A firmament of purple light,
Which in the dark earth lay,

More boundless than the depth of night,
And purer than the day -

In which the lovely forests grew,

As in the upper air,

More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there.

There lay the glade and neighboring lawn,
And through the dark-green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Out of a speckled cloud.

Sweet views which in our world above
Can never well be seen,

Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green :
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian glow,

An atmosphere without a breath,

A softer day below.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

AN EVENING VOLUNTARY.

COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOR

AND BEAUTY.

I.

AD this effulgence disappeared

HAD

With flying haste, I might have sent

Among the speechless clouds, a look

Of blank astonishment;

But 'tis endued with power to stay,
And sanctify one closing day,
That frail mortality may see ---

What is ? — ah no, but what can be!
Time was when field and watery cove
With modulated echoes rang,

While choirs of fervent angels sang

Their vespers in the grove;

Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height,
Warbled, for heaven above and earth below,

Strains suitable to both. - Such holy rite,
Methinks, if audibly repeated now

From hill or valley, could not move
Sublimer transport, purer love,

Than doth this silent spectacle — the gleam -
The shadow and the peace supreme!

II.

No sound is uttered, — but a deep
And solemn harmony pervades

The hollow vale from steep to steep,
And penetrates the glades.
Far-distant images draw nigh,
Called forth by wondrous potency
Of beamy radiance, that imbues
Whate'er it strikes with gem-like hues !
In vision exquisitely clear,

Herds range along the mountain side;
And glistening antlers are descried,
And gilded flocks appear.

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal eve!
But long as god-like wish, or hope divine,
Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe
That this magnificence is wholly thine!
From worlds not quickened by the sun
A portion of the gift is won;

An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread
On ground which British shepherds tread.

III.

And if there be whom broken ties

Afflict, or injuries assail,

Yon hazy ridges to their eyes
Present a glorious scale,

Climbing suffused with sunny air,

To stop

no record hath told where!

And tempting fancy to ascend,

And with immortal Spirits blend!

Wings at my shoulders seem to play ;

But, rooted here, I stand and gaze

On those bright steps that heavenward raise
Their practicable way.

Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad,
And see to what fair countries ye are bound!
And if some traveller, weary of his road,
Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground,
Ye Genii! to his covert speed,

And wake him with such gentle heed

As may attune his soul to meet the dower
Bestowed on this transcendent hour!

IV.

Such hues from their celestial urn
Were wont to stream before mine eye,
Where'er it wandered in the morn
Of blissful infancy.

This glimpse of glory why renewed?
Nay, rather speak with gratitude;
For, if a vestige of those gleams

Survived, 't was only in my dreams.

Dread Power! whom peace and calmness serve
No less than Nature's threatening voice,
If aught unworthy be my choice,

From Thee if I would swerve;

Oh! let Thy grace remind me of the light
Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored;
Which, at this moment, on my waking sight
Appears to shine, by miracle restored;
My soul, though yet confined to earth,
Rejoices in a second birth!

'Tis past. The visionary splendor fades,
And Night approaches with her shades.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

AN EVENING VOLUNTARY.

ON A HIGH PART OF THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND (EASTER-SUNDAY, APRIL 7), THE AUTHOR'S SIXTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.

HE sun,

THE that seemed so mildly to retire,

Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire, Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams,

Prelude of night's approach with soothing dreams. Look round of all the clouds not one is moving;

'Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving. Silent and steadfast as the vaulted sky,

The boundless plain of waters seems to lie:
Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er
The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore?
No; 'tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea,
Whispering how meek and gentle he can be!

Thou Power Supreme! who, arming to rebuke
Offenders, dost put off the gracious look,
And clothe Thyself with terrors like the flood
Of ocean roused into his fiercest mood,
Whatever discipline Thy will ordain

For the brief course that must for me remain,
Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice
In admonitions of Thy softest voice!
Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace,
Breathe through my soul the blessing of Thy grace,
Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere,
Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear;
Glad to expand; and, for a season, free

From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

ΤΟ

IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR.

SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright,

Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined

By favoring Nature and a saintly mind