THE RECOLLECTION. It seemed as if the hour were one We paused amid the pines that stood Tortured by storms to shapes as rude And soothed, by every azure breath Now all the tree-tops lay asleep Like green waves on the sea, How calm it was!-The silence there The inviolable quietness ; The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less To the soft flower beneath our feet, A magic circle traced, A spirit interfused around, A thrilling silent life : 89 To momentary peace it bound Our mortal nature's strife. And still, I felt, the centre of The magic circle there Was one fair form that filled with love We paused beside the pools that lie Which in the dark earth lay, 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, the 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 And all was interfused beneath With an elysian glow, An atmosphere without a breath, A softer day below. Shelley. ON THE HEIGHTS. ON THE HEIGHTS. Fold sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet : There in her place she did rejoice, Then stept she down through town and field, Grave mother of majestic works, Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, Her open eyes desire the truth, The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears; That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes! Tennyson. T TWO VOICES. WO voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains; each a mighty voice: In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven: Wordsworth. SONNET. TH HE world is too much with us; late and soon, ers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! THE CUMBERLAND. So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. Wordsworth. 93 G HONOR TO WHOM HONOR. IVE honor to their memories, who left the pleasant strand To shed their blood so freely for the love of father land; Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church yard grave So freely for a restless bed amid the tossing wave! Samuel Ferguson. THOSE WHO HAVE FAILED. H ONOR to those who have failed, And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea, And to those who sank themselves in the sea, Equal to the greatest heroes known. Walt Whitman, THE CUMBERLAND. T anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, AT On board the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarm of drums swept past, Or a bugle-blast From the camp on the shore. |