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And, bright little Barbs, ye make worthy pre

tences To go with the going of Solomon's sires ; But you stride not the stride, and you fly not the

fences ! And all the wide Hejaz is naught to the shires.

O gay gondolier! from thy night-fitting shal

lop I've heard the soft pulses of oar and guitar; But sweeter the rhythmical rush of the gallop,

The fire in the saddle, the flight of the star. Old mare, my beloved, no stouter or faster

Hath ever strode under a man at his need; But glad in the hand and embrace of thy mas

ter, And pant to the passionate music of speed: Can there e'er be a thought to an elderly person

So keen, so inspiring, so hard to forget, So fully adapted to break into burgeon

As this — that the steel is n't out of him yet ; That flying speed tickles one's brain with a feather; That one's horse can restore one the years that

are gone; That, spite of gray winter and weariful weather, The blood and the pace carry on, carry on ?

RICHARD ST. JOHN TYRWHITT.

Now in memory comes my mother,

As she used long years agone, To regard the darling dreamers

Ere she left them till the dawn.
Oh! I see her leaning o'er me,

As I list to this refrain
Which is played upon the shingles

By the patter of the rain.
Then my little seraph sister,

With her wings and waving hair,
And her star-eyed cherub brother-

A serene, angelic pair-
Glide around my wakeful pillow

With their praise or mild reproof,
As I listen to the murmur

• Of the soft rain on the roof. And another comes, to thrill me

With her eyes' delicious blue; And I mind not, musing on her,

That her heart was all untrue!
I remember but to love her

With a passion kin to pain,
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate

To the patter of the rain.
Art hath naught of tone or cadence

That can work with such a spell
In the soul's mysterious fountains,

Whence the tears of rapture well, As that melody of Nature,

That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain.

COATES KINNEY.

Rain on the Roof. When the humid shadows hover

Over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness

Gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow

Of a cottage-chamber bed, And to listen to the patter

Of the soft rain overhead !

Every tinkle on the shingles

Has an echo in the heart;
And a thousand dreamy fancies

Into busy being start,
And a thousand recollections

Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter

of the rain upon the roof.

Invocation to Rain in Summer. O GENTLE, gentle summer rain,

Let not the silver lily pine, The drooping lily pine in vain

To feel that dewy touch of thine,
To drink thy freshness once again,

O gentle, gentle summer rain!
In heat the landscape quivering lies;

The cattle pant beneath the tree; Through parching air and purple skies

The earth looks up, in vain, for thee;

THE CLOUD.

63

For thee, for thee, it looks in vain,

O gentle, gentle summer rain!
Come, thou, and brim the meadow streams,

And soften all the hills with mist,
O falling dew! from burning dreams

By these shall herb and flower be kissed;
And Earth shall bless thee yet again,
O gentle, gentle summer rain!

WILLIAM C. BENNETT.

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,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fs laden,

Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor

By the midnight breezes strewn;
And, wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin

roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

The Clond.
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noon-day dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet birds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain;

And laugh as I pass in thunder.
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 blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers

Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under, is fettered the thunder;

It struggles and howls at fits.
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move

In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The spirit he loves, remains;
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,

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.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and

swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march,

With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my

chair,

Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,

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 air,
I 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 unbuild it again.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky

The mavis mends her lay; The red-breast pours his sweetest strains,

To charm the ling’ring day;
While weary yeldrins seem to wail

Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den;

Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,

The foxglove shuts its bell; The honeysuckle and the birk

Spread fragrance through the dell.
Let others crowd the giddy court

Of mirth and revelry,
The simple joys that Nature yields
Are dearer far to me.

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

Wrinking.
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are,
With constant drinking, fresh and fair;
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need to drink),
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So filled that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun (and one would guess
By's drunken fiery face no less),
Drinks up the sea, and, when he 'as done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun :
They drink and dance by their own light;
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in nature's sober found,
But an eternal “ health” goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high-
Fill all the glasses there; for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?

ANACREON. (Greek.) Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY.

