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Within my limits, lone and still,
The blackbird pipes in artless trill ;
Fast by my couch, congenial guest,
The wren has wove her mossy nest :
Froin busy scenes and brighter skies,
To lurk with innocence, she flies,
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.

At morn I take my customed round,
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound,
And every opening primrose count,
That trimly paints my blooming mount ;
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.

Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.
All are needed by each one ;
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even ;
He sings the song, but it pleases not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky ; -
He sang to my ear, -- they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore ;
The bubbles of the latest wave
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave;
And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me.
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
I fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore,
With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
The lover watched his graceful maid,
As mid the virgin train she strayed,
Nor knew her beauty's best attire
Was woven still by the snow-white choir.
At last she came to his hermitage,
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage ;-
The gay enchantment was undone,
A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said, “I covet truth ;
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat ;
I leave it behind with the games of youth.” —
As I spoke, beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs ;
I inhaled the violet's breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Over me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and of deity ;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird ; -
Beauty through my senses stole ;
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossèd book,
Portrayed with many a holy deed
Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed;
Then, as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn,
And, at the close, the gleams behold
Of parting wings, bedropt with gold.

While such pure joys my bliss create,
Who but would smile at guilty state ?
Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm oblivion's humble grot?
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff, and amice gray ;
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage ?

THOMAS WARTON.

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.

RETIREMENT.

INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE.

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.

BENEATH this stony roof reclined,
I soothe to peace my pensive mind;
And while, to shade my lowly cave,
Embowering elms their umbrage wave,
And while the maple dish is mine, -
The beechen cup, unstained with wine, ---
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.

| 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,

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Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born !
Or of the Eternal coeternal beam
May I express thee unblanied ? since God is light, FROM THE “HYMN TO LIGHT.“
And never but in unapproached light
Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee,

Say, from what golden quivers of the sky Bright effluence of bright essence increate !

Do all thy winged arrows fly? Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream,

Swiftness and Power by birth are thine : Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the sun, From thy great sire they came, thy sire, the Before the heavens, thou wert, and at the voice

Word Divine.
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest
The rising world of waters dark and deep,

Thou in the Moon's bright chariot, proud and Won from the void and forniless intinite.

gay, Thee I revisit now with bolder wing,

Dost thy bright wood of stars survey ; Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detained

And all the year dost with thee bring In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal Through utter and through middle darkness

spring. borne, With other notes than to the Orphean lyre,

Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands I sung of Chaos and eternal Night,

above Tirught by the heavenly Muse to venture down

The Sun's gilt tent forever move, The dark descent, and up to re-ascend,

And still, as thou in pomp dost go, Though hard and rare : thee I revisit safe,

The shining pageants of the world attend thy Aud feel thy sovereign vital lamp ; but thou

show. Revisitest not these eyes, that roll in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;

| Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn So thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs,

The humble glow-worms to adorn,
Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more

And with those living spangles gild
C'ease I to wander where the Muses haunt
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,

10 greatness without pride !) the bushes of the Smit with the love of sacred song ; but chief

field. Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow,

1 Night and her ugly subjects thou dost fright, Nightly I visit : nor sometimes forget

And Sleep, the lazy owl of night;

Ashamed, and fearful to appear,
Those other two equalled with me in fate,
So were I equalled with them in renown,

They screen their horrid shapes with the black Blind Thamyris and blind Mæonides,

hemisphere. And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old : Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move

At thy appearance, Grief itself is said Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird

To shake his wings, and rouse his head : Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid

And cloudy Care has often took Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy look. Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, i At thy appearance, fear itself grows bold; Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,

Thy sunshine melts away his cold. Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ;

Encouraged at the sight of thee But cloud, instead, and ever-during dark, To the cheek color comes, and firmness to the Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men I knee.

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MORNING.
DAWN.

FROM "THE MINSTREL."
The night was dark, though sometimes a faint | But who the melodies of morn can tell ?
star

The wild brook babbling down the mountainA little while a little space made bright.

side; The night was long and like an iron bar

The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell ; Lay heavy on the land : till o'er the sea

The pipe of early shepherd dim descried Slowly, within the East, there grew a light

In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide Which half was starlight, and half seemed to be The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; The herald of a greater. The pale white

The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; Turned slowly to pale rose, and up the height The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, Of heaven slowly climbed. The gray sea grew And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. Rose-colored like the sky. A white gull flew Straight toward the utmost boundary of the East, The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark ; Where slowly the rose gathered and increased. Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid It was as on the opening of a door

sings ; By one that in his hand a lamp doth hold, The whistling ploughman stalks afield ; and, Whose fame is hidden by the garment's fold,

hark! The still air moves, the wide room is less dim. Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon

rings; More bright the East became, the ocean turned Through rustling corn the hare astonished Dark and more dark against the brightening

springs ; sky,

Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour ; Sharper against the sky the long sea line.

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; The hollows of the breakers on the shore

Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, Were green like leaves whereon no sun doth shine, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. Though white the outer branches of the tree.

IAMES BEATTIE.

THE SABBATH MORNING.

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.

ROSE TERRY COOKE.

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 sweeter 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
llave hushed their downy wings in dead repose ;
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move, -
So smiled the day when the tirst morn arose !

JOHN LEYDEN.

A SUMMER NOON.

RÈVE DU MIDI.

WHEN o'er the mountain steeps
The hazy noontide creeps,
And the shrill cricket sleeps
Under the grass ;
When soft the shadows lie,
And clouds sail o'er the sky,

And the idle winds go by,
With the heavy scent of blossoms as they pass,-

Who has not dreamed a world of bliss
On a bright sunny noon like this,
Couched by his native brook's green maze,
With comrade of his boyish days,
While all around them seemed to be
Just as in joyous infancy?
Who has not loved, at such an hour,
Upon that heath, in birchen bower,
Lulled in the poet's dreamy mood,
Its wild and sunny solitude ?
While o'er the waste of purple ling
You mark a sultry glimmering ;
Silence herself there seems to sleep,
Wrapped in a slumber long and deep,
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep
Through the tall foxglove's crinison bloom,
And gleaming of the scattered broom.
Love you not, then, to list and hear
The crackling of the gorse-flowers near,
Pouring an orange-scented tide
Of fragrance o'er the desert wide ?
To hear the buzzard's whimpering shrill,
Hovering above you high and still ?
The twittering of the bird that dwells
Among the heath's delicious bells ?
While round your bed, o'er fern and blade,
Insects in green and gold arrayed,
The sun's gay tribes have lightly strayed ;
And sweeter sound their humming wings
Than the proud ininstrel's echoing strings.

WILLIAM HOWITT.

Then, when the silent stream
Lapses as in a dream,
And the water-lilies gleam
Up to the sun ;
When the hot and burdened day
Rests on its downward way,

When the moth forgets to play,
And the plodding ant may dream her work is

done, —

Then, from the noise of war
And the din of earth afar,
Like some forgotten star
Dropt from the sky, -
The sounds of love and fear,
All voices sad and clear,

Banished to silence drear, -
The willing thrall of trances sweet I lie.

NOONTIDE.

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.

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, coufus'dly shrill,
Pipe giddily along the glowing hill :

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