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FROM "THE SEASONS: SPRING."
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
FROM "THE TWO FOSCARI."
Lithe and arrowy, tapering, slim,
Till the trout leaps up in the sun, and flings Just in the dubious point, where with the pool
The spray from the flash of his finny wings; Is mixed the trembling stream, or where it boils Then falls on his side, and, drunken with fright, Around the stone, or from the hollowed bank
Is towed to the shore like a staggering barge, Reverted plays in undulating flow,
Till beached at last on the sandy marge, There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly;
Where he dies with the hues of the morning light, And, as you lead it round in artful curve,
While his sides with a cluster of stars are bright. With eye attentive mark the springing game.
The angler in his basket lays
The constellation, and goes his ways.
How many a time have I He has enjoyed the vital light of heaven,
Cloven, with arm still lustier, breast more daring, Soft disengage, and back into the stream
The wave all roughened ; with a swimmer's stroke The speckled infant throw. But should you lure Flinging the billows back from my drenched hair, From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots
And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook,
Which kissed it like a wine-cup, rising o'er Behooves you then to ply your finest art.
The waves as they arose, and prouder still
The loftier they uplifted me ; and oft,
Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun
My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death,
By those above, till they waxed fearful ; then With sullen plunge. At once he darts along,
Returning with my grasp full of such tokens Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthened line ;
As showed that I had searched the deep ; exultThen seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, with a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep
ing, The caverned bank, his old secure abode ; And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool,
The long-suspended breath, again I spurned
The foam which broke around me, and pursued Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand, That feels him still, yet to his furious course
My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy then.
The sprightly youth
Speeds to the well-known pool, whose crystal THE ANGLER.
A sandy bottom shows. A while he stands But look! o'er the fall see the angler stand, Gazing th' inverted landscape, half afraid Swiuging his rod with skilful hand;
To meditate the blue profound below; The fly at the end of his gossamer line
Then plunges headlong down the circling flood. Swims through the sun like a summer moth, His ebon tresses and his
cheek Till, dropt with a careful precision fine, Instant emerge ; and through the obedient wave,
It touches the pool beyond the froth. At each short breathing by his lip repelled,
While from his polished sides a dewy light
FROM "THE SEASONS : SUMMER."
This is the purest exercise of licalth,
Roguish archers, I'll be bound,
OUR SKATER BELLE.
G. W. PETTER.
Along the frozen lake she comes
In linking crescents, light and fleet; The ice-imprisoned Undine hums
A welcome to her little feet.
Smooth be her ways, secure her tread
Along the devious lines of life, From grace to grace successive led,
A noble maiden, nobler wife !
Dar'st thou, Cassius, now
Julius Cæsar, Ad i. Sc. 2.
JINGLE, jingle, clear the way,
Through thick and thin, both over bank and bush, | Hunting is the noblest exercise,
Makes men laborious, active, wise,
Brings health, and doth the spirits delight,
It helps the hearing and the sight;
It teacheth arts that never slip
Search, sharpness, courage and defence,
And chaseth all ill habits hence.
BEN JONSON Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.
My hoarse-sounding horn K'ing Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 3.
Invites thee to the chase, the sport of kings; “You fool! I tell you no one means you harm." Image of war without its guilt. "So much the better," Juan said, "for them." Den Juan.
Contusion hazarding of neck or spine,
Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
My horse is weary of his stall, As if an angel dropped down from the clouds,
And I am sick of captive thrall. To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
I wish I were as I have been And witch the world with noble horsemanship.
Hunting the hart in forests green, King Henry IV., Part I. Act iv. Sc. I.
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me! "Stand, Bayard, stand!” The steed obeyed,
Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman: The Lady of the Lake With arching neck and bended head, And glancing eye, and quivering ear, As if he loved his lord to hear.
The healthy huntsman, with a cheerful horn, No foot Fitz-James in stirrup staid,
Summons the dogs and greets the dappled morn. No grasp upon the saddle laid,
J. GAY. But wreathed his left hand in the mane, And lightly bounded from the plain,
Why, let the strucken deer go weep, Turned on the horse his armèd heel,
The hart ungallèd play ; And stirred his courage with the steel.
For some must watch, while some must sleep; Bounded the fiery steed in air,
Thus runs the world away.
Hamlet, Act iii. Sc. 2.
See from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, After many strains and heaves,
And mounts exulting on triumphant wings; He got up to the saddle eaves,
Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, From whence he vaulted into th' seat
Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground. With so much vigor, strength, and heat, That he had almost tumbled over With his own weight, but did recover,
But as some muskets so contrive it, By laying holil of tail and mane,
As oft to miss the mark they drive at,
And though well aimed at duck or plover,
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside,
Julius Casar, Act i. Sc.2.
DR. S. BUTLER.
"FARTHER horizons every year."
Farther horizons every year." O tossing pines, which surge
So he, by reverent hands just laid Above the poet's just made grave, Beneath your layers of waving shade, And waken for his sleeping ear
Climbed as you climb the upward way, The music that he loved to hear, Knowing not boundary nor stay. Through summer's sun and winter's His eyes surcharged with heavenly chill,
lights, With purpose staunch and dauntless His senses steeped in heavenly sights, will,
His soul attuned to heavenly keys, Sped by a noble discontent
How should he pause for rest or ease, You climb toward the blue firmament: Or turn his winged feet again Climb as the winds climb, mounting high to share the common feasts of men ? The viewless ladders of the sky;
He blessed them with his word and Spurning our lower atmosphere,
smile Heavy with sighs and dense with night, But, still above their fickle moods, And urging upward, year by year, Wooing, constraining him, the while To ampler air, diviner light.
Beckoned the shining altitudes.
"Farther horizons every year.”
· Farther horizons every year." Beneath you pass the tribes of men ; To what immeasurable height, Your gracious boughs o'ershadow them. What clear irradiance of light, You hear, but do not seem to heed, What far and all-transcendent goal, Their jarring speech, their faulty creed. Hast thou now risen, O steadfast soul ! Your roots are firmly set in soil
We may not follow with our eyes Won from their humming paths of toil; To where the further pathway lies; Content their lives to watch and share, Nor guess what vision, vast and free, To serve them, shelter, and upbear, God keeps in store for souls like thee. Yet but to win an upward way
But still the sentry pines, which wave And larger gift of heaven than they, Their boughs above thy honored grave, Benignant view and attitude,
Shall be thy emblems brave and fit, Close knowledge of celestial sign; Firm rooted in the stalwart sod; Still working for all earthly good, Blessing the earth, while spurning it, While pressing on to the Divine. Content with nothing short of God.
May 31, 1882
Publishers : Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston