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And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and creäte
In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.
7. All heaven and earth are still,-though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:-
All heaven and earth are still! From the high hōst
Of stars to the lulled lake, and mountain coast,
All is concentered in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and Defense.
8. The sky is changed! and such a change! O Night, And Storm, and Darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder!-not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue;
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
9. And this is in the night.-Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,—
A portion of the tempèst and of thee!
How the lit lake shines,-a phosphoric sea-
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black-and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
10. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye,
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul
To make these felt and feeling, well may be
Things that have made me watchful :-the far roll
Of your departing voices is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless,-if I rest.
But where, of ye, O tempests! is the goal?
ye like those within the human breast?
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?
11. The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
And living as if earth contained no tomb,-
And glowing into day: we may resume
The march of our existence; and thus I,
Still on thy shōres, fair Lēman! may find room
And food for meditation, nor pass by
Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly.
151. SELECT PASSAGES IN VERSE.
I. EARLY DAWN.-SHELLEY.
HE point of one white star is quivering still
Deep in the orange light of widening morn,
Beyond the purple mountains: through a chasm
Of wind-divided mist the darker lake
Reflects it. Now it wanes : it gleams again
As the waves fade, and as the burning threads
Of woven cloud unravel in pale air:
'Tis lost! and through yon peaks of cloud-like snow
The roseate sunlight quivers: hear I not
The Æölian music of her sea-green plumes
Winnowing the crimson dawn?
A WIND came up out of the sea,
And said, "O mists, make room for me!"
It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on,
Ye mariners! the night is gone!"
And hurried landward far away,
Crying, "Awake! it is the day!"
It said unto the forest, "Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!"
1Æ ō'li an, pertaining to Eolus, the god of the winds; hence, music produced by wind may be termed Eolian music.
It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And said, "O bird, awake and sing!"
And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow! the day is near!"
It whispered to the fields of corn,
"Bow down, and hail the coming morn!"
It shouted through the belfry-tower,
"Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour!"
It crossed the church-yard with a sigh,
And said, "NOT YET! IN QUIET LIE!"
DAY had awakened all things that be,
The lark, and the thrush, and the swallow free,
And the milkmaid's song, and the mower's scythe,
And the matin bell, and the mountain bee:
Fireflies were quenched on the dewy corn,
Glow-worms went out, on the river's brim,
Like lamps which a student forgets to trim:
The beetle forgot to wind his horn,
The crickets were still in the meadow and hill :
Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun,
Night's dreams and terrors, every one,
Fled from the brains which are their prey,
From the lamp's death to the morning ray.
IV. SUNRISE IN SOUTH AMERICA.-BOWLES.1
"TIS dawn :—the distant Andes' rocky spires,
One after one, have caught the oriental fires.
Where the dun condor shoots his upward flight,
His wings are touched with momentary light.
1 William Lisle Bowles was born at Northamptonshire, England, on September 25th, 1762. He received his early education at Winchester, where he was at the head of the school during his last year, and, in consequence, was elected a scholar of Trinity College, Oxford, in 1781. In 1783 he gained the chancellor's prize for Latin verse; and published several of his beautiful sonnets and
other poems in 1789. His sonnets have, probably, never been surpassed. "The Missionary of the Andes," published in 1815, is, perhaps, as good as any of his numerous and excellent poems. He entered the ministry, and in 1804, became Vicar of Bremhill, which was his residence for nearly a quarter of a century. He died at Salisbury, his last residence, April 7th, 1850.
Meantime, beneath the mountains' glittering heads,
A boundless ocean of gray vapor spreads,
That o'er the champaign, stretching far below,
Moves on, in clustered masses, rising slow,
Till all the living landscape is displayed
In various pomp of color, light, and shade,—
Hills, forests, rivers, lakes, and level plain,
Lessening in sunshine to the southern main.
The lama's fleece fumes with ascending dew;
The gem-like humming-birds their toils renew;
And see, where yonder stalks, in crimson pride,
The tall flamingo, by the river's side,—
Stalks, in his richest plumage bright arrayed,
With snowy neck superb, and legs of lengthening shade.
THROW up the window! "Tis a morn for life
In its most subtle luxury. The air
Is like a breathing from a rarer world;
And the south wind is like a gentle friend,
Parting the hair so softly on my brow.
It has come over gardens, and flowers
That kissed it are betrayed; for as it parts,
With its invisible fingers, my loose hair,
I know it has been trifling with the rose,
And stooping to the violet. There is joy
For all God's creatures in it. The wet leaves
Are stirring at its touch; and birds are singing,
As if to breathe were music; and the grass
Sends up its modest odor with the dew,
Like the small tribute of humility.
SWEET is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild: then silent Night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train.
MORNING ON THE RHINE.-BOWLES.
"Twas morn, and beautiful the mountain's brow—
Hung with the clusters of the bending vine-
Shōne in the early light, when on the RHINE
We sailed, and heard the waters round the prow
In murmurs parting: varying as we go,
Rocks after rocks come forward and retire,
As some gray convent-wall or sun-lit spire
Starts up, along the banks, unfolding slow.
Here castles, like the prisons of despair,
Frown as we pass!-There, on the vineyard's side,
The bursting sunshine pours its streaming tide;
While GRIEF, forgetful amid scenes so fair,
Counts not the hours of a long summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.
VIII. MORNING SOUNDS.-BEATTIE.1
BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?—
The wild brook babbling down the mountain's side;
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd, dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide,
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
The hum of bees; the linnet's lay of love; And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;
Crowned with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings;
The whistling plowman stalks afield; and hark!
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;
Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs;
Slow tōlls the village clock the drowsy hour;
The patridge bursts away on whirring wings;
Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower;
And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower.
1 James Beattie, the well-known Scotch poet and moralist, author of the celebrated poem, the "Minstrel,"
and of the "Essay on Truth," was born December 5th, 1735, and died August 18th, 1803.