Each, shining not for earth alone,
Hath suns and planets of its own,
And beings, whose existence springs

From Him, th' all-powerful King of kings.

Haply, those glorious beings know
Nor stain of guilt, nor tear of wo!
But raising still th' adoring voice,
For ever in their God rejoice.

What then art thou, oh! child of clay!
Amid creation's grandeur, say?
-E'en as an insect on the breeze,
E'en as a dew-drop, lost in seas!

Yet fear thou not!-the sovereign hand,
Which spread the ocean and the land,
And hung the rolling spheres in air,
Hath, e'en for thee, a Father's care!

Be thou at peace!-th' all-seeing eye,
Pervading earth, and air, and sky,
The searching glance which none may flee,
Is still, in mercy, turned on thee.

THE OCEAN.

They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters, these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.

Psalm cvii. 23, 24.

HE that in venturous barks hath been

A wanderer on the deep,

Can tell of many an awful scene,

Where storms for ever sweep.

For many a fair majestic sight

Hath met his wandering eye, Beneath the streaming northern light, Or blaze of Indian sky.

Go! ask him of the whirlpool's roar,

Whose echoing thunder peals
Loud, as if rushed along the shore
An army's chariot wheels;
Of icebergs, floating o'er the main,
Or fixed upon the coast,
Like glittering citadel or fane,
'Mid the bright realms of frost;

Of coral rocks from waves below
In steep ascent that tower,
And fraught with peril, daily grow,
Formed by an insect's power;

Of sea-fires, which at dead of night
Shine o'er the tides afar,

And make th' expanse of ocean bright
As heaven, with many a star.

Oh God! thy name they well may praise,
Who to the deep go down,

And trace the wonders of thy ways,
Where rocks and billows frown.

If glorious be that awful deep,
No human power can bind,

What then art Thou, who bidst it keep
Within its bounds confined!

Let heaven and earth in praise unite,
Eternal praise to Thee,

Whose word can rouse the tempest's might,
Or still the raging sea!

THE THUNDER STORM.

DEEP, fiery clouds o'ercast the sky,
Dead stillness reigns in air,

There is not e'en a breeze, on high
The gossamer to bear.

The woods are hushed, the waves at rest,
The lake is dark and still,
Reflecting, on its shadowy breast,

Each form of rock and hill.

The lime-leaf waves not in the grove,

Nor rose-tree in the bower;

The birds have ceased their songs of love, Awed by the threatening hour.

'Tis noon;-yet Nature's calm profound Seems as at midnight deep;

-But hark! what peal of awful sound
Breaks on creation's sleep?

The thunder bursts!-its rolling might
Seems the firm hills to shake;
And in terrific splendour bright,

The gathered lightnings break

Yet fear not, shrink thou not, my child!
Though by the bolt's descent
Were the tall cliffs in ruins piled,

And the wide forests rent.

Doth not thy God behold thee still,
With all-surveying eye?
Doth not his power all nature fill,
Around, beneath, on high?

Know, hadst thou eagle-pinions free,

To track the realms of air, Thou couldst not reach a spot where He Would not be with thee there!

In the wide city's peopled towers,

On the vast ocean's plains,

'Midst the deep woodland's loneliest bowers, Alike th' Almighty reigns!

Then fear not, though the angry sky A thousand darts should cast;Why should we tremble, e'en to die, And be with Him at last?

THE BIRDS.

Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God.

St. Luke, xii. 6.

TRIBES of the air! whose favoured race
May wander through the realms of space,
Free guests of earth and sky;

In form, in plumage, and in song,
What gifts of nature mark your throng
With bright variety!

Nor differ less your forms, your flight,
Your dwellings hid from hostile sight,
And the wild haunts ye love;
Birds of the gentle beak!* how dear
Your wood-note, to the wanderer's ear,
In shadowy vale or grove!

Far other scenes, remote, sublime,
Where swain or hunter may not climb,

The mountain-eagle seeks;
Alone he reigns, a monarch there,
Scarce will the Chamois' footstep dare
Ascend his Alpine peaks.

Others there are, that make their home
Where the white billows roar and foam,

Around th' o'erhanging rock;
Fearless they skim the angry wave,
Or sheltered in their sea-beat cave,
The tempest's fury mock.

