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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.
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-
With their praise or mild reproof,
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.
And another comes, to thrill me
With her eyes' delicious blue; And I mind not, musing on her,
That her heart was all untrue!
With a passion kin to pain,
To the patter of the rain.
That can work with such a spell
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.
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 !
Invocation to Rain in Summer.
Every tinkle on the shingles
Has an echo in the heart;
Into busy being start,
Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter
of the rain upon the roof.
O GENTLE, gentle summer rain,
Let not the silver lily pine, The drooping lily pine in vain
To feel that dewy touch of thine,
O gentle, gentle summer rain!
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,
By these shall herb and flower be kissed ;
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
Its ardors of rest and of love,
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fis laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
Which only the angels hear,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
Like a swarm of golden bees,
Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
In their noon-day dreams.
The sweet birds every one,
As she dances about the sun.
And whiten the green plains under;
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
And their great pines groan aghast ;
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Lightning, my pilot, sits;
It struggles and howls at fits.
This pilot is guiding me,
In the depths of the purple sea ;
Over the lakes and the plains,
The spirit he loves, remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
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
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Over a torrent sea,
The mountains its columns be.
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
Is the million-colored bow;
While the moist earth was laughing below.
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 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
Build up the blue dome of air,
And out of the caverns of rain,
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;
Their little nestlings torn,
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.
Of mirth and revelry,
ANACREON. (Greek.) Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY.
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.
The Midges Wance aboon the Burn.
The midges dance aboon the burn;
The dews begin to fa’;
Set up their e'ening ca'.
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.
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
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 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;
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed
Thou, on whose stream, 'mid 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 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 tumult of thy mighty harmonies
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,
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.