Che Wandering Wind. The Wind, the wandering Wind

Of the golden summer eves Whence is the thrilling magic

Of its tones amongst the leaves Oh! is it from the waters,

Or from the long tall grass 1 Or is it from the hollow rocks

Through which its breathings passt

Or is it from the voices

Of all in one combined, That it wins the tone of mastery!

The Wind, the wandering Wind ! No, no! the strange, sweet accents

That with it come and go, They are not from the osiers,

Nor the fir-trees whispering low,

The Midges Wance aboon the Burn.

The midges dance aboon the burn;

The dews begin to fa';
The pairtricks down the rushy holm

Set up their e’ening ca'.
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang

Rings through the briery shaw,
While, flitting gay, the swallows play

Around the castle wa'.

They are not of the waters,

Nor of the caverned hill; 'Tis the human love within us

That gives them power to thrill: They touch the links of memory

Around our spirits twined, And we start, and weep, and tremble, To the Wind, the wandering Wind 1

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

ODE TO THE WEST WIND.

65

I.

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
Ode to the West Wind.

So sweet the sense faints picturing them! Thou

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below, being,

The sea-blooms, and the oozy woods which wear Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou, Who chariotest to their dark, wintry bed

IV. The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; Each like a corpse within its grave, until

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow A wave to pant beneath thy power and share Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill The impulse of thy strength - only less free (Driving sweet buds, like flocks, to feed in air) Than thou, 0 uncontrollable! If even With living hues and odors, plain and hill: I were as in my boyhood, and could be Wild spirit, which art moving everywhere; The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven Destroyer and preserver; hear, 0 hear !

As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed

Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne'er have striven II. Thou, on whose stream, ʼmid the steep sky's com- As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. motion,

Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed ! Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

v. Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is. Of the horizon to the zenith's height,

What if my leaves are falling like its own! The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will take from both a deep autumnal tone Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, Vaulted with all thy congregated might

My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Of vapors; from whose solid atmosphere Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: 0 hear! Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth ;

And, by the incantation of this verse,
III.
Thon who didst waken from his summer dreams Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! Lalled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Be through my lips to unawakened earth Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay,

The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers,

If winter comes, can spring be far behind 1 Quivering within the waves' intenser day,

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse,

And belly and tug at the groaning cleats ; The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps ;

And thunders the order, “ Tacks and sheets !"

Tacking Ship off Shore. The weather-leech of the topsail shivers,

The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken, The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squall-cloud

blacken.

'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew,

Hisses the rain of the rushing squall: The sails are aback from clew to clew,

And now is the moment for, “ Mainsail, haul !”

Open one point on the weather-bow,

Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head ? There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow,

And the pilot watches the heaving lead.

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye

To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, Till the muttered order of "Full and by!"

Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays !”

And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy,

By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung: She holds her way, and I look with joy

For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung. “Let go, and haul!” 'Tis the last command,

And the head-sails fill to the blast once more: Astern and to leeward lies the land,

With its breakers white on the shingly shore. What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall ?

I steady the helm for the open sea;
The first mate clamors, “ Belay, there, all!"

And the captain's breath once more comes free.

The ship bends lower before the breeze,

As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; And she swifter springs to the rising seas,

As the pilot calls, “Stand by for stays!” It is silence all, as each in his place,

With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,

Waiting the watchword impatient stands.

And so off shore let the good ship fly;

Little care I how the gusts may blow, In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry, Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below.

WALTER MITCHELL.

And the light on Fire Island Head draws

near, As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear,

With the welcome call of “Ready! About!”

No time to spare! It is touch and go;
And the captain growls, “ Down, helm! hard

down!” As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's

frown. High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray,

As we meet the shock of the plunging sea; And my shoulder stiff to the wheel 1 lay,

As I answer, " Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee !”

The Sea. The sea! the sea! the open sea ! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea!
I am where I would ever be;
With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go:
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter I shall ride and sleep.

With the swerving leap of a startled steed

The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind, The dangerous shoals on the lee recede,

And the headland white we have left behind.

I love, oh how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,

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