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Restore me the rocks where the

snowflake reposes, For still they are sacred to freedom

and love: Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy

mountains, Round their white summits though

elements war, Though cataracts foam, 'stead of

smooth-flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch

na Gair.

The nectarine, and curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Insnared with flowers, I fall on

grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure

less, Withdraws into its happiness, The mind, that ocean where each

kind Does straight its own resemblance

find, Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds and other seas, Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide: There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver

wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various

light.

Ah! there my young footsteps in

infancy wandered; My cap was the bonnet, my cloak

was the plaid; On chieftains long perished, my

memory pondered, As daily I strode through the pine

covered glade; I sought not my home till the day's

dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright

polar star; For Fancy was cheered by traditional

story Disclosed by the natives of dark

Loch na Gair.

Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walked without a

mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises are in one, To live in paradise alone.

How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new, Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run, And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we! llow could such sweet and whole

some hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers ?

MARVELL.

“Shades of the dead! have I not

heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of

the gale?” Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind o'er his

own Highland vale: Round Loch na Gair, while the

stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy

car: Clouds there encircle the forms of

my fathers : They dwell in the tempests of dark

Loch na Gair.

“Ill-starred, though brave, did no

visions foreboding Tell you that Fate had forsaken

your cause ?" Ah! were you destined to die at Cul

loden, Victory crowned not your fall with

applause; Still were you happy; in death's early

slumber You rest with your clan, in the

caves of Braemar,

LACHIN Y GAIR.

AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens

of roses ! In you let the minions of luxury

rove;

The pibroch resounds to the piper's

loud number, Your deeds on the echoes of dark

Loch na Gair.

Years have rolled on, Loch na Gair,

since I left you; Years must elapse ere I tread you

again; Nature of verdure and flowers has

bereft you, Yet still are you dearer than

Albion's plain : England! thy beauties are tame and

domestic To one who has roved on the

mountains afar; Oh for the crags that are wild and

majestic, The steep-frowning glories of dark Loch na Gair!

BYRON.

That pauses of deep silence mocked

his skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence,

while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild

surprise Has carried far into his heart the

voice Of mountain torrents; or the visible

scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its

rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heav

en, received Into the bosom of the steady lake.

WORDSWORTH.

THE EARTH-SPIRIT.

THE BOY-POET.

ye cliffs

THERE was a boy; ye knew him well, And islands of Winander! Many a

time, At evening, when the earliest stars

began To move along the edges of the

hills, Rising or setting, would he stand

alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glim

mering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven,

both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to

his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instru

ment, Blew mimic hootings to the silent

owls, That they might answer him. And

they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout

again, Responsive to his call, with quiver

ing peals, And long halloos and screams, and

echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse

wild Of mirth and jocund din! And

when it chanced

I HAVE woven shrouds of air

In a loom of hurrying light,
For the trees which blossoms

bear,
And gilded them with sheets of

bright; I fall upon the grass like love's first

kiss; I make the golden flies and their

fine bliss; I paint the hedgerows in the lane, And clover white and red the path

ways bear; I laugh aloud in sudden gusts of

rain To see the ocean lash himself in

air; I throw smooth shells and weeds

along the beach, And pour the curling waves far o'er

the glossy reach; Swing birds' nests in the elms, and

shake cool moss Along the aged beams, and hide their

loss. The very broad rough stones I glad

den too; Some willing seeds I drop along

their sides, Nourish the generous plant with

freshening dew, Till there where all was waste, true

joy abides. The peaks of aged mountains, with

my care Smile in the red of glowing morn

elate;

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List to those shriller notes! that

march Perchance was on the blast, When, through this height's inverted

arch,
Rome's earliest legion passed!
They saw, adventurously impelled,
And older eyes than theirs beheld,
This block, and yon, whose church-

like frame
Gives to this savage pass its name.
Aspiring Road! that lov'st to hide
Thy daring in a vapory bourn,
Not seldom may the hour return
When thou shalt be my guide.

WORDSWORTH.

SOLITUDE.

