Pleased with the thought, I nurse it for a while, And then dismiss it with a faint halfsmile.

And next I fancy thee a multitude, Moved by one breath, obedient to the mood

Of one strong thinker - the resistless wind,

That, passing o'er thee, bends thee to its mind.

See how thy blades, in myriads as they grow,

Turn ever eastward as the west winds blow

Just as the human crowd is swayed and bent,

By some great preacher, madly eloquent,

Who moves them at his will, and with a breath

Gives them their bias both in life and death.

Or by some wondrous actor, when he draws

All eyes and hearts, amid a hushed applause,

Not to be uttered, lest delight be marred;

Or, greater still, by hymn of prophetbard.

Who moulds the lazy present by his rhyme,

And sings the glories of a future time.

SEE how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn

Into the blowing roses, (Yet careless of its mansion new For the clear region where 'twas born)

Round in itself incloses, And in its little globe's extent Frames, as it can, its native element. How it the purple flower does slight, Scarce touching where it lies; But gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light, Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere.

Restless it rolls, and unsecure, Trembling, lest it grow impure; Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Conld it within the human flower be seen,

Remembering still its former

height,

Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green,

And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts,

express

The greater heaven in a heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away;
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day.
Dark beneath, but bright above;
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go!
How girt and ready to ascend!
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upward bend.
Such did the manna's sacred dew dis-
til,

White and entire, although congealed and chill

Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run

Into the glories of th' almighty sun.

JERUSALEM the Golden!
I weary for one gleam

Of all thy glory folden

In distance and in dream! My thoughts, like palms in exile, Climb up to look and pray For a glimpse of thy dear country That lies so far away.

Jerusalem the Golden!
Methinks each flower that blows,
And every bird a-singing

Of thee, some secret knows;

I know not what the flowers
Can feel, or singers see;
But all these summer raptures
Seem prophecies of thee.

SUMMER LONGINGS.

AH! my heart is weary waiting;
Waiting for the May.-

Waiting for the pleasant rambles, Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,

With the woodbine alternating,

Scent the dewy way.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting,-
Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May,-

Longing to escape from study,
To the young face fair and ruddy,
And the thousand charms belong-
ing

To the summer's day.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May,-
Sighing for their sure returning,
When the summer beams are burn-

ing,

Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,

All the winter lay.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained with throb-
bing,

Throbbing for the May,—
Throbbing for the seaside billows,
Or the water-wooing willows;

Where, in laughing and in sobbing,
Glide the streams away.

Ah! my heart, my heart is throb-
bing,

Throbbing for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary,

Waiting for the May:

Spring goes by with wasted warnings; Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings.

Summer comes, yet dark and dreary
Life still ebbs away;

Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May!

And wolves that fill with howlings midnight's vale,

Turning the cheek of far-off traveller pale;

Anon, the ravished eye delighted dwells

On chinar-groves

and brightly

watered dells. Blooming where man and art have nothing done,

Pomegranates hang their rich fruit in the sun;

Grapes turn to purple many a rock's tall brow,

And globes of gold adorn the citron's bough;

Mid rose-trees hid, or perched on some high palm.

The bulbul sings through eve's delicious calm;

While girt by planes, or washed by cooling streams,

On some green flat the stately city gleams,

'Tis as a demon there had cast his frown,

And here an angel breathed a bless

ing down;

As if in nature as the human soul, The god of darkness spurned heaven's bright control,

Good struggling hard with Evil's withering spell,

A smiling Eden on the marge of hell. Immortal clime! where Zoroaster sprung.

And light on Persia's earlier history flung;

Let charity condemn not Iran's sage, Who taught, reformed, and humanized his age.

In him one great as Mecca's prophet,

see,

But oh, more gentle, wise, and pure than he.

ALEXANDER AT PERSEPOLIS.

HERE, too, came one who bartered all for power,

The

dread Napoleon of earth's younger hour:

Ay, the same spot we calmly muse

on now

Saw chiefs and kings to Alexander bow;

A conqueror,

yes, men praise and bend the knee;

Who spreads most woe, the greatest hero he.

But lo! that night on fancy casts its gloom, [doom, That fearful night of revelry and When perished all things costly, bright, and fair,

And left, as now, these pillars stern and bare.

The feast is spread; around the monarch shine

Those earth-born pomps weak mortals deem divine; High sits he on his throne of gems and gold,

Bright-starred and purple robes his limbs enfold;

No crown adorns his brow, for festive hours

Have wreathed his head with Bacchus' bloomy flowers; Lamps, hung in silver chains, a softened glow

Shed on the warrior chiefs that group below.

There prince and noble round the board are met,

Who fought those fights embalmed in history yet;