To us thou art as exquisitely fair As the ideal visions of the seer, Or gentlest fancy that e'er floated down When the stars sang together o'er the birth Of the poor Babe at Bethlehem, that lay In the coarse manger at the crowded Inn, Didst thou, perhaps a bright exalted star, Refuse to swell the grand, harmonious lay, Jealous as Herod of the birth divine? Or when the crown of thorns on Calvary Pierced the Redeemer's brow, didst thou disdain To weep, when all the planetary worlds Were blinded by the fulness of their tears? E'en to the flaming sun, that hid his face At the loud cry, "Lama Sabachthani !" No rest! No rest! the very damned have that In the dark councils of remotest Hell, Where the dread scheme was perfected that sealed Thy disobedience and accruing doom. Like Adam's sons, hast thou, too, forfeited The blest repose that never pillowed Sin? No! none can tell thy fate, thou wandering Pale Science, searching by the midnight lamp CHARLES SANGSTER. SONG OF THE LIGHTNING. "PUCK. I'll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes." Midsummer's Night Dream. AWAY! away! through the sightless air Stretch forth your iron thread! For I would not dim my sandals fair Ay, rear it up on its million piers, Let it circle the world around, And the journey ye make in a hundred years I'll clear at a single bound! Though I cannot toil, like the groaning slave To ferry you over the boundless wave, Let him sing his giant strength and speed! Would give that monster a flight indeed, To the depths of the ocean's brine ! No! no! I'm the spirit of light and love! With a glance I cleave the sky in twain ; I light it with a glare, When fall the boding drops of rain Through the darkly curtained air ! The rock-built towers, the turrets gray, The piles of a thousand years, Have not the strength of potter's clay Beneath my glittering spears. From the Alps' or the Andes' highest crag, Illume the world below. The earthquake heralds my coming power, Ye tremble when my legions come, When my quivering sword leaps out To see me burn the stalworth trees, The hieroglyphs on the Persian wall, At length the hour of light is here, Shall rise upon the world. GEORGE W. CUTTER. ORIGIN OF THE OPAL. A DEW-DROP came, with a spark of flame He had caught from the sun's last ray, To a violet's breast, where he lay at rest Till the hours brought back the day. The rose looked down, with a blush and frown; Then the stranger took a stolen look At the sky, so soft and blue; And a leaflet green, with its silver sheen, Was seen by the idler too. A cold north-wind, as he thus reclined, And a maiden fair, who was walking there, ECHO AND SILENCE.* IN eddying course when leaves began to fly, Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute 1 spy ! SIR SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES. ANONYMOUS. THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Tis believed that this harp, which I wake now Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, for thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea ; And who often, at eve, through the bright billow roved, To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved. And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river? He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, But she loved him in vain, for he left her to And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river. High on the shore sat the great god Pan, While turbidly flowed the river, (How tall it stood in the river!) "This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, (Laughed while he sate by the river!) 66 To make sweet music, they could succeed." * Declared by Wordsworth to be the best Sonnet in the English language. FROM "CORN." LOOK, out of line one tall corn-captain stands Advanced beyond the foremost of his bands, And waves his blades upon the very edge And hottest thicket of the battling hedge. Thou lustrous stalk, that ne'er mayst walk nor talk, Still shalt thou type the poet-soul sublime That leads the vanward of his timid time And sings up cowards with commanding rhyme Soul-calm, like thee, yet fain, like thee, to grow By double increment, above, below; Soul-homely, as thou art, yet rich in grace like thee, Teaching the yeomen selfless chivalry That moves in gentle curves of courtesy ; Soul-filled like thy long veins with sweetness tense, By every godlike sense Transmuted from the four wild elements. Drawn to high plans, Thou lift'st more stature than a mortal man's, Yet ever piercest downward in the mould And keepest hold Upon the reverend and steadfast earth Yea, standest smiling in thy very grave, With unremitting breath Inhaling life from death, Thine epitaph writ fair in fruitage eloquent Thy living self thy monument. SIDNEY LANIER POET who sleepest by this wandering wave! When thou wast born, what birth-gift hadst thou then? To thee what wealth was that the Immortals gave, The wealth thou gavest in thy turn to men? Not Milton's keen, translunar music thine; Not Shakespeare's cloudless, boundless human view; Not Shelley's flush of rose on peaks divine; Nor yet the wizard twilight Coleridge knew. What hadst thou that could make so large amends From Shelley's dazzling glow or thunderous haze, Nor peace that grows by Lethe, scentless flower, WILLIAM WATSON. |