WITHIN the mind strong fancies

work, A deep delight the bosom thrills, Oft as I pass along the fork Of these fraternal hills, Where, save the rugged road, we

find No appanage of human kind, Nor hint of man; if stone or rock Seem not his handiwork to mock By something cognizably shaped ; Mockery, or model roughly hewn, And left as if by earthquake strewn, Or from the flood escaped : Altars for Druid service fit; (But where no fire was ever lit, Unless the glow-worm to the skies Thence offer nightly sacrifice,) Wrinkled Egyptian monument; Green moss-grown tower; or hoary

tent; Tents of a camp that never shall be

raised On which four thousand years have gazed!

II. Ye ploughshares sparkling on the

slopes! 'Ye snow-white lambs that trip Imprisoned ’mid the formal props Of restless ownership! Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall To feed the insatiate prodigal! Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and

fields, All that the fertile valley shields; Wages of folly, baits of crime, Of life's uneasy game the stake, Playthings that keep the eyes awake Of drowsy, dotard Time, O care! ( guilt! () vales and

plains, Here, 'mid his own unvexed do

mains,

THERE is a pleasure in the pathless

woods; There is a rapture on the lonely

shore; There is society where none in

trudes, By the deep sea, and music in its

roar: I love not man the less, but nature

more, From these our interviews, in which

I steal From all I may be, or have been

before, To mingle with the universe, and

feel What I can ne'er express, yet can

not all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue

ocean, roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee

in vain: Man marks the earth with ruin: his

control Stops with the shore: upon the

watery plain

FLOWERS.

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor

doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his

own, When, for a moment, like a drop of

rain, He sinks into thy depths with bub

bling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

BYRON: Childe Harold.

TINTERN ABBEY.

O PROSERPINA, For the flowers now, that frighted,

thou let'st fall From Dis's wagon! daffodils, That come before the swallow dares,

and take The winds of March with beauty;

violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's

eyes, Or Cytherea's breath; pale prim

roses, That die unmarried, ere they can

behold Bright Phoebus in his strength, a

malady Most incident to maids; bold ox-lips,

and The crown-imperial; lilies of all

kinds, The flower-de-luce being one! O,

these I lack, To make you garlands of; and my

sweet friend, To strew him o'er and o'er!

SUAKSPEARE: Winter's Tale.

THE SUNFLOWER.

I HAVE learned To look on Nature, not as in the

hour Of thoughtless youth, but hearing

oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of

ample power To chasten and subdue. And I

have felt A presence that disturbs me with

the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sub

lime Of something far more deeply inter

fused, Whose dwelling is the light of set

ting suns, And the round ocean, and the living

air, And the blue sky, and in the mind

of man, — A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all

thought, And rolls through all things. There

fore am I still A lover of the meadows, and the

woods, And mountains, and of all that we

behold From this green earth; of all the

mighty world Of eye and ear, both what they half

create, And what perceive; well pleased to

recognize In Nature and the language of the The anchor of my purest thoughts.

WORDSWORTH.

Au, sunflower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden

clime, Where the traveller's journey is

done;

Where the youth pined away with

desire, And the pale virgin shrouded in

snow, Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my sunflower wishes to go.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

The melancholy days are come, the

saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods,

and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove,

the withered leaves lie dead: They rustle to the eddying gust, and

to the rabbit's tread.

sense

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Thou waitest late, and com’st alone, When woods are bare, and birds are

flown, And frosts and shortening days por

tend The aged year is near its end. Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the

sky, Blue, blue, as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to

me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

BRYANT.

TREES.

And now when comes the calm mild

day, as still such days will

come, To call the squirrel and the bee from

out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is

heard, though all the trees are

still, And twinkle in the smoky light the

waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the

flowers whose fragrance late

he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood

and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her

youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew

up, and faded by my side: In the cold moist earth we laid her

when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely

should have a life so brief;

A SHADIE grove not far away they

spied, That promist ayde the tempest to

withstand; Whose loftie trees, yclad with som

mers pride, Did spred so broad, that heaven's

light did hide, Not perceable with power of any

starr; And all within were pathes anı al.

leies wide,

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