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PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, Thy brother Death came, and cried,
That mock our scant manuring, and require

Wouldst thou me?"
More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth. Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums,

Murmured like a noontide bee, That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unsmooth,

“Shall I nestle near thy side ? Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease; Wouldst thou me ?” — And I replied, Meanwhile, as Nature wills, night bids us rest."

No, not thee!”
Towhom thus Eve with perfect beauty adorned :
"My author and disposer, what thou bidd'st Death will come when thou art dead,
Unargued I obey ; so God ordains ;

Soon, too soon,
God is thy law, thou mine; to know no more Sleep will come when thou art fled;
Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. Of neither would I ask the boon
With thee conversing I forget all time;

I ask of thee, beloved Night,
All seasons and their change, all please alike. Swift be thine approaching flight,
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,

Come soon, soon !
With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth

NIGHT.
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night, MYSTERIOUS Night! when our first parent knew
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,

Thee, from report divine, and heard thy name, And these the gems of heaven, her starry train : Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, But neither breath of morn, when she ascends

This glorious canopy of light and blue ? With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers, Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night And lo! creation widened in man's view. With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, Who could have thought such darkness lay conOr glittering starlight, without thee is sweet."

cealed Thus talking, hand in hand alone they passed Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find, On to their blissful bower.

Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind!

Why do we then shun death with anxious strife ?
TO NIGHT.

If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life? SWIFTLY walk over the western wave,

Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave,

NIGHT.
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear

How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh Which make thee terrible and dear, –

Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear Swift be thy fight !

Were discord to the speaking quietude
Wrap thy form in a mantle

Heaven's ebon
That wraps this moveless scene.
gray,
Star-inwrought;

vault, Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,

Studded with stars unutterably bright, Kiss her until she be wearied out;

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur Then wander o'er city and sea and land,

rolls, Touching all with thine opiate wand,

Seems like a canopy which love has spread
Come, long-sought !

To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,

Robed in a garment of untrodden snow; When I arose and saw the dawn,

Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend), I sighed for thee ;

So stainless that their white and glittering spires
When light rode high, and the dew was gone, Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castle steep,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, Whose banner hangeth o'er the timeworn tower
And the weary Day turned to her rest, So idly that rapt fancy deemeth it
Lingering like an unloved guest,

A metaphor of peace — all form a scene
I sighed for thee!

Where musing solitude might love to lift

MILTON.

BLANCO WHITE.

a

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock ofmen,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendor shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,'
If we were not, would seem to smile the less

Ofallthat flattered, follower, sought, and sued; This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude !

Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ; Where silence undisturbed might watch alone, So cold, so bright, so still.

The orb of day In southern climes o'er ocean's waveless field Sinks sweetly smiling : not the faintest breath Steals o'er the unruffled deep; the clouds of eve Reflect unmoved the lingering beam of day ; And vesper's image on the western main Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes : Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening mass, Rolls o'er the blackened waters ; the deep roar Of distant thunder mutters awfully ; Tempest unfolds its pinion o'er the gloom That shrouds the boiling surge ; the pitiless fiend, With all his windsand lightnings, tracks his prey; The torn deep yawns,

the vessel finds a grave Beneath its jagged gulf.

BYRON.

NIGHT.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY,

NIGHT.

FROM CHILDE HAROLD."

'T is night, when Meditation bids us feel
We once have loved, though love is at an end :
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,
Though friendless now, will dream it had a

friend,
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,
When Youth itselfsurvives young Loveandjoy
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,

Death hath but little left him to destroy ! Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be

a boy?

Night is the time for rest :

How sweet, when labors close, To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed ! Night is the time for dreams :

The gay romance of life,
When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Mix in fantastic strife ;
Ah! visions, less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are !
Night is the time for toil :

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield ;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, and heroes wrought.
Night is the time to weep :

To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of Memory, where sleep

The joys of other years ;
Hopes, that were Angels at their birth,
But died when young, like things of earth.
Night is the time to watch :

O'er ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the homesick mind All we have loved and left behind.

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side,
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere,
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride,
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year.
None are so desolate but something dear,
Dearer than self, possesses or possessed
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ;

A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion

dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild Nock that never needs a fold ;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean,

This is not solitude; 't is but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her

stores unrolled.

Night is the time for care :

Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of Despair

Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host, Summoned to die by Cæsar's ghost. Night is the time to think :

When, from the eye, the soul Takes flight; and on the utmost brink

Of yonder starry pole

a

Discerns beyond the abyss of night

What stays thee from the clouded noons, The dawn of uncreated light.

Thy sweetness from its proper place ?

Can trouble live with April days,
Night is the time to pray :

Or sadness in the summer moons ?
Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away ;

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
So will his follower do,

The little speedwell's darling blue,
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,

Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, And commune there alone with God.

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.
Night is the time for Death:

O thou, new-year, delaying long,
When all around is peace,

Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,

That longs to burst a frozen bud,
From sin and suffering cease,

And Hood a fresher throat with song.
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends ; — such death be mine.

Now fades the last long streak of snow ;
JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Now bourgeons every maze of quick

About the flowering squares, and thick

By ashen roots the violets blow.
HYMN TO THE NIGHT.
'Ασπασιη, τρίλλιστος.

Now rings the woodland loud and long,

The distance takes a lovelier hue, I Heard the trailing garments of the Night

And drowned in yonder living blue
Sweep through her marble halls !

The lark becomes a sightless song.
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls !

