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The thunder-riven cloud, the lightning's Oh, then, while hums the earliest bee, leap

Where verdure fires the plain, The stirring of the chambers of the deep-Walk thou with me, and stoop to see Earth's emerald green, and many-tinted The glories of the lane ! dyes

For, oh, I love these banks of rock, The fleecy whiteness of the upper skies This roof of sky and tree, The tread of armies thickening as they These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming come

clock, The boom of cannon, and the beat of And wakes the earliest bee! drum

| As spirits from eternal day The brow of beauty, and the form of Look down on earth secure; grace

Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey The passion, and the prowess of our A world in miniature; race

A world not scorn'd by Him who made The song of Homer in its loftiest hour-| Even weakness by his might ; The unresisted sweep of Roman power- But solemn in his depth of shade, Britannia's trident on the azure sea

And splendid in his light. America's young shout of Liberty! Light ! not alone on clouds afar Oh! may the wars that madden in thy O'er storm-loved mountains spread, deeps

| Or widely-teaching sun and star There spend their rage, nor climb tl' en- Thy glorious thoughts are read; circling steeps,

Oh, no! thou art a wond'rous book,
And till the conflict of thy surges cease, To sky, and sea, and land-
The nations on thy banks repose is. A page on which the angels look,

Which insects understand !
And here, oh, Light ! minutely fair,

Divinely plain and clear,

Like splinters of a crystal hair, (EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 1981—1849.)

Thy bright small hand is here. THE WONDERS OF THE LANE. | Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide,

Is Huron, girt with wood; STRONG climber of the mountain side,

'This driplet feeds Missouri's tideThough thou the vale disdain,

And that Niagara's flood. Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide

What tidings from the Andes brings The wonders of the lane.

Yon line of liquid light, High o'er the rushy springs of Don

That down from heav'n in madness flings The stormy gloom is rollid;

The blind foam of its might? The moorland hath not yet put on

Do I not hear his thunder rollHis purple, green, and gold.

The roar that ne'er is still ? But here the titling* spreads his wing,

'Tis mute as death !-but in my soul Where dewy daisies gleam ;

It roars, and ever will. And here the sun-flowert of the spring

What forests tall of tiniest moss Burns bright in morning's beam.

Clothe every little stone ! To mountain winds the famish'd fox

What pigmy oaks their foliage toss Complains that Sol is slow,

O'er pigmy valleys lone ! [ledge, O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks

With shade o'er shade, from ledge to His royal robe to throw.

Ambitious of the sky, But here the lizard seeks the sun,

They feather o'er the steepest edge Here coils in light the snake ;

Of mountains mushroom high. And here the fire-tuft I hath begun

Oh, God of marvels! who can tell Its beauteous nest to make.

What myriad living things * The Hedge Sparrow. The Dandelion.

On these grey stones unseen may dwell! The Golden-Crested Wren,

What nations with their kings !

walk ;

I feel no shock, I hear no groan

While fate perchance o'erwhelms
Empires on this subverted stone-

A hundred ruin'd realms !
Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me,

Impell’d by woe or whim,
May crawl, some atom cliffs to see-

A tiny world to him!
Lo! while he pauses, and admires

The work of nature's might,
Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires,

And all to him is night!
Oh, God of terrors ! what are we?

Poor insects, spark'd with thought ! Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee,

Could smite us into nought ! But shouldst thou wreck our father-land,

And mix it with the deep, Safe in the hollow of thy hand

Thy little ones would sleep.

And dear to care and thought che usual Theirs be no flower that withers on the

stalk, But roses cropp'd, that shall not bloom in

vain ; And hope's bless'd sun, that sets to rise

again. Be chaste their nuptial bed, their home

be sweet, Their floor resound the tread of little

feet; Bless'd beyond fear and fate, if bless'd by

thee, And heirs, O Love ! of thine Eternity.

