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THE SUN.

But yonder comes the powerful King of Day,
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud,
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow,
Illum'd with fluid gold, his near approach
Betoken glad. Lo! now apparent all,

Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colored air,
He looks in boundless majesty abroad,

And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays
On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams,
High-gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer, light!
Of all material beings, first and best!

Efflux divine! Nature's resplendent robe!
Without whose vesting beauty all were wrapp'd
In unessential gloom; and thou, O Sun,
Soul of surrounding worlds! in whom best seen
Shines out thy Maker! may I sing of thee?

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The vegetable world is also thine,

Parent of Seasons! who the pomp precede

That waits thy throne, as through thy vast domain,
Annual, along the bright ecliptic road,

In world-rejoicing state, it moves sublime.
Meantime th' expecting nations, circled gay
With all the various tribes of foodful earth,
Implore thy bounty, or send grateful up

A common hymn; while 'round thy beaming car,
High seen, the seasons lead in sprightly dance.
Harmonious limit; the rosy-finger'd hours,
The zephyrs floating loose, the timely rains,
Of bloom ethereal the light-footed dews,
And, softened into joy, the surly storms.
Here, in successive turn, with lavish hand

Shower every beauty, every fragrance shower,

Herbs, flowers, and fruits; till, kindling at thy touch,
From land to land is flush'd the vernal year.

JAMES THOMSON, 1700-1749.

*

THE SUN.

Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles;

Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn. Laughs the wild sea around her budding isles,

When through their heaven thy changing car is borne; Thou wheel'st away thy flight, the woods are shorn Of all their waving locks, and storms awake

All that was once so beautiful is torn

By the wild winds which plow the lonely lake,

And in their maddening rush the crested mountains shake.

The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow;
Life lingers and would die, but thy return
Gives to their gladden'd hearts an overflow

Of all the power that brooded in the urn

Of their chill'd frames, and then they proudly spurn All bands that would confine, and give to air

Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn,

When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there

Rich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the fair.

The vales are thine; and when the touch of spring
Thrills them, and gives them gladness in thy light,

They glitter as the glancing swallow's wing

Dashes the water in his winding flight,

And leaves behind a wave that crumbles bright,

And widens outward to the pebbled shore

The vales are thine; and when they wake from night, The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o'er Their soft and oozy beds, look upward, and adore.

The hills are thine; they catch the newest beam,
And gladden in thy parting, where the wood
Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream
That flows from out thy fullness, as a flood
Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food
Of nations in its waters; so thy rays

Flow and give brighter tints than ever bud,

When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze

Of many twinkling gems, as every gloss'd bough plays.

Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift
Snows that have never wasted in a sky
Which hath no stain; below the storm may drift
Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by;
Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie,

Dazzling, but cold; thy farewell glance looks there;
And when below thy hues of beauty die,

Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear
Into the high, dark vault a brow that still is fair.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

DELIGHT IN GOD.

I love, and have some cause to love, the earth;
She is my Maker's creature, therefore good.
She is my mother, for she gave me birth.

She is my tender nurse; she gives me food.
But what's a creature, Lord, compar'd to thee?
Or what's my mother or my nurse to me?

I love the air; her dainty sweets refresh

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;
Her shrill-mouth'd choir sustains me with their flesh,
And with their polyphonian notes delight me.
But what's the air, or all the sweets that she
Can bless my soul withal, compar'd to thee?

I love the sea; she is my fellow-creature

My careful purveyor; she provides me store;
She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore.
But, Lord of oceans, when compar'd with thee,
What is the ocean, or her wealth to me?

To heaven's high city I direct my journey,
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney,
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky.
But what is heav'n, great God, compar'd to thec?
Without thy presence, heaven's no heaven to me.

Without thy presence, earth gives no reflection;
Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure;
Without thy presence, air's a rank infection;

Without thy presence, heav'n's itself no pleasure;

If not possess'd, if not enjoy'd in thee,
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heav'n to me?
The highest honors that the world can boast
Are subjects far too low for my desire;
The brightest beams of glory are, at most,
But dying sparkles of thy living fire.
The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be
But nightly glow-worms if compar'd to thee.

Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares;
Wisdom, but folly; joy, disquiet-sadness :
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;
Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness.
Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
Nor have they being, when compar'd with thee.

In having all things, and not thee, what have I ?
Not having thee, what have my labors got?
Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I?
And having thee alone, what have I not?

I wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I be
Possess'd of heav'n, heav'n unpossess'd of thee!

FRANCIS QUARLES, 1592-1664.

NOON.

FROM THE SPANISH.

The sun, 'midst shining glory now concealed

Upon heaven's highest seat,

Darts straightway down upon the parched field,
His fierce and burning heat;

And on revolving noonday calls, that he

His flushed and glowing face

May show the world, and, rising from the sea,
Aurora's reign displace.

The wandering wind now rests his weary wings,

And, hushed in silence, broods;

And all the vocal choir of songsters sings

Among the whispering woods.

And sweetly warbling on his oaten pipe,
His own dear shepherd-maid,

The herd-boy leads along his flock of sheep
To the sequestered shade;

Where shepherd youths and maids in secret bowers,

In song and feast unite

In joyful band, to pass the sultry hours
Of their siesta light.

The sturdy hunter, bathed in moisture well,

Beneath an oak-tree's boughs,

Beside his faithful dog, his sentinel,

Now yields him to repose.

All, all is calm, is silent. O how sweet,

On this enameled ground,

At ease recumbent, from its flowery seat,

To cast your eyes around!

The busy bee, that round your listening ear
Murmurs with drowsy hum;

The faithful turtles, perched on oak-trees near,
Moaning their mates' sad doom.

And ever in the distance her sweet song
Murmurs lorn Philomel;

While the hoar forest's echoing glades prolong
Her love and music well.

And 'midst the grass slow creeps the rivulet,

In whose bright limpid stream

The blue sky and the world of boughs are met,

Mirrored in one bright gleam.

And of the elm the hoar and silvery leaves,

The slumbering winds scarce blow,

Which, pictured in the bright and tremulous waves,

Follow their motion slow.

These airy mountains, and this fragrant seat,

Bright with a thousand flowers;

These interwoven forests, where the heat

Is tempered in their bowers!

The dark umbrageous woods, the dense array
Of trunks, through which there peers

Perchance the town, which, in the glow of day,

Like crystal light appears!

These cooling grottoes! O retirement blest!

Within thy calm abode

My mind alone can from her troubles rest,

With solitude and God.

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