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In the seas and fountains that shine with morn,
Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres,
WILLIAM C. BRYANT.
BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
In their noon-day dreams.
The sweet buds every one,
As she dances about the sun.
And whiten the green plains under ;
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blasí.
Lightning, my pilot, sits;
It struggles and howls at fits.
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
In the depths of the purple sea ;
Over the lakes and the plains,
The Spirit he loves remains ;
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead. As, on the jag of a mountain crag
Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle, alit, one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardors of rest and of love,
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbéd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
Which only the angels hear,
The stars peep behind her and peer :
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ;
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Over a torrent sea,
The mountains its columns be.
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
Is the million-colored bow;
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the
pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when, with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of airI silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and upbuild it again.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
The Northern Lights.
claim the Arctic came the sun
With banners of the burning zone ;
BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.
To the Skylark.
Bird thou never wert,-
Pourest thy full heart
Higher still and higher,
From the earth thou springest,
The blue deep thou wingest,
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
Thou dost float and run;
The pale, purple even
Melts around thy flight;
In the broad daylight
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
In the white dawn clear,
All the earth and air
With thy voice is lour,
From one lonely cloud
What thou art we know not ;
What is most like thee?
Drops so bright to see,
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Till the world is wrought
Like a high-born maiden,
In a palace tower,
Soul in secret hour
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Its aërial hue