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Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past ! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more

vast,

Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

I draw a freer breath ;

I seem
Like all I see —
Waves in the sun - the white-winged gleam

Of sea-birds in the slanting beam
And far-off sails which flit before the south wind

free.

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So when Time's veil shall fall asunder,

So then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell !
The soul may know

I bear with me
No fearful change, nor sudden wonder,

No token stone nor glittering shell, Nor sink the weight of mystery under,

But long and oft shall Memory tell But with the upward rise, and with the vastness of this brief, thoughtful hour of musing by the grow.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

sea.

Wrifting.

And all we shrink from now may seem

No new revealing -
Familiar as our childhood's stream,

Or pleasant memory of a dream,
The loved and cherished Past upon the new life

stealing

Serene and mild, the untried light

May have its dawning;
And, as in Summer's northern light

The evening and the dawn unite,
The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul's new

morning.

I sit alone; in foam and spray

Wave after wave
Breaks on the rocks which, stern and gray,

Shoulder the broken tide away,
Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft

and cave.

My soul to-day

Is far away,
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;

My winged boat,

A bird afloat,
Swims round the purple peaks remote;

Round purple peaks

It sails and seeks
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,

Where high rocks throw,

Through deeps below,
A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim

The mountains swim;
While on Vesuvius' misty brim,

With outstretched hands,

The gray smoke stands,
O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles

O'er liquid miles;
And yonder, bluest of the isles,

Calm Capri waits,

Her sapphire gates
Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if

My rippling skiff
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff:

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.

What heed I of the dusty land

And noisy town?
I see the mighty deep expand

From its white line of glimmering sand
To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts

down!

In listless quietude of mind,

I yield to all
The change of cloud and wave and wind;

And passive on the flood reclined,
I wander with the waves, and with them rise and

fall.

But look, thou dreamer !- wave and shore

In shadow lie;
The night-wind warns me back once more

To where my native hill-tops o'er
Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset

sky!

Under the walls

Where swells and falls
The Bay's deep breast at intervals,

At peace I lie,

Blown softly by,
A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild,

Is Heaven's own child,
With Earth and Ocean reconciled ;

The airs I feel

Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

No more, no inore

The worldly shore
Upbraids me with its loud uproar!

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies
Under the walls of paradise !

Thomas BUCHANAN READ.

To Seneca Lake.

Over the rail

My hand I trail
Within the shadow of the sail,

A joy intense;

The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies ;

O'erveiled with vines,

She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines.

Her children, hid

The cliffs amid, Are gambolling with the gambolling kid,

Or down the walls,

With tipsy calls,
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break,

As down he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, waveless stream,

The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam,

And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore,

As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar,

As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view

Thy golden inirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue

Float round the distant mountain's side. At midnight hour, as shines the moon,

A sheet of silver spreads below, And swift she cuts, at highest noon,

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. On thy fair bosom, silver lake,

Oh! I could ever sweep the oar,When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er.

JAMES GATES PERCIVAL.

The fisher's child,

With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,

With glowing lips

Sings as he skips,
Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes

Where traffic blows From lands of sun to lands of snows;

This happier one,

Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun.

Yarrow Unvisited.

O happy ship,

To rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip!

O happy crew,

My heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

From Stirling castle we had seen

The mazy Forth unravelled ; Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,

And with the Tweed had travelled; And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my “ winsome marrow:

::" “ Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,

And see the braes of Yarrow.”

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