Where Afric's burning realm expands,
The ostrich haunts the desert sands,
Parched by the blaze of day;

The swan, where northern rivers glide,
Through the tall reeds that fringe their tide,
Floats graceful on her way.

The condor, where the Andes tower,
Spreads his broad wing of pride and power,
And many a storm defies;
Bright in the orient realms of morn,
All beauty's richest hues adorn

The Bird of Paradise.

Some, amidst India's groves of palm, And spicy forests breathing balm,

The Italians call all singing birds, Birds of the gentle

beak.

Weave soft their pendent nest; Some, deep in western wilds, display Their fairy form and plumage gay,

In rainbow colours drest.

Others no varied song may pour,
May boast no eagle-plume to soar,
No tints of light may wear;
Yet, know, our Heavenly Father guides
The least of these, and well provides
For each, with tenderest care.

Shall He not then thy guardian be?
Will not his aid extend to thee?

Oh! safely may'st thou rest!
Trust in his love, and e'en should pain,
Should sorrow tempt thee to complain,
Know, what He wills is best!

THE SKY LARK.

THE Sky-lark, when the dews of morn
Hang tremulous on flower and thorn,
And violets round his nest exhale
Their fragrance on the early gale,
To the first sunbeam spreads his wings,
Buoyant with joy, and soars, and sings.

He rests not on the leafy spray,
To warble his exulting lay,
But high above the morning cloud
Mounts in triumphant freedom proud,
And swells, when nearest to the sky,
His notes of sweetest ecstacy.

Thus, my Creator! thus the more
My spirit's wing to Thee can soar,
The more she triumphs to behold
Thy love in all thy works unfold,
And bids her hymns of rapture be
Most glad, when rising most to Thee.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

WHEN twilight's gray and pensive hour Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower, And bids the solitary star

Shine in pale beauty from afar;

When gathering shades the landscape veil,

And peasants seek their village-dale,
And mists from river-wave arise,
And dew in every blossom lies;

When evening's primrose opes, to shed Soft fragrance round her grassy bed; When glow-worms in the wood-walk light Their lamp, to cheer the traveller's sight;

At that calm hour, so still, so pale. Awakes the lonely nightingale; And from a hermitage of shade Fills with her voice the forest-glade.

And sweeter far that melting voice, Than all which through the day rejoice; And still shall bard and wanderer love The twilight music of the grove.

Father in Heaven! oh! thus, when day With all its cares hath passed away, And silent hours waft peace on earth, And hush the louder strains of mirth;

Thus may sweet songs of praise and prayer.
To Thee my spirit's offering bear;
Yon star, my signal, set on high,
For vesper-hymns of piety.

So may thy mercy and thy power Protect me through the midnight hour; And balmy sleep and visions blest Smile on thy servant's bed of rest.

THE NORTHERN SPRING.

WHEN the soft breath of Spring goes forth
Far o'er the mountains of the North,
How soon those wastes of dazzling snow
With life, and bloom, and beauty glow.

Then bursts the verdure of the plains, Then break the streams from icy chains; And the glad rein-deer seeks no more Amidst deep snows his mossy store.

Then the dark pine-wood's boughs are seen
Arrayed in tints, of living green;
And roses, in their brightest dyes,
By Lapland's founts and lakes arise.

Thus, in a moment, from the gloom And the cold fetters of the tomb, Thus shall the blest Redeemer's voice Call forth his servants to rejoice.

For He, whose word is truth, hath said, His power to life shall wake the dead, And summon those he loves, on high, To "put on immortality!"

Then, all its transient sufferings o'er,
On wings of light the soul shall soar,
Exulting, to that blest abode,
Where tears of sorrow never flowed.

PARAPHRASE OF PSALM CXLVIII.

Praise ye the Lord. Praise ye the Lord from the heavens: praise him in the heights.

PRAISE ye the Lord! on every height
Songs to his glory raise!

Ye angel-hosts, ye stars of light,
Join in immortal praise!

Oh! heaven of heavens! let praise far-swelling
From all your orbs be sent!

