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IX. EARLY, RISING.-HURDIS.1 RISE with the lark, and with the lark to bed. The breath of night's destructive to the hue Of every flower that blows. Go to the field, And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps, Soon as the sun departs. Why close the eyes Of blossoms infinite, ere the still moon Her oriëntal vail puts off? Think why, Nor let the sweetest blossom be exposed, That nature boasts, to night's unkindly damp. Well may it droop, and all its freshness lose, Compelled to taste the rank and poisonous steam Of midnight theater, and morning ball. Give to repose the solemn hour she claims And from the forehead of the morning steal The sweet occasion.


Oh! there is a charm
That morning has, that gives the brow of age
A smack of youth, and makes the lip of youth
Breathe per'fumes exquisite. Expect it not,
Ye who till noon upon a down-bed lie,
Indulging feverish sleep; or wakeful, dream
Of happiness no mortal heart has felt,
But in the regions of romance'. Ye fair,
Like you it must be wooed, or never won;
And, being lost, it is in vain ye ask
For milk of roses and Olympian dew.
Cosmetic art no tincture can afford
The faded features to restore: no chain,
Be it of gold, and strong as adamant,
Can fetter beauty to the fair one's will.





YOME, with thy sweeping cloud and starry vest
Mother of counsel, and the joy which lies.
In feelings deep, and inward sympathies,

1 James Hurdis, an English poet, born in 1763, and died in 1801.

Soothing, like founts of health, the wearied breast.
Lo! o'er the distant hills the day-star's crest
Sinks redly burning; and the winds arise,
Moving with shadowy gusts and fecble sighs
Amid the reeds which vell the bi.tern's nest!
Day hath its melody and light-the sense

Of mirth which sports round fancy's fairy mine; But the full power, which loftier aids dispense,

To speed the soul where scenes unearthly shine— Silence, and peace, and stern magnificence,

And awe, and throned solemnity—are thine!


THE twilight deepened round us. Still and black
The great woods climbed the mountain at our back:
And on their skirts, where yet the lingering day
On the shōrn greenness of the clearing lay,

The brown old farm-house like a bird's nest hung.
With home-life sounds the desert air was stirred:
The bleat of sheep along the hill we heard,
The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet well,
The pasture-bars that clattered as they fell;
Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle lowed; the gate
Of the barn-yard creaked beneath the merry weight

Of sun-brown children, listening, while they swung, The welcome sound of supper-call to hear; And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear, The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung.


WHEN eve is purpling cliff and cave,

Thoughts of the heart, how soft ye flow!
Not softer on the western wave

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Heaven pours above a brighter blaze.
When morning sheds its gorgeous dye,

Our hope, our heart, to earth is given;
But dark and lonely is the eye

That turns not, at its eve, to heaven.


THE crackling embers on the hearth are dead;
The in-door note of in'dustry is still;
The latch is fast; upon the window-sill
The small birds wait not for their daily bread:
The voiceless flowers-how quietly they shed

Their nightly odors! and the household rill
Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds, that fill
The vacant expectation, and the dread

Of listening night. And haply now she sleeps ;
For all the garrulous noises of the air

Are hushed in peace: the soft dew silent weeps,
Like hopeless lovers, for a maid so fair :—
Oh! that I were the happy dream that creeps
To her soft heart, to find my image there.

'Tis midnight on the mountains brown
The cold round moon shines deeply down:
Blue roll the waters: blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So widely, spiritually bright;-
Who ever gazed upon them shining,
And turned to earth without repining,
Nor wished for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The waves on either shōre lay there

Hartley Coleridge, eldest son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, was born at Clevedown, a small village near Bristol, England, September 19th, 1796. Some of his poems are exquisitely beautiful, and his sonnets are surpassed by few in the language. His prose works are remarkable for

brilliancy of imagery, beauty of thought, pure English style, and pleasing and instructive suggestions. He died on the 6th of January, 1849.

The night here described is supposed to have been in 1715, when Corinth, then in possession of the Venetians, was besieged by the Turks.

Calm, clear, and ăzure as the air;
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmured meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillowed on the waves;
The banners drooped along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shōne the crescent curling:
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neighed oft and shrill,
And echo answered from the hill;

And the wild hum of that wild hōst
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin's' voice in air
In midnight call to wonted' prayer.


THE last high upward slant of sun on the trees,
Like a dead soldier's sword upon his pall,
Seems to console earth for the glory gone.
Oh! I could weep to see the day die thus.
The death-bed of a day, how beautiful!
Linger, ye clouds, one moment longer there;
Fan it to slumber with your golden wings!
Like pious prayers, ye seem to soothe its end.
It will wake no more till the all-revealing day;
When, like a drop of water, greatened bright
Into a shadow, it shall show itself,

With all its little tyrannous things and deeds,
Unhomed and clear. The day hath gone to God,—
Straight-like an infant's spirit, or a mocked
And mourning messenger of grace to man.
Would it had taken me too on its wings!
My end is nigh. Would I might die outright!

1 Mu ěz' zin, one appointed by the Turks, who use no bells for the purpose, to summon the religious to their devotions, to the extent of his voice. ? Wonted, (wůnt' ed).


Philip James Bailey, an English poet, was born in Nottingham, April

22d, 1816. He was educated in the schools of his native town and at the university of Glasgow. His first and most remarkable poem, "Festus," appeared in 1839. His principal publications since are the "Angel World" and "Mystic."

So o'er the sunset clouds of red mortality
The emerald hues of deathlèssnèss diffuse
Their glory, heightening to the starry blue
Of all embosoming eternity.


MYSTERIOUS night! when our first parent knew
Thee, from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus,' with the host of heaven came;
And lo! creätion widened in man's view.

Who could have thought such darknèss lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun? or who could find,
While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,

That to such countless orbs thou madest us blind?
Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?—
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?


How beautiful this night! The balmiëst sigh,
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude

That wraps this movelèss scene. Heaven's ĕbon vault,
Studded with stars unutterably bright,

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread

To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow;
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend,-
So stainless, that their white and glittering spires
Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep,
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that rapt fancy deemèth it

A metaphor of peace ;-all form a scene

1 Joseph Blanco White, & Spanish gentleman of Irish descent, who came to England in 1810, and devoted himself to literature, chiefly through

the magazines and periodical press. He was born in 1775, and died in 1841.

2 Hěs' pe rus, the evening star, especially Venus.

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