'OW withered, perished seems the form Yet from the blight of wintry storm, Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales, Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast. The sun, the shower indeed shall come, The promised verdant shoot appear, And nature bid her blossoms bloom. And thou, O virgin queen of spring! Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed, Bursting thy green sheath's silken string, Unveil thy charms and perfume shed; a SONG to the oak, the brave old oak, Who hath ruled in the greenwood long Here's health and renown to his broad greer crown, And his fifty arms so strong. There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down. And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, In the days of old, when the spring with coid Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet, And on that day to the rebeck gay They frolicked with lovesome swains; They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard lato But the tree it still remains. He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small And a ruthless king is he; But he never shall send our ancient friend HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. THE CLOUD. BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers I bear light shade for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast I wield the flail of the lashing hail, I sift the snow on the mountains below, In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack When the morning star shines dead, As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings; And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea be neath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm river, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, I bind the sun's throng with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, The triumphal arch through which I march, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above, its soft colors wove, I am the daughter of the earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores · For after the rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I rise and upbuild it again. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE. OME to these scenes of peace, Where, to rivers murmuring, The sweet birds all the summer sing, Pangs of hopeless severed love? Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS. OWN the glen, across the mountain, Bending down the weeping willows, On our weary wings we hie. GEORGE Darly. DAFFODILS. WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, The waves beside them danced, but they A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company; I gazed-and gazed-but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought. For oft, when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, D WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. AY-STARS! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Which God hath planned, To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, There-as in solitude and shade I wander The ways of God Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers, Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor "Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory, In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist! Of love to all. Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure: Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! And second birth. AMERICAN SKIES. 'HE sunny Italy may boast The beauteous tints that flush her skies, I only know how fair they stand And they are fair: a charm is theirs, That earth-the proud, green earth-has not, With all the hues, and forms, and airs, That haunt her sweetest spot. Oh! when, amid the throng of men, Away from this cold earth, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. |