WORLDLINESS.

THE World is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon,

The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. - Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

DAYBREAK.

A WIND came up out of the sea,
And said, "O mists, make room for me!"

It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone."

And hurried landward far away,
Crying, "Awake! it is the day."
It said unto the forest, "Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!"

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And said, "O bird, awake and sing!
And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow; the day is near!"
It whispered to the fields of corn,
"Bow down, and hail the coming morn!"
It shouted through the belfry-tower,
"Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour."
It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie."

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

INVOCATION TO LIGHT.

HAIL, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born!
Or of the Eternal coeternal beam
May I express thee unblamed ? since God is light,
And never but in unapproachéd light
Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee,
Bright effluence of bright essence increate.
Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream,
Whose fountain who shall tell? before the sun,
Before the heavens, thou wert, and at the voice
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest
The rising world of waters dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless infinite.
Thee I revisit now with bolder wing,
Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detained
In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight
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
The dark descent, and up to reascend,
Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe,
And feel thy sovereign vital lamp; but thou
Revisitest not these eyes, that roll in vain
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;
So thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs,
Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief
Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath,
That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow,
Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget
Those other two equalled with me in fate,
So were I equalled with them in renown,
Blind Thamyris and blind Mæonides,
And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old :
Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move
Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird
Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid
Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year
Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud, instead, and ever-during dark,
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair
Presented with a universal blank

Of nature's works, to me expunged and rased,
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.
So much the rather thou, celestial Light,
Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers
Irradiate; there plant eyes, all mist from thence
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight..

MILTON.

The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!

Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;

Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs;

Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. JAMES BEATTIE.

THE SABBATH MORNING.

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 LEYDEN.

All voices sad and clear,
Banished to silence drear,

The willing thrall of trances sweet I lie.

Some melancholy gale
Breathes its mysterious tale,
Till the rose's lips grow pale
With her sighs;

And o'er my thoughts are cast
Tints of the vanished past,
Glories that faded fast,

Renewed to splendor in my dreaming eyes.

As poised on vibrant wings,
Where its sweet treasure swings,
The honey-lover clings

To the red flowers,

So, lost in vivid light,

So, rapt from day and night,

I linger in delight,

Enraptured o'er the vision-freighted hours.

NOONTIDE.

ROSE TERRY.

BENEATH a shivering canopy reclined,
Of aspen-leaves that wave without a wind,
I love to lie, when lulling breezes stir
The spiry cones that tremble on the fir;
Or wander mid the dark-green fields of broom,
When peers in scattered tufts the yellow bloom;
Or trace the path with tangling furze o'errun,
When bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun,
And pittering grasshoppers, confus'dly shrill,
Pipe giddily along the glowing hill :
Sweet grasshopper, who lov'st at noon to lie
Serenely in the green-ribbed clover's eye,
To sun thy filmy wings and emerald vest,
Unseen thy form, and undisturbed thy rest,
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.

DR. JOHN LEYDEN.

ON A BEAUTIFUL DAY.

O UNSEEN Spirit! now a calm divine
Comes forth from thee, rejoicing earth and air!
Trees, hills, and houses, all distinctly shine,
And thy great ocean slumbers everywhere.
The mountain ridge against the purple sky
Stands clear and strong, with darkened rocks
and dells,

And cloudless brightness opens wide and high
A home aerial, where thy presence dwells.

The chime of bells remote, the murmuring sea, The song of birds in whispering copse and wood, The distant voice of children's thoughtless glee, And maiden's song, are all one voice of good. Amid the leaves' green mass a sunny play

Of flash and shadow stirs like inward life; The ship's white sail glides onward far away, Unhaunted by a dream of storm or strife. JOHN STERLING

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN.

THE midges dance aboon the burn;

The dews begin to fa';

The pairtricks down the rushy holm
Set up their e'ening ca'.

Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang

Rings through the briery shaw,

While, flitting gay, the swallows play
Around the castle wa'.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky

The mavis mends her lay;

The redbreast pours his sweetest strains
To charm the lingering day;
While weary yeldrins seem to wail
Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den,

Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,
The foxglove shuts its bell;
The honeysuckle and the birk

Spread fragrance through the dell.
Let others crowd the giddy court
Of mirth and revelry,

The simple joys that nature yields
Are dearer far to me.

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

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 meckly 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 gleaming stone That they who uear 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.

Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.

THOMAS CAMPBELL

CAPE-COTTAGE AT SUNSET.

WE stood upon the ragged rocks,

When the long day was nearly done; The waves had ceased their sullen shocks, And lapped our feet with murmuring tone, And o'er the bay in streaming locks

Blew the red tresses of the sun.

Along the west the golden bars

Still to a deeper glory grew; Above our heads the faint, few stars Looked out from the unfathomed blue; And the fair city's clamorous jars Seemed melted in that evening hue.

O sunset sky! O purple tide!

O friends to friends that closer pressed! Those glories have in darkness died, And ye have left my longing breast. I could not keep you by my side, Nor fix that radiance in the west.

SUNSET.

W. B. GLAZIER.

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.

Yet not the golden islands Gleaming in yon flood of light,

Nor the feathery curtains Stretching o'er the sun's bright couch, Nor the burnished ocean's waves

Paving that gorgeous dome,
So fair, so wonderful a sight
As Mab's ethereal palace could afford.
Yet likest evening's vault, that fairy Hall!
Heaven, low resting on the wave, it spread
Its floors of flashing light,
Its vast and azure dome,
Its fertile golden islands
Floating on a silver sea;

Whilst suns their mingling beamings darted
Through clouds of circumambient darkness,
And pearly battlements around
Looked o'er the immense of heaven.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

EVENING.

FROM "DON JUAN."

AVE Maria! o'er the earth and sea,

That heavenliest hour of heaven is worthiest thee!

Ave Maria! blessed be the hour,

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower Or the faint dying day hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with

prayer.

Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer!

Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! Ave Maria! O that face so fair!

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty

dove,

What though 't is but a pictured image?

strike,

That painting is no idol, 't is too like.

Sweet hour of twilight in the solitude

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood,

Evergreen forest; which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee! The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,

And vesper bells that rose the boughs along; The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng Which learned from this example not to fly From a true lover, -shadowed my mind's eye.

O Hesperus! thou bringest all good things, -
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,
The welcome stall to the o'erlabored steer ;
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gathered round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.

Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart

Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, As the far bell of vesper makes him start, Seeming to weep the dying day's decay : Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns.

EVENING IN PARADISE.

BYRON.

Now came still evening on, and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad; Silence accompanied; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nets, Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale; Silence was pleased: now glowed the firman.ent She all night long her amorous descant sung. With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.

When Adam thus to Eve: "Fair consort, the
hour

Of night, and all things now retired to rest,
Mind us of like repose, since God hath set
Labor and rest, as day and night, to men
Successive; and the timely dew of sleep,
Now falling with soft slumberous weight, inclines
Our eyelids. Other creatures all day long
Rove idle, unemployed, and less need rest;
Man hath his daily work of body or mind
Appointed, which declares his dignity,
And the regard of Heaven on all his ways;
While other animals unactive range,
And of their doings God takes no account.
To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east
With first approach of light, we must be risen,
And at our pleasant labor, to reform
Yon flowery arbors, yonder alleys green,