through the torrent's sweep,
As he followed the light

Of the fleet nymph's flight

To the brink of the Dorian deep.

"O, save me! O, guide me, And bid the deep hide me! For he grasps me now by the hair!" The loud Ocean heard,

To its blue depth stirred,

And divided at her prayer;

And under the water

The Earth's white daughter Fled like a sunny beam;

Behind her descended

Her billows unblended
With the brackish Dorian stream.
Like a gloomy stain

On the emerald main,

Alpheus rushed behind,

As an eagle pursuing

A dove to its ruin

Down the streams of the cloudy wind.

Under the bowers

Where the Ocean Powers

Sit on their pearlèd thrones,
Through the coral woods
Of the weltering floods,
Over heaps of unvalued stones,
Through the dim beams

Which amid the streams
Weave a net-work of colored light,
And under the caves

Where the shadowy waves

Are as green as the forest's night:

Outspeeding the shark,

And the sword-fish dark,

Under the ocean-foam,

And up through the rifts

Of the mountain clifts
They passed to their Dorian home.
And now from their fountains

In Enna's mountains,

Down one vale where the morning basks, Like friends once parted,

Grown single-hearted,

They ply their watery tasks.

At sunrise they leap

From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill;
At noontide they flow
Through the woods below,
And the meadows of Asphodel;
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore;
Like spirits that lie

In the azure sky,
When they love, but live no mors

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. — Burns.

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

My loved, my honored, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end :

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,

The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;

What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, ween!

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The shortening winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh,
The blackening trains o' craws to their repose:

I