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Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some drrine despair Rise in the heart & gather to the eyes

on

the happy autumn fields, thinking on the days that are no more.

In looking

And

Shrnyron

POEMS OF NATURE.

WORLDLINESS.

INVOCATION TO LIGHT.

The World is too much with us; late and soon, Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born !
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Or of the Eternal coeternal beam
Little we see in nature that is ours;

May I express thee unblamed ? since God is light,
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! And never but in unapproached light
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon,

Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, The winds that will be howling at all hours

Bright effluence of bright essence increate. And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers, whose fountain who shall tell ? before the sun,

Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream, For this, for everything, we are out of tune ;

Before the heavens, thou wert, and at the voice It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, The rising world of waters dark and deep,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Won from the void and formless infinite.
Have glimpses that would make meless forlorn; Thee I revisit now with bolder wing,
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detained
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathéd horn. In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Through utterand through middle darkness borne,

With other notes than to the Orphean lyre,
I sung of Chaos and eternal Night,

Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down
DAYBREAK.

The dark descent, and up to reascend, A WIND came up out of the sea,

Though hard and rare : thee I revisit safe, And said, “O mists, make room for me!”

And feel thy sovereign vital lamp ; but thou

Revisitest not these eyes, that roll in vain It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on, To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; Ye mariners, the night is gone."

So thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs, And hurried landward far away,

Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more Crying, “Awake! it is the day."

Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt

Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, It said unto the forest, “Shout!

Smit with the love of sacred song ; but chief Hang all your leafy banners out!”

Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,

That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow, And said, “O bird, awake and sing !”

Nightly I visit : nor sometimes forget

Those other two equalled with me in fate,
And o'er the farms, “O chanticleer, So were I equalled with them in renown,
Your clarion blow; the day is near !" Blind Thamyris and blind Mæonides,
It whispered to the fields of corn,

And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old :, “Bow down, and hail the coming morn !"

Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move

Harmonious numbers ; as the wakeful bird It shouted through the belfry-tower, Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid “Awake, 0 bell ! proclaim the hour." | Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,

Seasons return, but not to me returns
And said, “Not yet ! in quiet lie.”

Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW,

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, But cloud, instead, and ever-during dark,

hark ! Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair

rings; Presented with a universal blank

Through rustling corn the hare astonished Of nature's works, to me expunged and rased,

springs ; And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.

tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; So much the rather thou, celestial Light, The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, Irradiate ; there plant eyes, all mist from thence And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell

JAMES BEATTIE. Of things invisible to mortal sight.

MILTON.

THE SABBATH MORNING.

PACK CLOUDS AWAY.

Pack clouds away, and welcome day,

With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft,

To give my love good morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,

Notes from the lark I 'll borrow :
Bird, prune thy wing ; nightingale, sing,

To give my love good morrow.
To give my love good morrow,
Notes from them all I 'll borrow.

WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
That slowly wakes while all the fields are still !
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne ;
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill ;
And echo answers softer from the hill ;
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn :
The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene ! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!
The rooks float silent by in airy drove ;
The sun a placid yellow lustre throws ;
The gales that lately sighed along the grove
Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose ;
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move,
So smiled the day when the first morn arose !

DR. JOHN LEYDEX.

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast,

Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each hill let music shrill

Give my fair love good morrow. Blackbird and thrush in every bush,

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,

Sing my fair love good morrow.
To give my love good morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.

REVE DU MIDI.

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

WHEN o'er the mountain steeps
The hazy noontide creeps,
And the shrill cricket sleeps
Under the grass ;
When soft the shadows lie,
And clouds sail o'er the sky,

And the idle winds go by,
With the heavy scent of blossoms as they pass, –

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Then, when the silent stream
Lapses as in a dream,
And the water-lilies gleam
Up to the sun;
When the hot and burdened day
Rests on its downward way,

When the moth forgets to play,
And the plodding ant may dream her work is

done,

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark ;
Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid

sings;

Then, from the noise of war
And the din of earth afar,
Like some forgotten star
Dropt from the sky, -
The sounds of love and fear,

JOHN STERLING.