Join in the strain, ye waters, dwelling
Above the firmament!

For His the word which gave you birth,
And majesty and might;

Praise to the Highest from the earth,

And let the deeps unite!

Oh! fire and vapour, hail and snow,
Ye servants of His will;

Oh! stormy winds, that only blow
His mandates to fultil;

Mountains and rocks, to heaven that rise;
Fair cedars of the wood;
Creatures of life, that wing the skies,
Or track the plains for food;

Judges of nations; kings, whose hand
Waves the proud sceptre high;
Oh! youths and virgins of the land,
Oh! age and infancy;

Praise ye His name, to whom alone
All homage should be given;
Whose glory from th' eternal throne
Spreads wide o'er earth and heaven!

TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR'S CHIL-
DREN

ON HIS BIRTH DAY, AUGUST 27, 1825.
THOU wak'st from happy sleep to play
With bounding heart, my boy!
Before thee lies a long bright day

Of summer and of joy.

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream
To cloud thy fearless eye;-
Long be it thus-life's early stream
Should still reflect the sky.

Yet ere the cares of life lie dim

On thy young spirit's wings, Now in thy morn forget not Him

From whom each pure thought springs!

So in the onward vale of tears,
Where'er thy path may be,

When strength hath bowed to evil years-
He will remember thee.

TO A YOUNGER CHILD ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, SEPTEMBER 17, 1825. WHERE sucks the bee now?-Summer is flying? Leaves on the grass-plot faded are lying:

Violets are gone from the grassy dell,

With the cowslip-cups, where the faries dwell; The rose from the garden hath passed awayYet happy, fair boy! is thy natal day.

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled
Ever around thee, my gentle child!
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed,
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head
Roses may vanish, but this will stay-
Happy and bright is thy natal day.

Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl' ingegni e gli studj degli uomini sono rivolti all' utilità. L'Agricoltura, le Arti, il Commercio acquistano tutto dì novi lumi dalle ricerche de' Saggi; e il voler farsi un nome tentando di dilettare, quand' altri v' aspira con più giustizia giovando, sembra impresa dura e difficile.-Savioli.

CAMOENS.

SONNET 70.

Na metade do Ceo subido ardia.

HIGH in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam,
The sun had reached the zenith of his reign,
And for the living fount, the gelid stream,
Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain :

'Midst the dark foliage of the forest-shade,
The birds had sheltered from the scorching ray;
Hushed were their melodies-and grove and glade
Resounded but the shrill cicada's lay:

When through the glassy vale a love-lorn swain, To seek the maid who but despised his pain, Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion roved : "Why pine for her," the slighted wanderer cried, "By whom thou art not loved?"--and thus replied An echo's murmuring voice-"Thou art not loved!"

CAMOENS.

SONNET 282.

From Psalm CXXXVII.

Na ribeira do Euprates assentado.

WRAPT in sad musings by Euphrates' stream
I sat, retracing days for ever flown,
While rose thine image on the exile's dream,
O much-loved Salem! and thy glories gone.

When they, who caused the ceaseless tears I shed,
Thus to their captive spoke,-" Why sleep thy lays?
Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendour fled,
And all thy triumphs in departed days!

"Know'st thou not, Harmony's resistless charm
|Can sooth each passion, and each grief disarm?
Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye."
With sighs I answered,-" When the cup of wo
Is filled, till misery's bitter draught o'erflow,
The mourner's cure is not to sing,-but die."

CAMOENS.

PART OF ECLOGUE 15.
Se lá no assento da maior aiteza.

Ir in thy glorious home above
Thou still recallest earthly love,
If yet retained a thought may be
Of him whose heart hath bled for thee;

Remember still how deeply shrined
Thine image in his joyless mind,
Each well-known scene, cach former care,
Forgotten-thou alone art there!

Remember that thine eye-beam's light
Hath fled for ever from his sight,
And, with that vanished sunshine, lost
Is every hope he cherished most.

Think that his life, from thee apart,

Is all but weariness of heart,

Each stream, whose music once was dear.

Now murmurs discords to his ear.

Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays Woke him to joy in other days,

Now, in the light of beauty drest,

Brings but new sorrows to his breast.