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, I felt her presence, by its spell of might,

The flocks are whiter down the vale, Stoop o'er me from above ;

And milkier every milky sail The calm, majestic presence of the Night,

On winding stream or distant sea ; As of the one I love.

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,

In yonder greening gleam, and fly The manifold, soft chimes,

The happy birds, that change their sky That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,

To build and brood, that live their lives Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air

From land to land ; and in my breast My spirit drank repose ;

Spring wakens too ; and my regret The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, –

Becomes an April violet, From those deep cisterns flows.

And buds and blossoms like the rest.
O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear

What man has borne before !
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,

DIE DOWN, O DISMAL DAY!
And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! And come, blue deeps, magnificently strewn

Die down, O dismal day, and let me live;
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,

With colored clouds,--large, light, and fugitive, The best-beloved Night !

By upper

winds through pompous motions blown. Now it is death in life,

— a vapor dense Creeps round my window, till I cannot sec The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens

Shagging the mountain tops. O God! make free SPRING.

This barren shackled earth, so deadly coli, FROM “IN MEMORIAM."

Breathe gently forth thy spring, till winter flies

In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold, Dip down upon the northern shore,

While she performs her customed charities; O sweet new-year, delaying long :

I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare, Thou doest expectant Nature wrong ;

O God, forone clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air! Delaying long, delay no more.

ALFRED TENNYSON,

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

DAVID GRAY.

SUMMER LONGINGS.

Come with bows bent and with emptying of

quivers,
Ah ! my heart is weary waiting,

Maiden most perfect, lady of light,
Waiting for the May, -

With a noise of winds and many rivers,
Waiting for the pleasant rambles

With a clamor of waters, and with might;
Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, Bind on thy sandals, 0 thou most ile
With the woodbine alternating,

Over the splendor and speed of thy feet !
Scent the dewy way.

For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,
Ah ! my heart is weary waiting,

Round the feet of the day and the feet of the Waiting for the May.

night. Ah ! my heart is sick with longing,

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, Longing for the May,

Fold our hands round her knees and cliny? Longing to escape from study,

() that man's heart were as fire and could siring To the young face fair and ruddy,

to her, And the thousand charms belonging

Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!
To the summer's day.

For the stars and the winds are unto her
Ah ! my heart is sick with longing,

As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
Longing for the May.

For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,

And the southwest-wind and the west-wind Sighing for the May,

sing Sighing for their sure returning,

For winter's rains and ruins are over,
When the summer beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,

And all the season of shows and sins ;
All the winter lay.

The days dividing lover and lover,
Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing,

The light that loses, the night that wins ;

And time remembered is grief forgotten,
Sighing for the May.

And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, And in green underwood and cover
Throbbing for the May,

Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
Throbbing for the seaside billows,
Or the water-wooing willows;

The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
Where, in laughing and in sobbing, Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot,
Glide the streams away.

The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes
Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing. From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ;
Throbbing for the May.

And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,

And the oat is heard above the lyre,
Waiting sad, dejected, weary,

And the hooféd heel of a satyr crushes
Waiting for the May :

The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.
Spring goes by with wasted warnings,
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings,
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
Life still ebbs away ;

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Man is ever weary, weary,

Follows with dancing and fills with delight

The Mænad and the Bassarid;
Waiting for the May !

And soft as lips that laugh and hide,
The laughing leaves of the trees divide,
And screen from seeing and leave in sight

The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING.

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, Over her eyebrows shading her eyes ; The mother of months in meadow or plain

The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Fills the shadows and windy places

Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ;

The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, And the brown bright nightingale amorous

But the berried ivy catches and cleaves Is half assuaged for Itylus,

To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces ;

The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

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He therefore that sustaineth
AMiction or distress
Which every member paineth,
And findeth no release,
Let such therefore despair not,
But on firm hope depend,
Whose griefs immortal are not,
And therefore must have end.

They that faint

With complaint Therefore are to blame; They add to their afflictions, And amplify the same.

THE Time hath laid his mantle by

Of wind and rain and icy chill, And dons a rich embroidery

Of sunlight poured on lake and hill. No beast or bird in earth or sky,

Whose voice doth not with gladness thrill, For Time hath laid his mantle by

Of wind and rain and icy chill.
River and fountain, brook and rill,
Bespangled o'er with livery gay
Of silver droplets, wind their way.
All in their new apparel vie,
For Time hath laid his mantle by.

CHARLES OF ORLEANS.

RETURN OF SPRING.

For if they could with patience
A while possess the mind,
By inward consolations
They might refreshing find,
To sweeten all their crosses
That little time they 'dure ;
So might they gain by losses,
And sharp would sweet procure.

But if the mind

Be inclined
To unquietness,
That only may be called
The worst of all distress.

He that is melancholy,
Detesting all delight,
His wits by sottish folly
Are ruinated quite.
Sad discontent and murmurs
To him are incident ;
Were he possessed of honors,
He could not be content.

Sparks of joy

Fly away ;
Floods of care arise ;
And all delightful motion
In the conception dies.

(Translation.) Gop shield ye, heralds of the spring, Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing,

Houps, cuckoos, nightingales, Turtles, and every wilder bird, That make your hundred chirpings heri

Through the green woods and dales. God shield ye, Easter daisies all, Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small,

And he whom erst the gore Of Ajax and Narciss did print, Ye wild thyme, anise, balm, and mint,

I welcome ye once more. God shield ye, bright embroidered train Of butterflies, that on the plain

Of each sweet herblet sip; And ye, new swarms of bees, that go Where the pink flowers and yellow grow

To kiss them with your lip.

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