All voices sad and clear,

| The chime of bells remote, the murmuring sea, Banished to silence drear,

The song of birds in whispering copse and wood, The willing thrall of trances sweet I lie. The distant voice of children's thoughtless glee,

And maiden's song, are all one voice of good.
Some melancholy gale
Breathes its mysterious tale,

Amid the leaves' green mass a sunny play
Till the rose's lips grow pale

Of flash and shadow stirs like inward life ;
With her sighs ;

The ship's white sail glides onward far away, And o'er my thoughts are cast

Unhaunted by a dream of storm or strife.
Tints of the vanished past,

Glories that faded fast,
Renewed to splendor in my dreaming eyes.

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN.
As poised on vibrant wings,
Where its sweet treasure swings,

The midges dance aboon the burn ;
The honey-lover clings

The dews begin to fa';
To the red flowers,

The pairtricks down the rushy holm
So, lost in vivid light,

Set up their e'ening ca'.
So, rapt from day and night,

Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang
I linger in delight,

Rings through the briery shaw,
Enraptured o'er the vision-freighted hours.

While, flitting gay, the swallows play
ROSE TERRY.

Around the castle wa'.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky
NOONTIDE.

The mavis mends her lay ;

The redbreast pours his sweetest strains BENEATII a shivering canopy reclined,

To charm the lingering day ; Of aspen-leaves that wave without a wind,

While weary yeldrins seem to wail I love to lie, when lulling breezes stir

Their little nestlings torn, The spiry cones that tremble on the fir;

The merry wren, frae den to den,
Or wander mid the dark-green fields of broom,

Gaes jinking through the thorn.
When peers in scattered tufts the yellow bloom ;
Or trace the path with tangling furze o'errun,

The roses fauld their silken leaves,
When bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun,

The foxglove shuts its bell; And pittering grasshoppers, confus'dly shrill,

The honeysuckle and the birk Pipe giddily along the glowing hill :

Spread fragrance through the dell. Sweet grasshopper, who lov'st at noon to lie

Let others crowd the giddy court Serenely in the green-ribbed clover's eye,

Of mirth and revelry, To sun thy filmy wings and emerald vest,

The simple joys that nature yields
Unseen thy form, and undisturbed thy rest,

Are dearer far to me.
Oft have I listening mused the sultry day,
And wondered what thy chirping song might say,
When naught was heard along the blossomed lea,
To join thy music, save the listless bee.

THE EVENING WIND.
DR. JOHN LEYDEN.

Spirit that breathest through my lattice : thou

That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day! ON A BEAUTIFUL DAY.

Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;

Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, O UNSEEN Spirit! now a calm divine

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, . Comes forth from thee, rejoicing earth and air ! Roughening their crests, and scattering high Trees, hills, and houses, all distinctly shine,

their spray, And thy great ocean slumbers everywhere. And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! The mountain ridge against the purple sky Stands clear and strong, with darkened rocks Nor I alone, - a thousand bosoms round and dells,

Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And cloadless brightness opens wide and high And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound

A home aerial, where thy presence dwells. I Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

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IF solitude hath ever led thy steps
To the wild ocean's echoing shore,

And thou hast lingered there

Until the sun's broad orb
Seemed resting on the burnished wave,

Thou must have marked the lines
Of purple gold, that motionless

Hung o'er the sinking sphere :
Thou must have marked the billowy clouds,
Edged with intolerable radiancy,

Towering like rocks of jet
Crowned with a diamond wreath.
And yet there is a moment,

When the sun's highest point
Peeps like a star o'er ocean's western edge,
When those far clouds of feathery gold,

Shaded with deepest purple, gleam

Like islands on a dark-blue sea ;
Then has thy fancy soared above the earth,

And furled its wearied wing
Within the Fairy's fane.

And languishing to hear thy welcome sound,

Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest;

Curl the still waters, bright with stars; and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast.

Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the

grass. Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway

The sighing herbage by the gleaning stone That they who near the churchyard willows stray,

And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, May think of gentle souls that passed away,

Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, And gone into the boundless heaven again. The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more

deep ;

And they who stand about the sick man's bed

Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.
Go, — but the circle of eternal change,

Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,

Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more. Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange,

Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE EVENING STAR.

Star that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary laborer free!
If any star shed peace, 't is thou,

That send'st it from above,
Appearing when heaven's breath and brow

Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,
Whilst the landscape's odors rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,

And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirred

Curls yellow in the sun.

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