And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: She has a world of ready wealth, One impulse from a vernal wood Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Misshapes the beauteous forms of things; Enough of Science and of Art; Close up these barren leaves; MANHOOD.-C. A. Dana. DEAR, noble soul, wisely thy lot thou bearest ; And thus with thee bright angels make their dwelling, Bringing thee stores of strength when no man know eth; The ocean-stream from God's heart ever swelling, With joy I bathe, and many souls beside THE CLOUD.- Shelley I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shades for the leaves, when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 't is my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,- Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead. 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 beneath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, THE CLOUD. When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 279 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,- The triumphal arch through which I march When the powers of air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; For after the rain, when with never a stain The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. 280 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.— Tennyson. BREAK, break, break, On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea, O, well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To the haven under the hill; But, O, for the touch of a vanished hand, Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea, But the tender grace of a day that is dead MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.— Burns. A DIPGE. WHEN chill November's surly blast Along the banks of Ayr, |