LOVE STRONG IN DEATH. We watch'd him, while the moonlight,

Beneath the shadow'd hill, Seem'd dreaming of good angels,

And all the woods were still.
The brother of two sisters

Drew painfully his breath :
A strange fear had come o'er him,

For love was strong in death.
The fire of fatal fever

Burn'd darkly on his cheek, And often to his mother

He spoke, or tried to speak : I felt, as if from slumber

I never could awake :
Oh, Mother, give me something

To cherish for your sake!
A cold, dead weight is on me-

A heavy weight, like lead :
My hands and feet seem sinking

Quite through my little bed :
I am so tired, so weary-

With weariness I ache :
Oh, Mother, give me something

To cherish for your sake!
Some little token give me,

Which I may kiss in sleepTo make me feel I'm near you,

And bless you though I weep. My sisters say I'm better

But, then, their heads they shake : Oh, Mother, give me something

To cherish for your sake!

THE HAPPY LOT. BLESS'D is the hearth where daughters

gird the fire, And sons that shall be happier than their

sire, Who sees them crowd around his evening

chair, While love and hope inspire his wordless

prayer. O from their home paternal may they go, With little to unlearn, though much to

know! Them, may no poison'd tongue, no evil Curse for the virtues that refuse to die; L The generous heart, the indepeаdent

mind, Till truth, like falsehood, leaves a sting!

behind! May temperance crown their feast, and

friendship share ! May Pity come, Love's sister-spirit, there! May they shun baseness as they shuu the

grave! May they be frugal, pious, humble,

brave ! Sweet peace be theirs—the moonlight of

the breastAnd occupation, and alternate rest ;


Why can't I see the poplar,

While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, The moonlit stream and hill,

Far down within the watery sky reposes. Where, Fanny says, good angels | As if the Ocean's heart were stirr'd

Dream, when the woods are still ? | With inward life, a sound is heard, Why can't I see you, Mother? Like that of dreamer murmuring in his I surely am awake :

sleep; Oh, haste ! and give me something 'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air, To cherish for your sake!”

That lies like a garment floating fair
His little bosom heaves not;

Above the happy deep.
The fire hath left his cheek :

The sea, I ween, cannot be fann'd
The fine chord-is it broken?

By evening freshness from the land,
The strong chord-could it break? | For the land it is far away;
Ah, yes ! the loving spirit

But God hath will'd that the sky-born
Hath wing'd his Hight away :

breeze A mother and two sisters

In the centre of the loneliest seas
Look down on lifeless clay.

Should ever sport and play.
The mighty Moon she sits above,

Encircled with a zone of love,
(John Wilson. 1985—1844.) A zone of dim and tender light

That makes her wakeful eye more bright:

She seems to shine with a sunny ray, A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting And the night looks like a mellow'd day! sun,

The gracious Mistress of the Main A gleam of crimson tinged its braided Hath now an undisturbed reign, snow :

And from her silent throne looks down, Long had I watch'd the glory moving on As upon children of her own, O'er the still radiance of the lake below. On the waves that lend their gentle breast Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated In gladness for her couch of rest!

slow! Even in its very motion there was rest : While every breath of eve that chanced to MAGDALENE'S HYMN.

blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous

The City of the Plague. West.

| The air of death breathes through our Emblem, methought, of the departed souls, soul !

The dead all round us lie; To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is By day and night the death-bell tolls, given;

And says, “Prepare to die."
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onwards to the golden gates of The face that in the morning sun

We thought so wond'rous fair, Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful | Hath faded, ere his course was run, lies,

Beneath its golden hair. And tells to man his glorious destinies.

I see the old man in his grave,

With thin locks silvery-grey;
THE MIDNIGHT OCEAN. I see the child's bright tresses wave
The Isle of Palm.

In the cold breath of clay.
It is the midnight hour :-the beauteous The loving ones we loved the best,

Like music all are gone! Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven And the wan moonlight bathes in rest discloses,

1 Their monumental stone.

But not when the death-prayer is said

The life of life departs ;
The body in the grave is laid,

Its beauty in our hearts.

And holy midnight voices sweet

Like fragrance fill the room,
And happy ghosts with noiseless feet

Come bright'ning from the tomb.

