28.

BEAUTIFUL SOLILOQUY.-Taylor.

Here's a beautiful earth and a wonderful sky, And to see them, God gives us a heart and an eye; Nor leaves us untouched by the pleasure they yield, Like the fowls of the heaven, or the beasts of the field The soul, though encumbered with sense and with sin, Can range through her own mystic chambers within; Then soar like the eagle to regions of light,

And dart wondrous thoughts on the stars of the night.
Yea more, it is gifted with vision so keen,

As to know the unknown and to see the unseen;
To glance at eternity's numberless days,
Till dazzled, confounded, and lost in the maze.
Nor will this suffice it, Oh wonderful germ,
Of infinite blessings vouchsafed to a worm!
It quickens, it rises, with boundless desires,
And heaven is the lowest to which it aspires.
Such, such is the soul though bewildered and dark,
A vital, etherial, unquenchable spark;

Thus onward and upward by nature it tends,
Then wherefore descends it? ah! whither descends;
Soon droops its light pinion, borne down by a gust,
It flutters, it flutters,—it cleaves to the dust;
Then feeds upon ashes-deceived and astray;
And fastens and clings to this perishing clay.
For robes that too proud were the lilies to wear-
For food we divide with the fowls of the air-
For joy that just sparkles and then disappears,
We drop from heaven's gate to this valley of tears.
How tranquil and blameless the pleasures it sought,
While it rested within the calm region of thought!
How fraught with disgust and how sullied with wo,
Is all that detains and beguiles it below!

Oh Thou, who when silent and senseless it lay,
Didst breathe into life the inanimate clay,
Now nourish and quicken the languishing fire;
And fan to a flame that shall never expire!

To-morrow, didst thou say?

Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow.
Go to I will not hear of it-To-morrow!

"Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury

Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash,
And pays thee nought, but wishes, hopes, and promises,
The currency of idiots-injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow!
It is a period nowhere to be found

In all the hoary registers of Time,

Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.

Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society

With those who own it.

No, my Horatio,

"Tis fancy's child, and folly is its father;

Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and as baseless As the fantastic visions of the evening.

But soft, my friend-arrest the present moment: For be assured they all are arrant tell-tales: And though their flight be silent, and their path Trackless, as the winged couriers of the air, They post to heaven, and there record thy folly; Because, though stationed on the important watch, Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel, Didst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved. And know, for that thou slumberest on the guard, Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar For every fugitive; and when thou thus Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal Of hoodwinked justice, who shall tell thy audit? Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio, Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings. "Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain. Oh! let it not elude thy grasp; but, like

The good old patriarch upon record,

Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.

30. ELIJAH'S INTERVIEW.-Campbell.

On Horeb's rock the prophet stood-
The Lord before him passed;

A hurricane in angry mood

Swept by him strong and fast;
The forest fell before its force,

The rocks were shivered in its course,

God was not in the blast;

Announcing danger, wreck, and death,
'Twas but the whirlwind of his breath.

It ceased. The air grew mute

Came, muffling up the sun;

-a cloud

When, through the mountain, deep and loud
An earthquake thundered on;
The frighted eagle sprang in air,

The wolf ran howling from his lair,-
God was not in the storm;

"Twas but the rolling of his car,

The trampling of his steeds from far.

'Twas still again, and nature stood
And calmed her ruffled frame :
When swift from heaven a fiery flood
To earth devouring came :
Down to the depth the ocean fled;
The sickening sun looked wan and dead;
Yet God filled not the flame,-
'Twas but the terror of his eye
That lightened through the troubled sky.

At last a voice all still and small
Rose sweetly on the ear,

Yet rose so shrill and clear, that all
In heaven and earth might hear:
It spoke of peace, it spoke of love,
It spoke as angels speak above,
And God himself was there;
For oh! it was a father's voice,
That bade the trembling world rejoice.

31. BYRON.-Pollok.

He touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced. As some vast river of unfailing source,

Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed,
And oped new fountains in the human heart.
Where fancy halted, weary in her flight,

In other men, his, fresh as morning rose,

And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home,
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,
Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles;
He from above descending, stooped to touch
The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty.
He laid his hand upon "the ocean's mane,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks.
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Appenines;
And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist-the lightning's fiery wing,
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance seemed-
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters were;
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms
His brothers-younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deemed.

As some fierce comet of tremendous size,

To which the stars did reverence as it passed;
So he through learning and through fancy took
His flight sublime; and on the loftiest top

Of fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled, and worn,
As if he from the earth had labored up;
But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair,
He looked, which down from higher regions came,
And perched it there, to see what lay beneath.
Great man! the nations gazed and wondered much,
And praised and many called his evil good.
Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness:
And kings to do him honor took delight.
Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame;
Beyond desire, beyond ambition full,—

He died-he died of what? Of wretchedness.
Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump

Of fame; drank early, deeply drank; drank draughts
That common millions might have quenched-then died
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink.

32. SONG OF MAC MURROUGH.- -Scott.

Mist darkens the mountains, night darkens the vale, But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael: A stranger commanded-it sunk on the land,

It has frozen each heart, and benumbed every hand!

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust;
On the hill, or the glen, if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.

The deeds of our sires, if our bards should rehearse, Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse! Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone, That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.

But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
Glenaladale's peaks are illumined with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.

Oh high-minded Moray!-the exiled!-the dear!— In the blush of the dawning the standard uprear, Wide, wide, on the winds of the north let it fly, Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!

Ye sons of the strong, when the dawning shall break, Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake? That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 'Tis the bugle-but not for the chase is the call; 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons-but not to the hall

'Tis the summons of heroes to conquest or death, When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath, They call to the dirk, the claymore, the targe,

To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.