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IX.

BETWEEN the sunken sun, and the new moon,
I stood in fields through which a clear brook ran
With scarce perceptible motion, not a span
Of its smooth surface trembling to the tune
Of sunset breezes! "O delicious boon,"

I cried, "of quiet!-wise is Nature's plan,
Who, in her realm as in the soul of man,
Alternates storm with calm, and the loud noon
With dewy evening's soft and sacred lull :---

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,
Which bear no God-like stamp of heavenly art,
Whose envious instincts writhe with bitter smart
Whene'er they feel some worthier nature's sway.
Ah! who so basely-born, so curst as they!

Poor reptiles ! whose envenomed passions dart
Back to transfix their own corrupted heart,
And speed the progress of the soul's decay.
We pity such, yet loathe them. Who can keep
His honest scorn unspoken, should he see
These human vipers strive their fangs to steep
In the soul-blood of fame's Nobility?

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,
Who, phantom-like, with large unwavering eyes,
Stalk down the solemn wilderness of Time,
Reading the mystery of the future skies;
O, scorn not earth because it is not heaven;
Nor shake the dust against us of your feet,
Because we have rejected what was given!
Still let your tongues the wondrous theme repeat!
Though ye be friendless in this solitude,

Quick-winged thoughts from many an unborn year,
God-sent, shall feed ye with prolific food,

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!
And Error vanished like the affrighted dark;
While many a soul, as the aspiring lark,
Waked by thy dawn soared singing to the light,
Drowning in gladdest song the earth's despite !
And Beauty blossomed in all lowly nooks:
Love, like a river made of nameless brooks,
Grew and exulted in thy wakening sight:
All nature hailed thee as a risen sun;

Nor will thy setting blur her thankful eyes!
While earth remains thy day shall not be done,
Nor cloud dispread to blot thy matchless skies ;
When Death's command, like Joshua's, shall arise,
Thou 'lt stand as stood the Sun of Gibeon.

III.

INDIAN SUMMER.

Ir is the season when the light of dreams
Around the year in golden glory lies;
The heavens are full of floating mysteries,
And down the lake the veiléd splendor beams.
Like hidden poets lie the hazy streams,
Mantled with mysteries of their own romance,
While scarce a breath disturbs their drowsy trance.
The yellow leaf which down the soft air gleams,
Glides, wavers, falls, and skims the unruffled lake.
Here the frail maples and the faithful firs

By twisted vines are wed. The russet brake
Skirts the low pool; and starred with open burrs
The chestnut stands. But when the north-wind stirs,

How like an arméd host the summoned scene shall wake!

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