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The meeting boughs and implicated leaves
Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led
By love, or dream, or god, or mightier Death,
He sought in Nature's dearest haunt, some bank,
Her cradle, and his sepulchre. More dark
And dark the shades accumulate—the oak,
Expanding its immense and knotty arms,
Embraces the light beech. The pyramids
Of the tall cedar, overarching, frame
Most solemn domes within, and far below,
Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky,
The ash and the acacia floating hang
Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents, clothed
In rainbow and in fire, the parasites,
Starr'd with ten thousand blossoms, flow around
The grey trunks; and, as gamesome infants' eyes,
With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles,
Fold their beams round the hearts of those that love,
These twine their tendrils, with the wedded boughs
Uniting their close union; the woven leaves
Make net-work of the dark blue light of day,
And the night's noontide clearness, mutable
As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns
Beneath these canopies extend their swells,
Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms
Minute, yet beautiful. One darkest glen
Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with jasmine,
A soul-dissolving odour, to invite
To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell,
Silence and twilight here, twin-sisters, keep
Their poonday watch, and sail among the shades,
Like vaporous shapes half-seen; beyond, a well,
Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave,
Images all the woven boughs above,
And each depending leaf, and every speck
Of azure sky, darting between their chasms;
Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves
Its portraiture, but some inconstant star
Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair,
Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon,
Or gorgeous insect, floating motionless,
Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings
Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon.

SHELLEY.

Forest Landscape. INTO that forest far they thence him led, Where was their dwelling, in a pleasant glade With mountains round about environed ; And mighty woods which did the valley shade And like a stately theatre it made, Spreading itself into a spacious plain; And in the midst a little river play'd Amongst the pumy stones, which seem'd to plain With gentle murmur that his course they did restrain. Beside the same a dainty place there lay, Planted with myrtle-trees and laurels green, In which the birds sung many a lovely lay Of God's high praise and of their love's sweet teen, As it an earthly paradise had been; In whose enclosed shadow there was pight A fair pavilion, scarcely to be seen, The which was all within most richly dight, That greatest princes living it might well delight.

SPENSER.

The Pine Forest by the Sea.
WE wander'd to the Pine Forest

That skirts the ocean's foam ;
The lightest wind was in its nest,

The tempest in its home.
The whisp'ring waves were half asleep,

The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep

The smile of heaven lay;
It seem'd as if the hour were one

Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scatter'd from above the sun

A light of Paradise !
We paused amid the pines that stood

The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude

As serpents interlaced,
And soothed by every azure breath

That under heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,

As tender as its own :

Now all the tree-tops lay asleep

Like green waves on the sea; As still as is the silent deep

The ocean-woods may be.

How calm it was! the silence there

By such a chain was bound, That even the busy woodpecker

Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness ;.

The breath of peace we drew, With its soft motion made not less

The calm that round us grew.
There seem'd from the remotest seat

Of the wide mountain waste,
To the soft flower beneath our feet,

A magic circle traced.
A spirit interfused around,

A thrilling silent life;
To momentary peace it bound

Our mortal nature's strife;
And still I felt the centre of

The magic circle there,
Was one fair form that fillid with love

The lifeless atmosphere.

We paused beside the pools that lie

Under the forest hough ;
Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky

Gulf'd in a world below;
A firmament of purple light

Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,

And purer than the day-
In which the lovely forests grew,

As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue

Than any spreading there.

There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,

And through the dark green woods The white sun, twinkling like the dawu

Out of a speckled cloud.

Sweet views which in our world above

Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water's love

Of that fair forest green :
And all was interfused beneath

With an Elysian glow,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A softer day below.

SHELLEY.

The grand old Woods. O EVER welcome are the grand old woods, Fresh in young April, quick with shooting green ; Or rich in June, with luxury of leaves : Right lovely are they in their growing pride, But lovelier in their glory of decay. Right joyous are they when the happy birds Salute the morn with thousand-throated songs, Or pour soft vespers to the setting sun, Singing the summer day to balmy rest. Or when alone the cuckoo's monotone Lulls drowsy noon; or when sweet Philomel Trills passionate music to the listening night, And wakes the dreaming rose-buds with her song, O fair and joyous are the woods in summer! But when the birds are still, and faded leaves Fall in the silence, silently and slow, Then their solemnities have deeper joy, Though less of rapture. And it is the prime Of the year's growth, and prodigality Of ever-new delights, to livger long When Queenly Autumn, laden with the wealth Of all the seasous, passes in her pomp.

WHITMORE.

Earth, Ocean, Air. EARTH, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood ! If our great Mother have imbued my soul With aught of natural piety to feel Your love, and recompeuse the boon with mine;

If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers,
And solemn midnight's tingling silentness ;
If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood,
And Winter's robing with pure snow and crowus
Of starry ice the grey grass and bare boughs;
If Spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathes
Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me;
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast
I consciously have injured, but still loved
And cherish'd these my kindred ;-then forgive
This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw
No portion of your wonted favour now. SHELLEY.

Ebening on Lake Leman. It is the hush of night, and all between

Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen,

Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear

Precipitously steep ; and drawing near,
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,

Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ;
He is an evening reveller, who makes

His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes

Starts into voice a moment, then is still.

There seems a floating whisper on the hill, But that is fancy, for the starlight dews

All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven !

If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires,-'tis to be forgiven,

That in our aspirations to be great,

Our destinies O'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are

A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves

a star.

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