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There need not schools nor the professor's chair, Though these be good, true wisdom to impart;
He who has not enough for these to spare, Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart,
And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fairNature is always wise in every part.
Co the Redbreast. Sweet bird ! that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past or coming, void of care ; Well pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flow
The Snow-Storm. ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er the fields Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's
feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers
TO A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF
LAAKEN IN THE WINTER.
Thou standest by the margin of the pool,
And given thyself a lesson to the fool
Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule,
Afternoon in February.
The day is ending,
The river dead.
That glimmer red.
The road o'er the plain ;
A funeral train.
The bell is pealing,
To the dismal knell ;
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
A Song for the Seasons. When the merry lark doth gild
With his song the summer hours, And their nests the swallows build
In the roofs and tops of towers,
All about the waste,
Then, how merry are the times !
Wirge for the Dear. ORPHAN Hours, the Year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep!
For the Year is but asleep:
In its coffin in the clay,
Rocks the dead-cold Year to-day;
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
Rocks the Year. Be calm and mild,
Like a sexton by her grave;
March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps - but, Oye Hours ! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Now, from off the ashy stone
The chilly midnight cricket crieth, And all merry birds are flown,
And our dream of pleasure dieth;
Saddens into gray,
Now, how solemn are the times !
Yet, be merry: all around
Is through one vast change revolving; Even Night, who lately frowned,
Is in paler dawn dissolving;
And in Spring grow free;
Die down, O dismal day! and let me live.
And come, blue deeps! magnificently strewn With colored clouds — large, light, and fugitive
By upper winds through pompous motions blown. Now it is death in life -- a vapor dense
Creeps round my window till I cannot see The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens Shagging the mountain-tops. O God! make
free This barren, shackled earth, so deadly cold —
Breathe gently forth Thy spring, till winter flies In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold,
While she performs her customed charities. I weigh the loaded hours till life is bareO God ! for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air!
INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS.
Hymn to the Spirit of Nature. Life of Life! Thy lips enkindle
With their love the breath between them ; And thy smiles before they dwindle
Make the cold air fire; then screen them
Through the veil which seems to hide them, As the radiant lines of morning
Through thin clouds, ere they divide them; And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. Fair are others: none beholds Thee ;
But thy voice sounds low and tender
From the sight, that liquid splendor;
Lamp of Earth! where'er thou movest,
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness,
Walk upon the winds with lightness
PERCY BY8SHE SHELLEY.
With stinted kindness. In November days,
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Influence of Natural Objects. WISDOM and Spirit of the universe ! Thou Soul, that art the eternity of thought ! And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion! not in vain, By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul — Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man, But with high objects, with enduring things, With Life and Nature; purifying thus The elements of feeling and of thought, And sanctifying by such discipline Both pain and fear,- until we recognize A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
For ever shattered and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.
joy, Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? In his steep course! So long he seems to pause And who commanded (and the silence came), On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form, Adown enormous ravines slope amainRisest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, How silently! Around thee and above
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black — Motionless torrents! silent cataracts ! An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it, Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven As with a wedge! But when I look again, Beneath the keen full moon Who bade the sun It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Clothe you with rainbows Who, with living flowThy habitation from eternity!
ers O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ! Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
God !- let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced in Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! prayer
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome I worshipped the Invisible alone.
voice! Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, Ye pine-groves,' with your soft and soul-like sounds ! So sweet we know not we are listening to it, And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! thought
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy - Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Till the dilating soul, enrapt, tranfused,
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! Into the mighty vision passing — there,
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven ! Ye signs and wonders of the elements !
Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
peaks, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. Shoots downward, glittering through the pure Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the serene, vale!
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night, Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou And visited all night by troops of stars,
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low Or when they climb the sky or when they sink - In adoration, upward from thy base Companion of the morning-star at dawn,
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, Co-herald - wake, oh wake, and utter praise ! To rise before me - Rise, oh ever rise ! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth! Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Who made thee parent of perpetual streams Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, Who called you forth from night and utter death, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD.
ELLE avait dix ans, et moi trente;
J'étais pour elle l'univers.
Sous les arbres profonds et verts !
Elle faisait mon sort prospère,
Mon travail léger, mon ciel bleu.
Tout mon cœur s'écriait: Mon Dieu !
Les anges se miraient en elle.
Que son bonjour était charmant !
Ce regard qui jamais ne ment.
Oh ! je l'avais, si jeune encore,
Vue apparaftre en mon destin!