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Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent,

To the farthest wall of the firmament,

The boundless visible smile of Him, To the veil of whose brow your lamps are dim."

BRYANT.

THE MILKY WAY.

"Lo," quoth he, "cast up thine

eye,

See yonder, lo! the galaxie,
The which men clepe the Milky Way,
For it is white; and some parfay
Callen it Watling streete,

That once was brent with the hete,
When the Sunne's sonne the rede,
That hight Phaeton, would lead
Algate his father's cart, and gie.*

The cart horses gan well aspie,
That he could no governaunce,
And gan for to leape and praunce,
And bear him up, and now down,
Till he saw the Scorpioun,
Which that in Heaven a signe is yet,
And for feré lost his wit

Of that, and let the reynés gone
Of his horses, and they anone
Soone up to mount, and downe de-
scend,

Till both air and Earthé brend,
Till Jupiter, lo! at the last
Him slew, and fro the carté cast.
CHAUCER.

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I am the daughter of earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die. 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.

SHELLEY.

A DROP OF DEW.

SEE how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses,

(Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where 'twas born,)

Round in itself encloses And, in its little globe's extent, Frames, as it can, its native element. How it the purple flower does slight,

Scarce touching where it lies, But gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light, Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere.

Restless it rolls, and insecure, Trembling, lest it grow impure;

Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again.

So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal day,

Could it within the human flower be seen,

Remembering still its former height,

Shuns the sweet leaves, and blossoms green,

And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express

The greater heaven in a heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away,
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day,
Dark beneath, but bright above,
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go;
How girt and ready to ascend;
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upwards bend.
Such did the manna's sacred dew dis-

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WOOF of the fen, ethereal gauze,
Woven of Nature's richest stuffs,
Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea,
Last conquest of the eye;

Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust,
Aerial surf upon the shores of earth,
Ethereal estuary, frith of light,
Breakers of air, billows of heat,
Fine summer spray on inland seas;
Bird of the sun, transparent-winged,
Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned,

From heath or stubble rising without song,

Establish thy serenity o'er the fields. THOREAU.

AT SEA.

THE night is made for cooling shade, For silence, and for sleep;

And when I was a child, I laid
My hands upon my breast, and prayed,
And sank to slumbers deep:
Childlike as then I lie to-night,
And watch my lonely cabin-light.

Each movement of the swaying lamp
Shows how the vessel reels:
As o'er her deck the billows tramp,
And all her timbers strain and cramp

With every shock she feels.

It starts and shudders, while it burns, And in its hingèd socket turns.

Now swinging slow and slanting low,
It almost level lies;

And yet I know, while to and fro
I watch the seeming pendule go

With restless fall and rise,
The steady shaft is still upright,
Poising its little globe of light.

O hand of God! O lamp of peace!
O promise of my soul!
Though weak, and tossed, and ill at
ease,

Amid the roar of smiting seas,

The ship's convulsive roll,

I own with love and tender awe
Yon perfect type of faith and law.

A heavenly trust my spirit calms,
My soul is filled with light:
The Ocean sings his solemn psalms,
The wild winds chant: I cross my
palms,

Happy as if to-night

Under the cottage roof again

I heard the soothing summer rain.
J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

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