We know who sends the visions bright,

From whose dear side they came ! -We veil our eyes before thy light, We bless our Saviour's name !

| Why therefore are ye silent, ye who know

The trance of adoration, and behold
Upon your bended knees the throne of

And Him who sits thereon ? Believe it

That Poetry, in purer days the nurse,
Yea, parent oft of blissful piety,
Should silent keep from service of her

Nor with her summons, loud but silver-

Startle the guilty dreamer from his sleep,
Bidding him gaze with rapture or with

dread On regions where the sky forever lies Bright as the sun himself, and trembling

all With ravishing music, or where darkness

broods O'er ghastly shapes, and sounds not to be

This frame of dust, this feeble breath

The Plague may soon destroy ; We think on Thee, and feel in death

A deep and awful joy.


Dim is the light of vanish'd years

In the glory yet to come ;
O idle grief ! Ó foolish tears!

When Jesus calls us home.

Like children for some bauble fair THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.

That weep themselves to rest ;
We part with life-awake ! and there With laughter swimming in thine eye,
The jewel in our breast !

That told youth's heartfelt revelry;
And motion changeful as the wing

Of swallow waken'd by the spring ;

With accents blithe as voice of May,

Chanting glad Nature's roundelay; How beautiful is genius when combined | Circled by joy, like planet bright, With holiness! Oh, how divinely sweet

| That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light, The tones of earthly harp, whose chords | Thy image such, in former time, are touch'd

When thou, just entering on thy prime, By the soft hand of Piety, and hung And woman's sense in thee combined Upon Religion's shrine, there vibrating Gently with childhood's simplest mind, With solemn music in the ear of God.

First taught'st my sighing soul to move And must the Bard from sacred themes

| With hope towards the heaven of love! refrain ? Sweet were the hymns in patriarchal Now years have given my Mary's face days,

| A thoughtful and a quiet grace ; That, kneeling in the silence of his tent, Though happy still, yet chance distress Or on some moonlit hill, the shepherd Hath left a pensive loveliness ; pour'd

Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams, Unto his heavenly Father. Strains sur. And thy heart broods o'er home-born vive

dreams! Erst chanted to the lyre of Israel,

| Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild, More touching far than ever poet breathed Shower blessings on a darling child; Amid the Grecian isles, or ater times | Thy motion slow, and soft thy tread, Have heard in Albion, land of every lay. As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!

And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone, Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? That tells thy heart is all my own,

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Sounds sweeter from the lapse of years, Homer? With the wife's love, the mother's fears!

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden By tny glad youth and tranquil prime By oath to tell the secrets of thy tradeAssured, I smile at hoary time;

Then say, what secret melody was hidden For thou art doom'd in age to know, In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise The calm that wisdom steals from woe; played ? The holy pride of high intent,

Perhaps thou wert a Priest—if so, my The glory of a life well spent.

struggles When, earth's affections nearly o'er, Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its With Peace behind and Faith before,

juggles. Thou render'st up again to God, Untarnish'd by its frail abode,

| Perchance that very hand, now pinioned Thy lustrous soul; then harp ancl hymn, flat,

[to glass; From bands of sister seraphim,

Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat, Open in Immortality.

Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido


Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, (HORACE SMITH. 1779-1849.)

A torch at the great Temple's dedication. ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN I need not ask thee if that hand, when BELZONI'S EXHIBITION,


Has any Roman soldier mauled and AND thou hast walked about (how strange knuckled, a story!)

For thou wert dead, and buried, and In Thebes's street three thousand years embalmed ago,

[glory, Ere Romulus and Remus had been When the Memnonium was in all its suckled :

And time had not begun to overthrow Antiquity appears to have begun Those temples, palaces, and piles | Long after thy primeval race was run.

stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous! Thou couldst develop, if that withered

tongue Speak! for thou long enough hast acted Might tell us what those sightless orbs dumby;

have seen, Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear How the world looked when it was fresh its tune;

and young,

(green; Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, And the great deluge still had left it mummy!

Or was it then so old, that history's pages Revisiting the glimpses of the moon. Contained no record of its early ages? Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,

Still silent, incommunicative elf! But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs! Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy and features.


But prythee tell us something of thyself, Tell us—for doubtless thou canst re- 1 Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; collect

(same? Since in the world of spirits thou hast To whom we should assign the Sphinx's slumbered, Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect What hast thou seen — what strange

Of either Pyramid that bears his name? adventures numbered ?

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