IX. BETWEEN the sunken sun, and the new moon, I cried, "of quiet!-wise is Nature's plan, Happy the heart that keeps its twilight hour, And, in the depths of heavenly peace reclined, Loves to commune with thoughts of tender power, Thoughts that ascend, like angels beautiful, A shining Jacob's-ladder of the mind!" X. SPIRITS there are inwrought with vilest clay, Poor reptiles ! whose envenomed passions dart Who but is glad when the swift lightnings leap Of withering wrath, to blast them utterly? THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. I. THE MASTER BARDS. YE mighty masters of the song sublime, Quick-winged thoughts from many an unborn year, Like those blest birds which fed the ancient seer; And Inspiration, like a wheeléd flame, Shall bear ye upward to eternal fame! II. TO WORDSWORTH. THY rise was as the morning, glorious, bright! Nor will thy setting blur her thankful eyes! III. INDIAN SUMMER. Ir is the season when the light of dreams By twisted vines are wed. The russet brake How like an arméd host the summoned scene shall wake! |