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Raging among the caverns, and a bridge
Crosses the chasm ; and high above these grow,
With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag,
Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose tangled hair
Is matted in one solid roof of shade
By the dark ivy's twine. At noodday here
'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night.

SHELLEY.

An English Landscape.

THE thrushes sang, And shook my pulses and the elm's new leaves; And then I turu'd and held my finger up, And bade him mark, that howsoe'er the world Went ill, as he related, certainly The thrushes still sang in it. At which word His brow would soften, and he bore with me In melancholy patience, not unkind; While, breaking into voluble ecstasy, I flatter'd all the beauteous country round, As poets use--the skies, the clouds, the fields, The happy violets, hiding from the roads The primroses run down to, carrying gold The tangled hedge-rows, where the cows push out Their tolerant horns and patient churning mouths 'Twixt dripping ash-boughs—hedge-rows all alive, With birds, and gnats, and large white butterflies, Which look as if the May-flower had caught life And palpitated forth upon the windHills, vales, woods, netted in a silver mist; Farms, granges, doubled up among the hills, And cattle grazing in the water'd vales, And cottage chimneys smoking from the woods, And cottage gardens smelling everywhere, Confused with smell of orchards. "See," I said, “And see, is God not with us on the earth ? And shall we put Him down by aught we do? Who says there's nothing for the poor and vile, Save poverty and wickedness ? behold!”. And ankle-deep in English grass I leap'd, And clapp'd my hands, and call’d all very fair.

ELIZABETH B. BROWNING,

A Scene in Kent.
'Mong the green lanes of Kent-green sunny lanes
Where troops of children shout, and laugh, and play,
And gather daisies, stood an antique home;
Within its orchard, rich with ruddy fruits,
For the full year was laughing in his prime.
Wealth of all flowers grew in that garden green,
And the old porch with its great oaken door
Was smother'd in rose-blooms, while o'er the walls
The honeysuckle clung deliciously.
Before the door there lay a plot of grass,
Snow'd o'er with daisies—flower by all beloved,
And famousest in song—and in the midst,
A carvèd fountain stood, dried up and broken,
On which a peacock perch'd and sunn'd itself.
Beneath, two petted rabbits, snowy white,
Squatted upon the sward.
A row of poplars darkly rose behind,
Around whose tops, and the old-fashion'd vanes,
White pigeons flutter'd, and o'er all was bent
The mighty sky, with sailing sunny clouds.

ALEXANDER SMITI.

Lines composed a few miles abobe Tintern Abbey, on

rebisiting the Banks of the Wye.
Five years have past ; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters ! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.-Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farins

Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees !
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone,

These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : But oft in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration :-feelings too Of unremember'd pleasure : such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, pameless, unremember'd acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligble world, Is lighten'd :—that serene and blessed mood In which the affections gently lead us on, Until the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood, Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.

If this Be but a vain belief, yet oh! how oftIn darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart How oft, in spirit, have I turn'd to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the woods, How often has my spirit turn'd to thee!

And now, with gleams of half.extinguish'd thonglit,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills ; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.-I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no peed of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrow'd from the eye.-That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have follow'd ; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense. For I have learn'd
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thouglatless youth, but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man :
A motion and a spirit that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thoughty.

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear-both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.

Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the moro
Suffer my genial spirits to decay :
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: For she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thonghts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the speers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee : and in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts

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