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A gentle hill its side inclines,
Lovely in England's fadeless green,
Through this romantic scene
While summer's wind blew soft and low, .
A thousand years ago.
I wandered through the lofty halls
Trod by the Percys of old fame, And traced upon the chapel walls
Each high, heroic name, From him who once his standard set Where now, o'er mosque and minaret,
Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons, To him who, when a younger son, Fought for King George at Lexington,
A major of dragoons.
The age of bargaining, said Burke,
Is England's friend and fast ally;
And on the Cross and altar-stone,
And Christendom looks tamely on, And hears the Christian maiden shriek,
And sees the Christian father die ; And not a sabre-blow is given For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven,
By Europe's craven chivalry. You 'll ask if yet the Percy lives
In the armed pomp of feudal state ?
Of Hotspur and his “gentle Kate,"
A chambermaid, whose lip and eye,
For ten-and-sixpence sterling.
That last half-stanza, -- it has dashed
From my warm lip the sparkling cup; The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed,
The power that bore my spirit up
Men in the coal and cattle line;
THE FISHER'S COTTAGE,
These are not the romantic times
So dazzling to the dreaming boy ;
Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy ; 'T is what “Our President," Monroe,
Has called “the era of good feeling" ;
And leave off cattle-stealing :
The Douglass in red herrings ;
Of Rothschild or the Barings.
We sat by the fisher's cottage,
And looked at the stormy tide; The evening mist came rising,
And floating far and wide. One by one in the lighthouse
The lamps shone out on high ;
A ship went sailing by.
Of sailors, and how they live ;
And the sorrows and joys they give. We spoke of distant countries,
In regions strange and fair,
And curious customs there;
Which are launched in the twilight hour; And the dark and silent Brahmins,
Who worship the lotos flower.
Broad-headed, wide-mouthed, and small, Who crouch round their oil-fires, cooking,
And chatter and scream and bawl.
And the maidens earnestly listened, | I seek ye vainly, and see in your place
The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space,
HENRY HEINE (German). Translation And I, cut off from the world, remain
Alone with the terrible hurricane.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
THE HURRICANE. LORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh,
FROM "THE TRAVELLER."
To men of other minds iny fancy flies,
Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales,
Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails.
Where the broad ocean leans against the land, Silent and slow, and terribly strong,
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, The mighty shadow is borne along,
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. Like the dark eternity to come ;
Onward methinks, and diligently slow, While the world below, dismayed and dumb, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore.
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, They darken fast; and the golden blaze Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale And he sends through the shade a funeral ray The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, A glare that is neither night nor day,
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A beam that touches, with hues of death, A new creation rescued from his reign. The clouds above and the earth beneath.
Thus while around the wave-subjected soil To its covert glides the silent bird,
Impels the native to repeated toil, While the hurricane's distant voice is heard Industrious habits in each bosom reign, Uplifted among the mountains round,
And industry begets a love of gain. And the forests hear and answer the sound. Hence all the good from opulence that springs,
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, He is come ! he is come ! do ye not behold
Are here displayed. His ample robes on the wind unrolled ?
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Giant of air! we bid thee hail ! How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale ; How his huge and writhing arms are bent To clasp the zone of the firmament,
ITALY AND SWITZERLAND. And fold at length, in their dark embrace,
FROM "THE TRAVELLER." . From mountain to mountain the visible space.
Far to the right where Apennine ascends, Darker,--still darker ! the whirlwinds bear Bright as the summer, Italy extends. The dust of the plains to the middle air ; | Its uplands sloping deck the inountain's side, And hark to the crashing, long and loud,
Woods over woods, in gay theatric pride ; Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud! While oft some temple's mouldering tops between You may trace its path by the flashes that start With venerable grandeur mark the scene. From the rapid wheels where'er they dart,
Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, The sons of Italy were surely blest. And flood the skies with a lurid glow. .
Whatever fruits in different climes were found,
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; What roar is that?- 't is the rain that breaks Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, In torrents away from the airy lakes,
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, Whatever sweets salute the northern sky ' And shedding a nameless horror round. With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ;
Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, These here disporting own the kindred soil, With the very clouds ! - ye are lost to my eyes. I Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;