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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-flitting shallop

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 master,

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 brotherA serene, angelic pairGlide 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;

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!

THE CLOUD.

WILLIAM C. BENNETT.

The Cloud.

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.

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;

63

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 fladen,
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.

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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.

Drinking.

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?

Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY.

ANACREON. (Greek.)

The Midges Dance 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'.

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.

The 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?
Or is it from the hollow rocks
Through which its breathings pass?

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.

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?

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

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O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's | Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below,

being,

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark, wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds, like flocks, to feed in air)
With living hues and odors, plain and hill:
Wild spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!

II.

Thou, on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

of vapors; from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst : 0 hear !

III.

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
.The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baia's bay,

And saw in sleep old palaces and towers,
Quivering within the waves' intenser day,

The sea-blooms, and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV.

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power and share
The impulse of thy strength — only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed
Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud !
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee - tameless, and swift, and proud.

V.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is.
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone-
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind,

If winter comes, can spring be far behind?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

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.

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!"

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 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 I lay,

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

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.

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!"

'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!" 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.
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.

The Sea.

WALTER MITCHELL.

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.

I love, oh how I love to ride

On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,

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